Sometimes (thankfully not often) I sit down at my computer and I simply can't think of a darned thing to write about. I asked my husband, and he said write about how much I love autumn. Well, I do, but with ninety degree sultry heat I''m not feeling the fall vibe yet. So I asked my daughter and she suggested I talk about her wedding, but I don't want to give away any "surprises" about her decor or ceremony ideas, so I better remain quiet on that topic.
But here I am, already on paragraph three with nothing to say but I've somehow managed to leap from ancient Greek myth to 20th century American opera. And now I'm going to head back to 19th century New England and one of my favorite essayists, Ralph Waldo Emerson. This is fast becoming a travelogue about nothing! I found a great print on the Book Riot website and thought you might enjoy it as well. I've been trying hard this past week to focus on everything that is right with my world, and pretend the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune aren't hitting close to home. And graphic artist Ryan McArthur's minimalist print is a great reminder of how we have the ability to choose our attitudes. I really don't want to lose a second more of happiness.
But here I am, already on paragraph three with nothing to say but I've somehow managed to leap from ancient Greek myth to 20th century American opera. And now I'm going to head back to 19th century New England and one of my favorite essayists, Ralph Waldo Emerson. This is fast becoming a travelogue about nothing! I found a great print on the Book Riot website and thought you might enjoy it as well. I've been trying hard this past week to focus on everything that is right with my world, and pretend the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune aren't hitting close to home. And graphic artist Ryan McArthur's minimalist print is a great reminder of how we have the ability to choose our attitudes. I really don't want to lose a second more of happiness.
If you would like to see other great literary prints by McArthur you can check them out here. |
So since it seems we are doing a little globe hopping, let's swing over to Russia for a minute and check in with Tchaikovsky, who kept me company all afternoon at work yesterday. If you need to escape into a world of beauty for a few minutes, slip on your headphones (or earbuds) and let his Violin Concerto in D work its magic.
I'm
particularly fond of this recording by Isaac Stern, because in
college I had tickets to his long anticipated performance in Kansas City, and ended up instead in
the hospital for emergency surgery. But my amazing roommates
(fellow music majors) went to the concert and sweet-talked their way backstage
to have him sign a program for me. It's hanging in my library--a
special reminder of how friends can be so uplifting and supportive.
You can hear this remarkable performance here. And since we are already in Russia, let's dip by Dostoyevsky's house for a cup of tea. I have a feeling I would get along well with him--how can you not like someone who penned "I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea" and "man is fond of counting his troubles but he does not count his joys." My type of guy! And the quote below made me laugh...even if I had nuttin' in my mind when I sat down to write this post, I guess I have lived and therefore have a story to tell! |
And to start our day off on the right "note" here's a lovely poem by Kristin Riggs. It incorporates autumn for my husband and passion for my daughter, Tchaikovsky for me, and a tale for Fyodor--what more could you ask for in a poem?
Happy Wednesday!
A Poem for Tchaikovsky
hearing it in my mind,
autumn's song played
on a distant piano-
smooth keys
gently touched
by fingers who have known
many seasons...
the passion of summer,
the desperation of winter,
the hope of spring-
now he strokes the ivory
once again,
telling his tale
of yet another red leaf,
another windy afternoon,
another still morning,
another harvest moon...
autumn's song played
on a distant piano-
smooth keys
gently touched
by fingers who have known
many seasons...
the passion of summer,
the desperation of winter,
the hope of spring-
now he strokes the ivory
once again,
telling his tale
of yet another red leaf,
another windy afternoon,
another still morning,
another harvest moon...
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