A rose is a rose is a rose...

Bonjour!

watercolor by jbwolen.etsy.com

We have had just some gorgeous days!

Summer, for now, is showing her bright sunny face.

Tanner has enjoyed sunning himself every day.

He goes out, finds a nice spot, and sleeps in the sun.

He gets hot, and wants in.

He lays in the office to cool off, and then...

He wants out

to find a nice spot in the sun, and sleep.

And get hot.

So then he wants in.....

See how I spend my days!!

looking for a good hot spot...

Yesssss.....

oh yeah, hot concrete....

I'm hot now, let me in....

Gotta love him!

But really, today's blog is about roses.

a yellow rose in the gardens of DisneyLand, California

One Perfect Rose

By Dorothy Parker

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.

          All tenderly his messenger he chose;

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet-

          One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;

          “My fragile leaves,” it said, “his heart enclose.”

Love long has taken for his amulet

          One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet

          One perfect limousine, do you suppose?

Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get

          One perfect rose.

Rose in the gardens of Walt Disney World: Epcot, Florida

I'm sorry, I don't know the creator of these lovely cards.

Rose shrubs are often used by homeowners and landscape architects

for home security purposes.

The sharp thorns of many rose species deter "unauthorized persons"

(politically correct, you know!)

from entering private properties.

They may prevent break-ins if planted under windows and near drain pipes.

The aesthetic characteristics of rose shrubs,

in conjunction with their home security qualities,

makes them a desirable alternative

to artificial fences and walls.

(Oh, who DOES write this way???)

I have looked at so many different web sites on roses, I am not sure

which this one is from, but they need to loosen up, 'ya think?

vintage 'toothpaste' ad

c. 1899

Despite the presence of thorns (pricklies!), deer will happily munch on them.

Gardening here in the Rocky Mountains has its' difficulties,

among which are the munching deer,

and the hungry elks.

In the cities/suburbs squirrels are the big destructive mob.

They eat electrical cords, canopies, houses (yes, they will chew right

through the house wall to make nests inside!)

patio furniture, most bird feeders and all of your plants!

Where I live the bunnies can be a problem.

They make holes and dens in my flower gardens.

They chew on the spring bulbs.

They love gardens - free buffet - all you can eat!

healing rose mandala, for sale at holly and ivy

Let's have a fun paper doll with lots of lovely roses:

Rose Valley is a region in Bulgaria located just south of

the Balkan mountains. It is famous for its rose growing industry,

from which 70% of the world's rose oil is produced.

vintage song sheet graphics

White Rose

 was a World War II non-violent resistance group in Germany.

Here is a coloring page for you.

Let a child pick their own colors, and it can be amazing what alternative colors they come up with!

One of my favorite Christmas ornaments is a paper Santa Claus

that Peter colored in the 1st Grade -

a very blue Santa Claus!

Rose hips are sometimes eaten, mainly for their Vitamin C content.

They are usually pressed and filtered to make rose hip syrup.

This process removes the fine hairs surrounding the seeds,

which are icky to eat, and resembles itching powder.

Pierre Auguste Renoir,

"Les Roses Dans un Vase"

c.1910 - 1917

Rose hips are used to produce an oil used in skin products.

They can also be used to make herbal tea,

jam, jelly and marmalade.

A rose that has aged or gone rotten

may not be particularly fragrant,

but the roses' basic chemistry prevents it

from stinking or having a bad odor of any kind.

c.1914

When aged roses are mashed together,

 the fragrance of the rose is enhanced.

The fragrance of particularly large balls of mashed roses

is enhanced even further.

Here is an embroidery transfer from

turkeyfeathers.typepad.com

While the state flower of Texas is NOT a rose,

the Yellow Rose of Texas is very familiar.

more lovely paper punched flower cards

a vintage illustration

Here is another of Liana's lovely paper doll dress creations:

You can find two paper dolls that fit this in previous blogs,

or visit Liana's Blog site. The addy is on the right side of my blog!

polymer clay roses by pearldelta.etsy.com

A red rose (often held in a hand)

 is the symbol of socialism or social democracy.

It is also used as a symbol by the British and Irish Labour Parties,

as well as by

the French, Swedish, Finnish, Brazilian, Portuguese, Norwegian,

Spanish (Spanish Socialist Workers' Party),

the Dutch (Partij van de Arbeid)

and European socialist parties.

for sale at albanykid.com

Using a single red rose as a symbol of socialism or social democracy

originates from the red rose used as a badge by the marchers

in the May 1968 street protests in Paris.

'Rose for a Duchess'

a photo processed print for sale from

http://www.fleurbonheur.etsy.com/

She does quite lovely and unusual work.

I really like her 'style'.

Here is another of her works, with embroidery:

Well, that's it for today!

I hope you have enjoyed this venture into

The Rose.

inkspired

http://www.inkspired.etsy.com/

dominoes@myinkspired.com

http://www.inkspiredmusings.blogspot.com/

A Severe Mercy

The true value of many things can only be seen in retrospect. Indeed, Sheldon Vanauken probably would not have called what he went through 'a severe mercy' at the time. As it was, he didn't write this book until many, many years after it occurred. The autobiographical story covers the years in Van's life from 1937 to 1955; A Severe Mercy wasn't published until 1977.

In fact, A Severe Mercy can almost be called a foreshadowing of A Grief Observed,* the Christian apologist C. S. Lewis's famous tribute to his own wife, Joy's death or how he discovered and dealt with the silence of God. But of course that is only from our perspective looking back on the four lives involved.

Sheldon Vanauken wrote A Severe Mercy about the love of his life, Jean "Davy" Palmer Davis. It's a beautiful love story, one of the most idyllic I've ever read, perhaps too idyllic, but poignant and breathtaking all the same. The book traces their relationship from courtship through the early pagan (the author's term) years of marriage to the meeting and eventual friendship with C. S. Lewis who was instrumental in their eventual conversion to Christianity. It is therefore no small irony that Vanauken and Lewis became friends, were both college dons, converted to Protestantism and lost their beloved spouses, first the former and then the latter, both eventually writing best-selling books on the subject.

While I enjoyed A Severe Mercy very much, as a woman and a mother, I did constantly wonder—as I read it—at their decision not to have children. The author announces this fact early on in their pagan years which the couple dubbed, "The Shining Barrier", presumably a barrier of love which they erected around themselves to protect themselves from the outside world. Later, however, when they converted to Christianity, there was no mention they ever revisited this decision. Davy was still young enough at the time to bear children. I couldn't help thinking and wondering if – as time went by – the desire to become a mother didn't occasionally tug at her heart. Vanauken never mentions it and at the end of the book he describes burning her diaries.

In an interesting aside however, Lewis does chastize his friend, and very severely too, for the couple's decision to exclude children from their marriage, but only some time after Davy's death.

Two of the many delights in this book are numerous beautiful poems the author wrote to his beloved bride and a large collection of letters from C.S. Lewis.

An excellent autobiography of Love. Beautifully written tribute to Davy as well; I only wish I heard more of her voice.

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* I regret not having a more current review of this book to offer, but I plan to reread it soon and update this.

Love Is God

Today as I was watching the Inauguration and listening to the various talking heads I couldn't help but think how grateful I am that I am a Catholic and that my faith is in God, the God Who is Love, described in brief by Our Holy Father in the Encyclical, Deus Caritas Est.

So many people across our country are putting all their hopes today in a man, a man who has just taken on a very powerful position at the head of the largest free republic on earth. Nevertheless, he is just a man, a human being, and not God. His position merits our respect and we certainly want and need to pray for him as our president, but he is not God. And if he fails or makes a mistake, our world will not end. Our faith is in the One Who will never disappoint, hurt or abandon us.

I was also thinking about BEGINNINGS. Not only do we have a new president but Benedict's Book Club is beginning a new year with a new book, or rather, an Encyclical, a Papal Letter.

Our Pope chose to lead off his papacy with this Encyclical on Love. Love. God is Love . . . Even though he knew that love is an overused, misused, misunderstood word, still he braved the potential risk, the ridicule, and the certain misinterpretations to bring us a basic truth about God which we need to hear: God is Love. PBXVI's was another 'voice crying in the wilderness', only this time 'the wilderness' is our own modern culture of media, Internet, i-pods, cell phones, instant communication and gratification.

And what about love? Do we know what that is? If we don't understand what "love" is, then we're a little like the blind person being told the sky is blue. He can't fathom "sky" and has never seen a color; the description is worthless.

Many of us can't define "love" but we know it when we give it or receive it. The Holy Father identifies the different types of "love" in Section 2 and then goes on to say: 'Amid this multiplicity of meanings, however, one in particular stands out: love between man and woman, where body and soul are inseparably joined and human beings glimpse an apparently irresistible promise of happiness. This would seem to be the very epitome of love; all other kinds of love immediately seem to fade in comparison. So we need to ask: are all these forms of love basically one, so that love, in its many and varied manifestations, is ultimately a single reality, or are we merely using the same word to designate totally different realities?

That last question is one worth pondering!

Also, I don't know if anyone noticed the mention that "love" got in the "Praise Song", the Inaugural Poem today?

Here's the link for the entire poem, but here are the verses just about love:

"Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance."

It sounds to me as if the poet is in search of the same path that our Encyclical already clearly lights.

God bless our new president and America!

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The Place Within

I'm not a poet. I'm not even a great lover of poetry. But occasionally I think I should be. Or someone hands me a book of poetry and says, "You really need to read this!" A friend told me this was one book of poetry worth trying.

The Place Within is collection of poetry to be set next to your Bible or in your prayer corner. I'll be taking it with me to Adoration. The poetry reads more like reflections, wisps of prayerlike impressions.

Many of the selections are short and can be tied to specific Scripture stories/people such as: Jacob; The Samaritan Woman; The Samaritan Woman Meditates; Simon of Cyrene; Her Amazement at Her Only Child; John Beseeches Her; First Moment of the Glorified Body; Magdalene, etc. I recommend reading the Gospel passage and then the applicable poem.

Pope John Paul II has also written about places in the Holy Land and experiences of conversion. The are two longest pieces are entitled "Songs of the Hidden God". They completely lost me at times and yet I found them very beautiful even so. I couldn't help thinking the reader was supposed to feel a little lost or overwhelmed by the flood of images, all the while looking for the "You" with the capital "Y" because the search for God is reflected in the symbolic difficulty one has in figuring out the meaning of so many seemingly random sensory images. I think I may need to slow down a bit more the next time I try to read these particular selections. In fact the entire book invites the soul to step out of time and space and enter The Place Within where He dwells that He may speak and we may hear.

Here is a selection from the title poem, The Place Within. It is located in the grouping, "Journey to Holy Places" so we may presume the Holy Father is probably writing about a visit to the place of Our Lord's execution and burial but he combines that with the even more meaningful and beautiful journey within the human body/heart/soul through Communion, prayer and our fiat.

'My place is in You, your place is in me. Yet it is the place of all men. And I am not diminished by them in this place. I am more alone--more than if there were no one else--I am alone with myself. At the same time I am multiplied by them in the Cross which stood on this place. This multiplying with no diminishing remains a mystery: the Cross goes against the current. In it numbers retreat before Man.

In You--how did the Cross come to be?

Now let us walk down the narrow steps as if down a tunnel through a wall. Those who once walked down the slope stopped at the place where now there is a slab. They anointed your body and then laid it in a tomb. Through your body you had a place on earth, the outward place of the body you exchanged for a place within, saying, "Take, all of you, and eat of this."

The radiation of that place within relates to all the outward places on Earth to which I pilgrimage. You chose this place centuries ago--the place in which You give yourself and accept me.' 1965

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Better even than a “Reading Mother” is a “Praying Mother”

I've always loved the poem, “The Reading Mother”. Although I don’t have any little boys, I’ve shared it with several mothers who do. As a booklady, obviously, I think reading is very important. But there are a few things more important than reading to our children and one of them is praying for and with our children.

Today my oldest daughter got her driver’s license. From my perspective, getting a license is a rite of passage; a momentous occasion. It means changes, such as: my daughter no longer needs me to get her places. I also won’t be there to ensure her safety.

But really, how often have I had to let her go already in her short sixteen year life? Plenty of times. From her birth, her life has been a constant process of letting go and moving on. It’s natural and right. I know it in my mind and heart. I’ve watched her crawl away, walk away, run away, ride her bike away and now drive away. Motherhood is constant surrender. We surrender our children back to Him and trust to His loving care.

While she was out on her first solo drive—after I said my rosary—I reread “The Reading Mother” and then I wrote this little poem which I call, “The Praying Mother”. It’s not as good as the original by Gillilan but it comes full from the heart and I dedicate with all my love to Meggie and to my own dear mother.

Here’s . . .

“THE READING MOTHER” by Strickland Gillilan

I had a mother who read to me
Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea,
Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth,
"Blackbirds" stowed in the hold beneath

I had a Mother who read me lays
Of ancient and gallant and golden days;
Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,
Which every boy has a right to know.

I had a Mother who read me tales
Of Celert the hound of the hills of Wales,
True to his trust till his tragic death,
Faithfulness blent with his final breath.

I had a Mother who read me the things

That wholesome life to the boy heart brings-
Stories that stir with an upward touch,
Oh, that each mother of boys were such.

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be --
I had a Mother who read to me.

And here’s . . .

“THE PRAYING MOTHER” by booklady

You have a mother who’s prayed for you

Since long before she laid eyes on you;

Prayed for your health and happiness too;

Prayed she’d know what a mother’s to do.

You had a mother who prayed for your birth

And welcomed the gift of your life on this earth.

Swaddled in blankets so helpless and dear,

She resolved to pray, rather than fear.

You had a mother who prayed most days;

Struggling to learn to ‘pray always’.

Prayers for your safety, your sanctity too,

But mostly just praying God’s Will for you.

You had a mother who prayed as you grew,

Loving you more than she thought she could do.

Watching you blossom from year to year,

Slowly her prayers for you have grown clear.

You have a mother who is praying still;

Stubborn, selfish, and with a strong will,

Yet this mother’s heart and mother’s touch

The years of prayer have softened so much.

Dearest one, ahead may be joys or sorrow

Despite the prayers, we cannot know tomorrow.

Praying is the richest gift though it be free

I, too, have a mother who prays for me.

All my love and prayers, your bookmom

wisdom

To allow one's self to be carried away
by a multitude of conflicting concerns,
to surrender to too many demands,
to commit one self to too many projects,
to want to help everyone
is to succumb to violence.
Frenzy destroys our inner capacity for peace.
It destroys the fruitfulness of our work,
because it kills the root of inner wisdom
which makes work fruitful.

by Thomas Merton

Our Lady of the Rosary and "Lepanto"

by Gilbert Keith Chesterson

Started and Finished on: 8 October 2007

October is the month Catholics celebrate as the month of the rosary--that special prayer to Our Lady, Mother of God. And October 7th is the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary because on that day in 1571 a famous battle was fought at Lepanto. The people of Venice credited Our Lady of the Rosary with their success. In their own words, "Neither strength, nor arms, nor leaders, but the Rosary of Our Lady made us the victors."

Pope Pius V honored their belief by instituting an annual feast in honor of Our Lady of Victory, which Pope Gregory XIII later changed to the feast day we currently celebrate on the date of the victory itself, October 7th. The name of the feast day was also changed to Our Lady of the Rosary.

Today I finally read the epic poem by G. K. Chesterton about the famous battle of Lepanto. Although I've enjoyed Chesteron's Father Brown mysteries, Orthodoxy, The Man Who Was Thursday and The Everlasting Man, I had never gotten around to reading this very accessible poem. If you've overlooked this very short and delightful work, be sure to check it out. You'll recognize some names you've heard before.

One test of a good read for me is if the book -- or poem -- gives me leads to other good reads. And Lepanto certainly did that. Here are just a few of the books and topics I now want to read or learn more about as a result of my brief visit with this poem: 1.) study/learn more about King Philip of Spain; 2.) finish Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes; 3.) read Don Juan by Lord Byron; 4.) read The Ballad of the White Horse by G. K. Chesterton, and 5.) read Wisdom and Innocence: A Life of G. K. Chesterton by Joseph Pearce.

Below are just a sample of some of my favorite quotes by the man sometimes called The Prince of Paradox:

"What embitters the world is not excess of criticism, but an absence of self-criticism."

"Impartiality is a pompous name for indifference, which is an elegant name for ignorance."

"When learned men begin to use their reason, then I generally discover that they haven't got any."

"Reason is always a kind of brute force; those who appeal to the head rather than the heart, however pallid and polite, are necessarily men of violence. We speak of 'touching' a man's heart, but we can do nothing to his head but hit it."

"If there were no God, there would be no atheists."

"Love means loving the unlovable - or it is no virtue at all."

By the way, "Thanks to Aunty Belle" for the tip! If not for your timely reminder, I'd have not put the two events together. God bless you!

****

Hound of Heaven

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbéd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”
I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)
But, if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of His approach would clash it to:
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars:
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue;
Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:—
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbéd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat—
“Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.”
I sought no more that after which I strayed
In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children’s eyes
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
“Come then, ye other children, Nature’s—share
With me” (said I) “your delicate fellowship;
Let me greet you lip to lip,
Let me twine you with caresses,
Wantoning
With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses,
Banqueting
With her in her wind-walled palace,
Underneath her azured dais,
Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.”
So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies;
I knew how the clouds arise
Spuméd of the wild sea-snortings;
All that’s born or dies
Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine;
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day’s dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning’s eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
The breasts o’ her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
With unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
And past those noised Feet
A voice comes yet more fleet—
“Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me.”
Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
And smitten me to my knee;
I am defenceless utterly.
I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years—
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist.
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must—
Designer infinite!—
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou can’st limn with it?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Such is; what is to be?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpséd turrets slowly wash again.
But not ere him who summoneth
I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death?
Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
“And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught” (He said),
“And human love needs human meriting:
How hast thou merited—
Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child’s mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
Rise, clasp My hand, and come!”
Halts by me that footfall:
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
“Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.”
Francis Thompson (1859-1907)