I woke up in the middle of the night. From a dream.
I dreamt that I was walking through sumptuous gardens, early on May Morning. They were the grounds of a grand fort. Mossy stone bridges criss-crossed a stream, leading from an old building. I could almost see Mr. Lewis sitting by one of the windows. Pondering the latest discussion with Mr. Tolkien. Or one of the other inklings.
I continued my walk through the gardens. Admiring the deer that were grazing lazily in the sun. And then I hear the voices of Magdalen College. Eminating from the tallest tower in the valley. It is so moving that I wake up from my sleep.
I was not dreaming after all. I can still hear the singing.
Tuesday, June 3, 2003
Monday, June 2, 2003
A little over a week ago, I was sitting in a 'Socialist Labour Hall'. It was built in the early 1920's. The hall was filled with people. They were enjoying a classic, Italian lunch of anti-pasti, lasagna, and Chianti. The sun was shining through the windows. Ceiling fans were rotating lazily overhead.
The hall has been renovated, to some extent. That renovation is revealing a building that is very Italian in every respect. You almost feel like you could walk out the door and into a bustling piazza, a town square, somewhere in Toscana.
Although hundreds of people were in sitting in that hall, it was almost silent. The only prominent sounds were that of a slightly out-of-tune piano, and the voice of an old man. Singing. If you could call it that. His voice was broken and he could hardly carry the tune. People in the audience started talking. The 'singing' was slowly fading into the chatter.
I was experiencing a blend of annoyance and embarrassment. Why couldn't they find a better singer? Since they had to have someone sing. Which they didn't, in my opinion. People could have just eaten. Listened to the dull speaches. And left.
His voice had almost vanished, when it touched me. Or maybe it was the sight of his countrymen, straining to watch him through the kitchen door. A tear was running down the cheek of one of the women. The Italians had moved here a century ago. To cut the granite. From the largest granite depository mine in the world. They came because this was the source of the best sculpture material you could find. They could tame it. And the results would last forever. So they uprooted themselves and moved to this foreign continent. And adapted. And cut stone. Of course, now they are all considered to be Americans. Or Italian-Americans. But their English was broken, their demeanor was Southern-European, and it was obvious that they were holding onto something. Their country. Their culture. Their soul. Something.
I realized, that it wasn't how well he carried the tune. It wasn't how high his voice could reach. It was his heart. And whether or not you could hear it singing.
Suddenly, I could. And I was in Toscana.
The hall has been renovated, to some extent. That renovation is revealing a building that is very Italian in every respect. You almost feel like you could walk out the door and into a bustling piazza, a town square, somewhere in Toscana.
Although hundreds of people were in sitting in that hall, it was almost silent. The only prominent sounds were that of a slightly out-of-tune piano, and the voice of an old man. Singing. If you could call it that. His voice was broken and he could hardly carry the tune. People in the audience started talking. The 'singing' was slowly fading into the chatter.
I was experiencing a blend of annoyance and embarrassment. Why couldn't they find a better singer? Since they had to have someone sing. Which they didn't, in my opinion. People could have just eaten. Listened to the dull speaches. And left.
His voice had almost vanished, when it touched me. Or maybe it was the sight of his countrymen, straining to watch him through the kitchen door. A tear was running down the cheek of one of the women. The Italians had moved here a century ago. To cut the granite. From the largest granite depository mine in the world. They came because this was the source of the best sculpture material you could find. They could tame it. And the results would last forever. So they uprooted themselves and moved to this foreign continent. And adapted. And cut stone. Of course, now they are all considered to be Americans. Or Italian-Americans. But their English was broken, their demeanor was Southern-European, and it was obvious that they were holding onto something. Their country. Their culture. Their soul. Something.
I realized, that it wasn't how well he carried the tune. It wasn't how high his voice could reach. It was his heart. And whether or not you could hear it singing.
Suddenly, I could. And I was in Toscana.
Sunday, June 1, 2003
Wow. That was a long break!
I should actually be worried. You see, soon after I started talking about our pregnancy, in this blog, I received an e-mail. It suggested that me tending to this blog would be a good test of my endurance. That is, if I was diligent in feeding the blog, every day, it could indicate my diligence as a father.
Ooops!
Then I read in some pregnancy book, or maybe a magazine article, that how well you attend to your garden, if you have a garden, can reveal how well you will tend to your child.
D'oh!
This does not look good.
I should actually be worried. You see, soon after I started talking about our pregnancy, in this blog, I received an e-mail. It suggested that me tending to this blog would be a good test of my endurance. That is, if I was diligent in feeding the blog, every day, it could indicate my diligence as a father.
Ooops!
Then I read in some pregnancy book, or maybe a magazine article, that how well you attend to your garden, if you have a garden, can reveal how well you will tend to your child.
D'oh!
This does not look good.
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
Like a true workaholic, I am more tempted by enticing work opportunities than by almost anything else.
For example now. When I am really trying to cut down on work. Have promised myself to be in no more than a 100% position, combined, by the time the kid is born. And all of a sudden, along comes this really luscious job. Damnit!
But. It's OK. Do you know why? Because I know it's a test. Of sorts. Somehow, I am being tested. And that makes it bearable to turn away.
But man, o man! This was attractive.
For example now. When I am really trying to cut down on work. Have promised myself to be in no more than a 100% position, combined, by the time the kid is born. And all of a sudden, along comes this really luscious job. Damnit!
But. It's OK. Do you know why? Because I know it's a test. Of sorts. Somehow, I am being tested. And that makes it bearable to turn away.
But man, o man! This was attractive.
Sunday, May 18, 2003
Monday, May 12, 2003
Paradise, thy name is Georgia. In May.
We are spending this week on a 250 acre estate in Georgia. The guesthouse that we are staying in is larger than our house. We are told that everything is larger in the south.
We passed a jeep yesterday that was towing a gargantuan grill. On wheels. Our southern friends didn't seem to find it interesting. I was amazed. And took pictures.
But nature seems indifferent to the activities of mere mortals here. The flora is a force to be reckoned with. To keep a field growing just grass, you have to do more than just cut the grass. You also need to weed out the trees. Like every month! I kid you not. Any spot that isn't looked after really regularly will turn into a tropical forest before you can blink your eyes.
And everything seems to grow here. When I go out for my morning run, every fruit imaginable seems to be growing on the trees by the road. And the aroma of the honwysuckle is intoxicating.
Heaven. I'm in heaven.
We are spending this week on a 250 acre estate in Georgia. The guesthouse that we are staying in is larger than our house. We are told that everything is larger in the south.
We passed a jeep yesterday that was towing a gargantuan grill. On wheels. Our southern friends didn't seem to find it interesting. I was amazed. And took pictures.
But nature seems indifferent to the activities of mere mortals here. The flora is a force to be reckoned with. To keep a field growing just grass, you have to do more than just cut the grass. You also need to weed out the trees. Like every month! I kid you not. Any spot that isn't looked after really regularly will turn into a tropical forest before you can blink your eyes.
And everything seems to grow here. When I go out for my morning run, every fruit imaginable seems to be growing on the trees by the road. And the aroma of the honwysuckle is intoxicating.
Heaven. I'm in heaven.
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