The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins --
Today is seared, bleared, smeared. I feel like I have trod and trod an unchanging road -- monotonous and exhausting. Where are those bright wings?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
That afternoon we made our way north to Seattle Centre, where we admired the view from the Space Needle and enjoyed watching families play in this spectacular fountian.
Last Sunday afternoon, overwhelmed by the tedium of the week, my husband and I settled onto the couch, laptap between us, in search of adventure. Before the tedious mood lifted we had booked ferry tickets and a hotel -- 48 hours worth of escape. Our destination: Seattle. It's not too far away, but far enough; and we had never been there.
Our search for Saturday morning breakfast took us to Pike Place Market were we indulged in breakfast tacos and eggs benedict, then passed the morning among the fruit vendors, florists, artisans and street musicians. There were rows and rows of Mother's Day flowers.