“Brushing the clouds away from my eyes, I see clarity in the raindrop and beauty in the first ray of morning sun…
Life is strange and wondrous…”
“It’s like living in a light bulb, with the leaves
Like filaments and the sky a shell of thin, transparent glass
Enclosing the late heaven of a summer day, a canopy
Of incandescent blue above the dappled sunlight golden on the grass.”
From John Koethe’s ‘Sally’s Hair’.
Breakfast under the Hawthorn tree is such a summery pleasure, birds singing in the trees all around us, what a beautiful start to the day.
Today I was inspired by the shadows of some trees along the road to town, what I saw reminded me of some of the impressionist painters like Claude Monet, Alfred Sisley, Paul Cezanne, and others, also more modern painters like Marc Hanson or Terri Ford. I have always loved the way these guys painted the shadows under the trees, and indeed I love walking under trees during sunny weather for the same reason, the sun playing among the leaves, the shadows in all shades of grey, the dappled sunlight interesting and playful. The shade under the trees giving perhaps cooling to an overheated brain.
How I wish I could paint these shadows, and that light.
The garden’s trees as seen through a rain drenched window today. And a watery sunshine illuminating the rain and storm clouds in the early evening sky.
The Rainy Day by Rabindranath Tagore
Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their dragged wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river
is haunted by a deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, ties at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes
as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain-water is
running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who
has run away from his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly rushing rain; the
water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.
I I never particularly loved Tulips when I was younger, but lately I’ve grown very found of them, and last year I grew some, and was also given some bunches of them which brought me much delight. As they were sitting in their vase on the table, after a day or two their flower heads would open and come hanging down very gracefully, almost reaching the table cloth, a beautiful sight. This year also I will be looking forward to have some in the house. Growing them is quite easy but I still have trouble storing and keeping the bulbs from going mouldy or rotting on me during the winter. The shops here are full of them any season of the year but especially coming up now in another while. It is said that flowers feed the soul, and I have no difficulty in believing this. The delight they give is surely wonderful.