I've "moved!"

To all you faithful blog readers, please go from now on to me new [& improved] site, at http://annajouj.wordpress.com
Everything here, including years worth of archives, now lives there . . . so please feel free to add the new address to your blogroll, favorites, bookmarks, followings, etc. Thanks :-)

a "special" announcement

This is, according to state law, a very "special" flower. My friend pointed it out to me as we were doing trash pick-up in the local state park: I knew about Ladyslippers, but did not know about the protection of them until after this, when I did a bit of research. It turns out that this one--a Pink Ladyslipper, is considered to be of "special concern" while a few other varieties are actually protected. Either way, I find it ravishing, in a mysteriously delicate sort of way.
And so I am making use of this particular shot to illustrate my current announcement:
In honor of a pending change [ ;-)] I am in the process of various forms of organization and preparation. One of those involves finally revamping my blog. For some time I have been wishing to fix it up, and do it in a way that suits my creativity better. It took a while to figure out the transferring logistics, but now I am well on the way to leaving this particular domain. All my blog's current content will transfer, so I invite all who read here to stay tuned for a website redirection: it will be a good one, I assure you!
Thanks, folks!

mimimimimimimi

Knowing to expect the unexpected is one thing. Having that same unexpected happen is quite another . . . which is, I think, one of the main reasons I love telling "true" stories so much: I am one of those who delights in the re-living as much as [and often more than] in the moment itself. So telling about those moments is no trivial matter—telling the tales of the absurdities in a day in a life almost makes the day, the life, worth living.
But enough of that: I have a bad writing habit of overly prefacing . . . on to the story:
A portion of this particular day was spent at two area assisted living facilities. One of which I had been to already, many times, to visit my grandmother. But the other was a new one to me. When I arrived I took some time navigating the maze-like, under construction hallways, searching for members of my group. Eventually I found what looked to be the gathering room and entered, looking for a place to stash my camera and gather song sheets and itineraries. As I did so, a woman came towards me, looking directly at me as she did, with an expectantly cheerful look on her face. She looked rather young, and very aware, so I assumed her to be a member of the staff. But instead of an expected approach, and then [personal space bubble allowed] stop, she continued her walk until her face was an inch away from my own. Rather stunned, I just waited, wide-eyed. And for several minutes she stood there, smiling, as she hummed “Mimimimimimimimimi . . .” in a high-pitched monotone. Then, her song complete, she inched slightly closer yet, and then [still looking straight into my eyes] walked away. I surmised my error in her identity pretty quickly and carried on in preparations.
A bit later, as we began a prayer, she came towards me again, with the same “Mimimimimimimi” song. This time, anticipating her actions, I quickly ran through a few courses of potential action for myself: Should I keep my eyes open and look at her? Should I just pray as usual? Should I smile? I opted to look at her, smile quickly, and then close my eyes and continue joining in on the prayer. When I closed my eyes I felt her face and realized that now, instead of just peering into my own, she was giving me “Butterfly kisses,” brushing her nose side to side against my own.
This time I just couldn’t help but giggle. Seriousness aside, how can any reasonable 30-year-old woman stay straight-faced when being given Butterfly kisses by a bright-eyed slightly-older women? I decided not to try.
And the day continued—as a day does—with other moments of ups and downs, of the unexpected and the expected . . .

when it all boils down

To say that Mom's garden is impressive is decidedly understating the reality: it is, in fact, an amazing array of vegetables and herbs that far exceeds the norm for regional growth. And so it is in no way the fault of the harvest that our dinner greens this evening were a meager affair; rather, my own lack of expertise in gardening is the problem. What I thought was a large bundle of carefully-chosen Swiss Chard stalks boiled down to the equivalent of approximately 1 Tablespoon per person, for of the three of us dining tonight. Ah well--I know better for next time. And thankfully, 20-some-odd brimming bundles remain in the rows from which I gleaned tonight's portion :-)

still-living stalks

As I headed out the door to grab my camera, I grinned with a smug sort of satisfaction at the sound of Mom's laughter . . . I find it to be oddly gratifying when I manage to amuse my own family members. I had announced to her my intent to photograph the lavender I had just planted, playing up the haste with which I had to do so: "I know that, since I planted them [and you did not], they won't last long--I have to document their existence while they are still living . . ." And off I rushed. So here they are: beautifully still-blooming sprigs, duly documented :-)

another of my own

Emboldened [too much so?] by the kind response to last week's Poetry Wednesday post . . . and perhaps also by the fact that I am trying to flame the fires of my song-writing creativity, I have decided to go ahead and put another of my own writings out there. This one is decided less serious than last week's--quite goofy, in fact. But as much of my children's writing is just as goofy, there is no good reason for me to hide that fact :-) This one was inspired by a conversation I had with a little one, years ago, in the church bathroom after the service . . .

Stuck in the Loo
Oh dear, I fear it's true:
I'm stuck here in the loo.

I've wiggled, and jiggled, and pried:
And now I'm fit to be tied.

I really had to pee.
So Mommy came in with me.

I told her she could go--
I'm big now and, well, you know.

But now I wish I hadn't.
Cause she'd a known how to unfast'n it.

She knows how to do
Just anything--I promise, it's true!

Well I guess I'll settle in a bit--
The loo's not a bad place to sit.

I can make it real nice and comfy,
Even have my friends over for tea.

Suzy, and Jane, and Jackie.
And maybe Jane's puppy, Jalopy.

We can all sit right there on the floor,
In that space--it's just perfect for four!

After tea, then time for . . .
What's that? Did I hear the door?

Oh--Mommy, you found me!
I was just . . . well, I'll tell you later.

Yes, I'm fine. Tell you now?
Well ok. This is how . . .

you know you're from Africa when . . .

After dinner this evening I picked up an MK Newsletter that had arrived this weekend and started flipping through. Once I had read only a few of the items in one rather lengthy article, I started chuckling. Then, since Lou had looked up from his own readings, and seemed curious enough—and since we were all still lingering there around the table—I began to read out loud. But suddenly, unexpectedly, my laughter had turned to tears. Here are a few of the truisms that stuck out to me: some because of how true they are to my own experience, some simply because they made me laugh, and some because they are as beautiful as the land about which they are written:
“You know you are from Africa when . . .”
• No running water for a day is just another ordinary thing.
• It doesn’t seem right to pay the asking price on anything without bargaining first.
• Someone asks you how much your sister costs.
• You miss rain on a corrugated iron roof where it’s so loud you have to shout to be heard.
• You visit your grandparents and take your passport—just in case you have to evacuate.
• American corn isn’t hard enough for you.
• You expect people to tell you they’re fine before you ask them.
• As a girl, you’ve been proposed to while walking down the street.
• You can lead a 20-minute conversation starting with “Walleponaua!” and keep it going by replying “ehh” in numerous different tone levels for the next half an hour! (and have the other person understand exactly what you’re saying!)
• Something that would normally take half and hour in the Western world takes a few days or weeks.
• Your journey is interrupted by herds of cows and goats on the road.
• You can smell the rain before it comes.
• The only thing you throw away are avocado stones, and even then you wonder if you should save them and plant a tree.
• You know that an umbrella is useless during the rainy season and simply accept the fact that you’ll be wet for 3 months . . . and really don’t mind.
• Your bed doesn’t seem right without a mosquito net.
• Tears well up in your eyes as you read this list, wishing you were back in Africa.

[adapted from “I’d rather be in Africa” http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2204512109&ref=mf ]

make way for duckling[s]

When I first spotted this fuzzy family, huddled together, mother sheltering little ones, I kicked myself for not having my camera on me. It being first thing in the morning, I assumed that they would be long gone by the time I returned. So later, around midday, when I came back with my camera . . . just in case . . . I was thrilled to find them still out, still braving the cold of the rain and wind. And I cheered them on in their lonely trek out towards the middle of the lake :-)

till Zion

This Spring, thanks to an inspiring baby niece, I accidentally wrote a song. I am accustomed to making up songs, as they rather regularly pop into my head to be used as teaching tools . . . silly French ditties, usually. This time, however, it sounded kind of like a "real" song. When I shared it with one of my blogging friends, she suggested that I post it for a Poetry Wednesday. It took me a while to decide to do so but, now, here it is.
The poem itself I wrote a while back--an "Alphabet Prayer." But the tune is new, and I first sang it a cappella. Then, with the help of a talented collaborating musician, it turned into an official song, complete with instrumentals and background vocals. Anyhow, here are the lyrics. If any of you, who have not already heard it, would like to hear either version of the song itself, I would be happy to pass along the MP3 version: just comment or email me directly if so . . .

Till Zion is Nigh

Verse 1:
Abba Father
Blessed Jesus
Come and cheer us
Do be near us

Every Creature
Far and near
Give You praise for Your
Holy ways
[Refain]: For Yours I’ll be, till Zion is nigh. Oh, yours, till Zion is nigh.

I am Yours
Just as I am
Kindly made
Loved and framed

May I never
Not be true
Or be forgetful in
Praising You
[Refrain]

Quiet me when
Restless I grow
Still my spirit
Tame my soul

Under Thy wings
Verily I fly
Watched for by Your
eXtra watchful eye

Final Refrain: Sung with a 3rd line] of “Till Zion”

why did the chicken cross the road?

Well tonight, at least, he clearly had places to go . . . chicks to see [?]. So I stopped my car and let him cross. Then I got out, Lauryn Hill still grooving out my car stereo, and snapped this shot of him. I mean, who wouldn't pass up the chance to document the real-life happening of such an age-old, burning question? :-)

no hare there

It was a delightfully different day today than it was yesterday--snow turned to sunshine. So taking advantage of the evening light while dining with a friend, we walked out to her backyard where I had been admiring the shed. I chuckled at the name of it, upon which she mentioned that it was falling down . . . I was slightly embarrassed to admit that I actually thought it was intended to be slanted like that :-) Either way, the effect is all quite picturesque, even though it no longer houses its original, intended inhabitants. And I did like her choice of a paint job for the barn--what rabbit wouldn't be proud to be raised in a pink and purple abode?

it isn't easy being green . . . ?

Having been on a significantly long road trip for the past 3 days, I have had a slight bit more time than usual to "smell the flowers" along the way. To be more precise, however, I have been "watching the trees." For some reason, I have never before taken such notice of the Springtime Colours. Fall, for sure: that season is a given for me, so far as being awed by nature's colours. But this year, I see so many varieties of green that I have ended up pointing constantly to name a new hue that appears. No doubt Mel has had enough of it and is ready to be out of a car with me :-) Finally today I requested a stop to take a few photos of them, so here is the resulting pick--not particularly exciting so far as photo ops go, but hopefully it illustrates a little bit of what I've been seeing . . .

time for poetry

I am one of those [of whom a larger population exists, I suspect, than one might imagine] who tends towards an obsession with words. I seem to be unable to hold back the compulsive composition of word plays, poems, rhymes, and songs. This does come in handy as a teacher for little ones, as I have a knack for randomly composing mnemonic devices to help them remember such things as the French Alphabet, the Days of the Week, and the like.
It is not, unfortunately, as skill that does very well at earning a living . . . but I digress.
The point of my, er, point [;-)] is that I like words. And that I like poems. And so I like Poetry Wednesday.
For today's such event, I decided to post a poem that is probably familiar to many of those in my blogging circle. Multiple reasons prompted this decision. One of those is that I recently was asked [by one who was used to seeing the name in my email signature] who Gerard Manley Hopkins was. This gave me the occasion to go back and read through several of his poems, and to re-read about his life.
Around the same time, I learned of the newest release by Natalie Merchant which is, I think, quite brilliant . . . a passion of my own, as well. Her album--Leave Your Sleep--is a children's collection of songs based upon sophisticated and traditional poems, rhymes, and lullabies.
Also around this same time, I accidentally wrote my first "serious" song [as opposed to educational little ditties and limericks]. Consequently, with the urging of a friend and collaborating musician, I have begun the exhilarating project of my own potential [budding] musical project . . .
All that to say, I would like to share with you one of the poems that my dear blogging buddy introduced me too years ago, also introducing me to the poet. This poem is also the inspiration for one of my favorite songs on Merchant's CD [though I confess that I do not have, and so have not listened to in its entirety, the album.
But enough ramblings from me. Here's the poem. Enjoy!

To a Young Child
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

mystery plants?

When I caught a glimpse of these little curiosities the other day, I knew I would be returning with my camera. After doing so, today, I mentioned my intriguing photo subject to my friend, showing her the picture. I should have expected as much, considering how knowledgeable she is about all things local--but I still found myself duly impressed when she spouted off the name and spoke of what folks do with them . . .
And so I ask you all: anyone out there in blog-land know
1. What the common name is? and
2. What can be done with them?
The first correct responder just might win a prize :-)

the professional angle

It wasn't until right before I left today's Spring Fair that I realized I had a young sidekick. As I was crooning to the corn snake draped upon my arm, this little fellow, in a noticeably adult-like tone, asked me if I was a photographer. Looking down, I recognized him as the same youngster who had looked on at another child's artwork when I was snapping photos of him and his father, engrossed in the task of painting a fabric grocery bag. At the time I assumed he was just another child enjoying the artwork activities. But when he appeared by my side minutes later . . . and again shortly thereafter, I figured I must have captured his interest.
Realizing this, I quickly clarified my initial response that yes, I was somewhat of a photographer: Mind you, I added, this is not really professional work, to be holding my Nikon in one hand as I snap a shot of the snake holding the other: but sometimes, you just do what the moment requires :-)

chiming in

There has been a "Poetry Wednesday" circle amongst some of my blogger buddies that I have been following for several months now. But I have not joined in, preferring to just enjoy others' posts. I decided to chime in this week, however. Largely, this is due to my own contemplative and creatively-inclined state of mind as of late. When I am in such a mood, I tend to remember past artistic loves, as well as embarking upon new ones. At the moment, I have been musing on the first poetry I really resonated with: I didn't even know why . . . still don't, for that matter! But for whatever reason, I fell in love with A.A. Milne's "Buttercup Days" back in high school--before I even really liked poetry all that much, so far as I can remember. I read it as school required, but wouldn't have dreamed of recreationally writing it, as I do now. Enough said . . . here it is :-)

Buttercup Days

Where is Anne?
Head above the buttercups,
Walking by the stream,
Down among the buttercups.
Where is Anne?
Walking with her man,
Lost in a dream,
Lost among the buttercups.

What has she got in that little brown head?
Wonderful thoughts which can never be said.
What has she got in that firm little fist of hers?
Somebody’s thumb, and it feels like Christopher’s

Where is Anne?
Close to her man.
Brown head, gold head,
In and out the buttercups.

-A.A. Milne. “Now We Are Six”

tulips, take 2

After my last post, one faithful blog follower kindly made a request . . . asking for a follow-up photo of those tulips once they were fully bloomed. Well, here at Full of Grace, we aim to please :-) With the near-blinding intensity of the hues, I was tempted to, of all things, mute the colour. But I thought better of that and, instead, decided to give you the pure, "unadulterated" photo. So here they are: Mom's tulips, fully a-bloom. Do you doubt my word as to her "greenest thumb?"

the greenest thumb

As I prepared to leave her house this evening, my mother looked up from her Sunday School lesson planning, peered over her reading glasses, and reminded me, "You really should look at those tulips as you head out." I have learned the lesson, many times over, to do what mom says, even when she says it in the most off-handedly distracted sort of way. So I sidestepped into the garden and poked around until I found this little gem . . . and then I ran back into the house to thank mom for being so motherishly all-knowing. And thankfully, I had my camera to capture its rosy twilight glow.

by any other name

Ever since they bloomed, about a week ago, I have been intrigued by these oddly-hued blossoms in my mother's garden. They are not the sort of flower I would normally swoon over but I just kept returning to look for new shades [white, lavender, even pale green among the current ones]. So tonight I finally thought to ask her what kind they were. Her response made me smile to myself, amused at my own mental workings, as I suddenly realized the true reason for my interest: it is their name. Lenten Rose. It is a striking sort of name, befitting a strikingly homely sort of bloom . . . and I think I have fallen for its unassuming loveliness :-)

Christos anesti . . .

. . . Alithos anesti.
Those of you not as familiar [as some of my blogging buddies] with Greek Orthodox tradition may not recognize the significance of a bowl of red-dyed eggs. This is a part of the traditional tsougrisma ceremony, in which I got to participate this year. Between the festive traditions, the reading of Benjamin's Box, and lingering over post-children's-bedtime coffee & conversations, it was a truly blessed Resurrection Sunday . . . for you all I hope, as well!