Amazement.

Ruskin, Trees in a Lane, 1847

No air is sweet that is silent; it is only sweet when full of low currents of under sound—triplets of birds, and murmur and chirp of insects, and deep-toned words of men, and wayward trebles of childhood. As the art of life is learned, it will be found at last that all lovely things are also necessary:—the wild flower by the wayside, as well as the tended corn; and the wild birds and creatures of the forest, as well as the tended cattle; because man doth not live by bread only, but also by the desert manna; by every wondrous word and unknowable work of God. Happy, in that he knew them not, nor did his fathers know; and that round about him reaches yet into the infinite, the amazement of his existence.

Note, finally, that all effectual advancement towards this true felicity of the human race must be by individual, not public effort. Certain general measures may aid, certain revised laws guide, such advancement; but the measure and law which have first to be determined are those of each man's home. We continually hear it recommended by sagacious people to complaining neighbours (usually less well placed in the world than themselves), that they should "remain content in the station in which Providence has placed them." There are perhaps some circumstances of life in which Providence has no intention that people should be content. Nevertheless, the maxim is on the whole a good one; but it is peculiarly for home use. That your neighbour should, or should not, remain content with his position, is not your business; but it is very much your business to remain content with your own.

John Ruskin, from Unto This Last

Well.

Punch has words to live well by this time of year (gird your loins for the rest of the drivel) ...

Each swill of port should be chased with a nubbin of Stilton, by a mouthful of port, and so on, in an unending cycle of pleasure.

Mozart, String Quartet in B-Flat Major, K 458, “Hunt”

The Miró Quartet performs the Allegro vivace assai ...

Singing.

HOW the DAY BROKE

The night was very silent, and the moon was going down, 

  And the winds of dawn were chilling all the sea.

The full tide turned in silver o'er the ridge's length of brown, 

When a little muffled figure left the dim-seen, sleeping town

  By the white road that leadeth to the sea.

The night was very silent, and the tide was falling fast, 

  And the dawn was breaking dimly o'er the sea;

The early boats like shadows with their lanterns flitted past, 

And the little muffled figure by the sand-hills stayed at last,

  Where the waste land opens on the sea.

The night is well-nigh ended, and the moon has gone to rest

  And the winds of dawn are lashing all the sea.

But the weariness is over and the doubt is all confessed, 

And hope is re-arisen and the wrong is all redressed,

But the little muffled figure lays her head upon his breast 

  Who has waited for her coming by the sea.

The night is passed and done with, and the day is cold and white

  As the loosed winds riot o'er the sea,

But the woe is passed and done with as a shadow of the night, 

And the little muffled figure flitteth, singing, out of sight

  To the fishing-town that faces on the sea.

Rudyard Kipling

Something.

FIBBER

My birdwatching friends tell me, “You’re always seeing birds that don’t exist.” And I answer that my eye seems to change nearly everything it sees and is also drawn to making something out of nothing, a habit since childhood. I’m so unreliable no one asks me “what’s that?” knowing that a Sandhill crane in a remote field can become a yellow Volkswagen. The girl’s blue dress is easily the green I prefer in moments. Words themselves can adopt confusing colors which can become a burden while reading. You don’t have to become what you already are which is a relief. 

Today in Sierra Vista while carrying six plastic bags of groceries I fell down. Can that be a curb? What else? The ground rushed up and I looked at gravel inches away, a knee and hands leaking blood. 

Time and pain are abstractions you can’t see but you know when they’re with you, like a cold hard wind. It’s time to peel my heart off my sleeve. It sits there red and glistening like a pig’s heart on Grandpa’s farm in 1947 and I have to somehow get it back into my body.

Jim Harrison

Strauss II, Die Fledermaus

Caroline Podola performs Adele's laughing song, "Mein Herr Marquis" with the Zenska Orkiestra Salonowa, conducted by Grzegorz Mierzwinski ...

Jethro Tull, "Life's a Long Song"