"No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place."
~Edna St. Vincent Millay

The wind has been bitter these past nights. It waits for the darkness to begin, then gathers it's power and pounds against the door. The wind brings to mind dreams from the summer, of ghosts who haunt our land, gathering under the birches and watching us as we set down roots.

Birches are haunting trees. In the daylight they dance like happy ghosts, or naked spirits, cold in the wind, but laughing. I like to put my hand on their white bodies and feel a piece of the joy. But they are too pale, to cold to be anything but specters in the night - white hands reaching out to touch, dancing terribly under the moon. I imagine my dream-ghosts wandering the birch paths at night, some with malice, others with kindness.

We've been missing the moon for over a week now. The days are dark and grey, the nights are darker, with no moon to light the sky, and no stars to smile at. I am hoping that todays clear sky will stretch into tomorrow, and through the weekend. We need time to dry out, and I would love a night of peaceful sleep, without the howl of wind and the pounding, icy rain on the roof.

I have nothing written, but I thought I'd share some photos, taken by my husband. I hope you enjoy them.

Our tacky Kitchen Madonna, in an old crate we found.

The lovely woodstove and the sticks we're currently using, while we chop
more appropriately sized firewood.

My earrings. They are actually in my ears, though you can't really see

anything of me.

Soon I will have something written to post. Until then, enjoy the lovely autumn weather!

"The man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way."

~Henry David Thoreau

I walked down this moring, to the post box to leave my letters and retrieve what had been left. The sun was rising above the trees - not quite clearing the tall pines - the clouds were small, scattered pink strips of cotton, the red and yellow leaves glowed with life. My boots sounded so loud on the road. It was a glorious walk.

I like walking in the early morning. I like seeing the moon in its last moments above the horizen, I like the clean air scent, and the early chill. I like the feeling of being alone and yet not alone as I walk down the road.

These past few nights I've been waking up often at night, to build up the fire, to watch the stars, to feel the cold night air on my skin. If this keeps up, I may add night prayer to my routine, I might as well, being awake already. We begin the day with the Angelus now, and it's such a joyful way to greet the dawn, perhaps I should join the stars as well, they are such lovely companions at night. I feel so lost without them, there is nothing like looking up to see Orion hovering above the pine, or the Big Dipper scooping up the darkness.

Moja siostra asked a while ago if I would describe a certain popular author as a non-artist or a bad artist. It took me a bit of thought, but I would describe him as a non-artist. I would put him in this catagory because I think that to be a "bad artist," one must first be an artist, with the potential to be a good artist. A "bad artist" has corrupted his gifts, but a non-artists has no gifts to corrupt. In this case the author seems to fully believe that he is an artist, and tries desperately to pass off his writing as clever literature. The fact that some people have fallen into his mistake is a sad testimony to the current state of Art.

Bad art falls under a similar definition. Bad art must first be art - it is art that falls short in some essential way, of goodness and Truth. A very few of Picasso's works fit this discription, as do some of Joyce's stories. Picasso and Joyce are artists: they make beauty, occassionally they fall short, especially when they abandon art in favour of a message: "art is wholly concerned with the good of that which is made; it has no utilitarian end. If you do manage to use it successfully for social, religious, or other purposes, it is because you made it art first..." (Flannery O' Connor).

"these dark nights hold me..
and I lie without a lover"
~Rilke

The rain last night was steady, it kept up for hours a soft drumming on the roof. The sort of rain that is comforting to watch and smell and feel. I sat up listening late into the night, curled next to the woodstove, reading, drinking tea and letting the rainfall make a soft, cottony pillow round my mind.

Outside, the darkness was absolute, there were no stars, no moon, none of the comforting lights I've grown accustomed to. I will never fully accept these starless nights, part of me is always looking for light. The darkness is too full, too alive, too easy to lose myself in. Outside in the rain, I half-hopefully looked for Orion, there was only the blackness, like velvet, with no holes.

"There is nothing too small, I can still find its charm
and paint it in gold and quite big,
I hold it up high without even knowing
whose soul will be fed by it..."
~Rilke

Yesterday belonged to Paraskeva, the dark-eyed saint of women and the earth. In her icon she is often dressed in red with a scroll in one hand and a cross in the other. It seems fitting on her feastday, October 28th, to see her this way, guiding us, instructing in holiness, clean and sanctified; but on Paraskeva Griaznikha, Paraskeva the Dirty, I prefer my small icon of her holding a jar. On this day she is the household Paraskeva, working at a large spinning wheel, spinning out blessings, small helps to make daily tasks into blessings.

Paraskeva is still half-pagan in her role - a saint from a time when distinctions were less harsh, when Catholics knew as well as anyone that the world was alive with the magic of God. She silently helps in our unfinished tasks, punishes the indifferent, and guides us to our proper futures. She is the saint of anticipation, of autumn and of Lent; a saint at home in muddy days, fallen leaves, and the haunting rustles of dying trees agains the bright sky.

"I pray
to Mary Magdalene, who kept seven
demons,
one for each day of the week.
How practical; how womanly."
~Kathleen Norris

I love the icon of Mary Magdalene - hair past her feet and ragged as the Baptist's. She wears it wrapped around her, her only clothing - did she ever wash it after wiping Christ's feet? I think not. It is easy to see that she is one who might have kept seven demons - a woman who does nothing by halves.

I like to think of Mary Magdalene annointing the feet of Christ and wiping them down with her magnificent hair. She knows that there is nothing so restful as having one's feet cared for, and attention must be paid to the beauty of the Body of Christ.

I remember her and her abundant hair when I wash down at the stream, or when I haul water up along the path so I can sit on my doorstep and wash my own feet. Washing here can be a bit of a production. We are still in search of a cast-iron tub, and hope to have one before the cold weather sets in. When we do, heating the water will be easy enough, though hauling it will still be an exercise. Thankfully, early September is still warm enough to bathe at the stream; the lonely trees and tall grasses that surround our bathing spot are enough to remind us of the sanctity of washing - it's nearness to baptism. Mary Magdalene cleansed the feet of Christ, He in turn, cleansed her of each of her week-day demons. I imagine them leaving one-by-one, making each day so free as to to require a bit of the Holy Ghost to come, take up residence, and put her days to order.

"A recipe has so many different hands and minds in its history - I cannot recall who taught me what, and what parts I invented. That's the bounderyless pleasure of cooking; no one authorship. What counts is the final taste."
~Ketu H. Katrak

My old boss used to say that cooking was an art, but baking was a science, and she had never understood science. I thought, but never said, that she was being silly, and drawing distinctions where none existed. Both baking and cooking are arts, and like all arts, they take a good deal of natural aptitude, a good deal of dedication, and an eye for beauty. There are many who cook (and bake) well, but without the passion and artisty that would make their final product a work of art. That is the difference between a "competent cook" and a chef.

Food is an especially interesting form of art, because it is so living and so obviously essential for life. Recipes live and change with every person who puts a hand to them. I'm grateful to know that my pierogis taste like busha's, though I know I don't make them exactly as she did. I love forming them into little half moons and crimping the edges down, I love the feeling of connection with the generations before me and the opportunity to bring them to life in my meals. The beauty of that continuity; the beauty of the deeper link, between our little meals at home and the great Meal offered at Liturgy, as well as the beauty of the wholesome and lovingly craft of making good food, can raise up what we do around the kitchen to artistry.