Sunday Morning

Argentina criminals 'evade capture by dressing up as sheep' - Telegraph

Argentina criminals 'evade capture by dressing up as sheep' - Telegraph

Yet another thing to worry about down on the farm! The money quote from the article: They can't pull the wool over our eyes forever.

Still life: farm and baseball

Susan found the baseball near the barn. I don't know how it got there, maybe dropped by a passing robin as a harbinger of spring.

My Many Lives

I had one of the first Google mail (gmail) accounts. When Google bought blogger it offered them to us early adopters when it was still an invitation only beta. For reasons that are now obscure, when I set up the account I used john.bell@gmail.com as the address. Now, there are a lot of people on the planet named John Bell and a number of them have signed up for gmail accounts over the years. For reasons best known to Google, they have a unique way of handling e-mail addresses that closely resemble one another. I quote from Google help:

Sometimes you may receive a message sent to an address that looks like yours but has a different number or arrangement of periods. While we know it might be unnerving if you think someone else's mail is being routed to your account, don't worry: both of these addresses are yours.

Gmail doesn't recognize dots as characters within usernames, you can add or remove the dots from a Gmail address without changing the actual destination address; they'll all go to your inbox, and only yours. In short:
o homerjsimpson@gmail.com = hom.er.j.sim.ps.on@gmail.com
o homerjsimpson@gmail.com = HOMERJSIMPSON@gmail.com
o homerjsimpson@gmail.com = Homer.J.Simpson@gmail.com

All these addresses belong to the same person. You can see this if you try to sign in with your username, but adding or removing a dot from it. You'll still go to your account.

If you get mail that seems to be intended for someone else, it's likely that the sender entered the wrong address, just like if you've ever dialed a wrong phone number for someone. In these cases, we suggest contacting the original sender or website when possible to alert them to the mistake.

One last thing: Google Apps does recognize dots. If you'd like to have a dot in your username, please ask your domain administrator to add your preferred username as a nickname.

The upshot is that I get a whole lot of misdirected mail for other John Bells. It's like I have alternate lives. So far I have had glimpses into the world of the John Bell in the New York/New Jersey area, had package notifications for the California John Bell, been notified about the John Bell in London's indoor golf opportunities, gotten ministry updates for the Mormon John Bell and received e-mail ads from pubs intended for the John Bell in the north of England. I'm not sure if it's he or the London John Bell who vacations in Spain. Whichever one, I'm envious. I'm curious about the African John Bell, who also seems involved in some kind of church ministry. The latest addition is a Canadian John Bell who just got a cell phone. There seem to be a lot of me out there, and I am not even counting the "John Bell" who hacked my account last fall and e-mailed half the people in my sent mail folder with a plea to send money because he was trapped in Madrid and had lost his wallet. I briefly thought it was a legitimate but misdirected cry for help from one of the English John Bells, but it appears to have been just a common crook. My friends were suspicious, broke or both, so no money was forthcoming and eventually I convinced Google that I was indeed me and regained control of my online life.

New lamb

Here is a new lamb, born slightly out of season. Younger son has named her "April."

Thomas Sunday

Sheep, not being inclined to much reflection, are not great doubters. Here is sun, here is grass, there is water. Enough said.

We will be getting ready for our annual shearing marathon in the next few weeks. Here is a picture from last years clip with younger son doing the honors.

How the Light Gets In

This is one of those mornings where it feels like someone turned up the gravity. Much work, many bodily aches and pains and grief for my friends who are returning from the internment of their child. But still, it is a beautiful morning, and as the apostle says, His strength is made perfect in weakness. Or as a decidedly non-apostolic writer put it:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen - Anthem

Memory Eternal

A member of the St. George Orthodox Military Association stopped by and left a comment on my post about the funeral service Monday. I thought I would copy his words up here on the front page for those might miss it in the comments.

Thank you for your posting and sharing the information and details of the Orthodox Funeral for PFC. Winston James Miroy. I learned of the untimely passing of PFC. Miroy through an emailed story from the Fredericksburg news paper. The story saddened me greatly. It is always so sad to see someone lose their lives at such a young age.

Your posting touched me as you related the information about the funeral and how Orthodox funerals differ during bright week. There's an old Carpatho-Rusyn folklore that it is a blessing to die or be buried during Bright Week…that the soul of the departed enters heaven directly through the opened royal doors, which are kept open during this most joyful time in the Orthodox Church.

The passing of a loved one is always traumatic and causes so much grief to the surviving family and friends. However, being able to sing the Paschal troparion of "Christ is Risen..." really brings home the fact that we live in Christ, we die in Christ, and we are resurrected for eternal life through the Risen Christ.

Please pass along my condolences to PFC Miroy's family. He is in my personal prayers and the Saint George Orthodox Military Association will keep him in their prayers and will offer a Panikhida for his immortal soul on the 40th day. Memory Eternal, Memory Eternal, Pascha Eternal!

Lambs in the Snow

With temperatures near 80 it is hard to imagine that just a month ago we were all but snowed in. The lambs are bigger now and enjoying the green pastures.

 

Light and Sorrow

Last night I attended the funeral of Winston James Miroy, age twenty, the oldest son of good friends of mine. The service was held at my former parish in Northern Virginia. It was a bit different from the normal Orthodox funeral because it was held on the Monday after Pascha, (Easter Sunday for you in the West). In the week after Pascha all services are changed to celebrate the joy and hope of the resurrection. The usual service is beautiful in its own right, solemn, penitent and reflective. The service during this week has all of that, but also adds some of that hope, joy and fervor of the Paschal celebration. We wept together with his parents, friends and family, but also joined in the great shout of "Christ is Risen" and sang that He "is trampling down death by death and on those in the tomb bestowing life." The words did not deny our grief or diminish the feelings of loss for the absence of this good young man. They were not a denial of pain and loss, but a statement that the deepest truth is not exhausted by loss and grief, that, even in the midst of great sorrow there is still the possibility of hope and, someday, of joy.

Bright Monday; the view from home

 

There and Back Again

I started this blog on an Easter Sunday in March of 2002. After a few years of faithful posting I am afraid that updates have become sporadic at best. The last spasm of regular writing was back in October. I had actually been doing pretty well until I finally got around to getting some much delayed blood work and was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. The last five months have been spent making some major changes in the way I live, some of which are documented at mydiabetescentral.com where I have been writing a weekly column since January. For a while I thought about restarting this blog as "The Blood Sugar Diaries" but now that my health is starting to turn around I find that the things that interested me enough to blog about them here are interesting me again. If you read this blog in days past you might notice a template change. I'm afraid it is not as nice as the one I was using before. That one, despite looking better, had the major drawback of cutting off chunks of photographs I posted years ago using yet another template. I had been meaning to fix that for a while now. So, if anyone out there is still checking in, I'm back, so stay tuned for farm pictures, poetry snippets, bits of Orthodox prayers and liturgy plus the usual random thought about life, the universe and everything.

Christos Anesti! Christ is Risen!

The day of Resurrection; let us be radiant for the festival, and let us embrace one another. Let us say, brethren, even to those that hate us, ‘Let us forgive all things on the Resurrection’, and so let us cry, ‘Christ has risen from the dead: by death he has trampled on death, and to those in the graves given life’.

From Vespers for the Sunday of Pascha

New York: 1951Seven Poems

These poems by Charles Reznikoff particularly struck me this evening:
New York: 1951 Seven Poems

Here is the last of the series, go read them all:

VII
Te Deum

Not because of victories
I sing,
having none,
but for the common sunshine,
the breeze,
the largess of the spring.

Not for victory
but for the day's work done
as well as I was able;
not for a seat upon the dais
but at the common table.


Thanks to Bishop Seraphim for the links to the poems.

Driving at Night

I had an errand to run this evening so I set off down the six miles of (to steal a description from Tom Waits) "black anaconda of a two lane" that runs between our farm and the town limits. I have a love-hate relationship with this road. Just a week ago the poplars were losing their leaves to wind gusts and I drove to work through sun-lit golden spirals. The view of the mountain as I approach home is stunning. A winter snowfall can turn it into a story-book path through white arches. It has also tried to kill me several times with the aid of black ice, fallen branches or indecisive wildlife. Tonight it was raining, with cloud at the higher elevations and mist in the low spots. High beams just bounced back glare, so I drove to town with the low beams on, slower than usual, watching the leaves in Sunday's pictures drift down and stick wetly to the road. I only saw one deer. She stood half in the road looking at me while I braked, me holding my breath hoping the new tires held on the banana peel pavement, the deer visibly calculating the odds of making it across in front of car. I was not in the mood to play chicken, and fortunately, neither was she. The deer backed away and I headed on, my pulse rate up, my speed down.

A little Dada for Monday

Garfield Minus Garfield is a site dedicated to removing Garfield from the Garfield comic strips in order to reveal the existential angst of a certain young Mr. Jon Arbuckle. It is a journey deep into the mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness and depression in a quiet American suburb.

One More

 

More Fall Color

Tourists were backed up about a mile waiting to get onto Skyline Drive. This is what they were waiting for, looking up instead of down.

 

The View From Home

 

Click for a larger image.

More Poetry from Ancient China

Tonight's moon is a waxing crescent, and I am not on my sickbed. Nonetheless, the skies have been cloudy, my health could be better, and the sight of the moon earlier did bring a little cheer. Hence this poem, another translation from the Chinese by Jonathan Chaves:

RISING FROM MY SICKBED, I Saw the moon as the Sky Cleared
This was the night of the mid-autumn moon of the year i-ssu [1605]

Up from my sickbed, I meet the full moon-
the clouds open, a smile opens on my face.
The clouds depart with what's left of my depression;
the moon appears with the new good feelings.
Falling leaves are iced with clear dew,
new fragrance rises from the thick wine.
The gladness is still not deep in my heart,
but these are embers, ready to burst into flame.

Yuan Hung-tao, PILGRIM OF THE CLOUDS: Poems and Essays From Ming China

More Insect News

The unseasonable cold has retreated. This afternoon would have been summerlike except for a certain crispness in the air. Once the sun started falling the illusion of summer vanished. The crisp evenings still have ladybugs and asian stinkbugs dashing inside at every opening of a door. The ones who have made it inside make smaller and larger circles around the window glass. Today I saw a fly join them and thought of this poem before reaching for the swatter:

THE COLD FLY

I see a fly
warming himself on the windowsill,
rubbing his legs, enjoying the morning sun.
He seems to know when the light will shift:
a sudden buzz
and he's at another window.

From Heaven My Blanket, Earth My Pillow: Poems by Yang Wan-Li
Translated and Introduced by Jonathan Chaves

Afternoon view

Signs of Impending Winter

When I came home today I found the infallible sign that warm weather is over; hundreds of ladybugs crawling over the house looking for a way in. They were latecomers this year, having to compete for space with the Asian stinkbugs who have been staging their own invasion.

News that stays news

I don't comment much here about politics. It's not that I don't have opinions but rather, as a rule, there is not much new or helpful I have to offer on any given issue. It seems we cycle around the same set of mistakes year after year regardless of the party in power. This is an observation that goes back at least to Ecclesiastes. Here is one of my favorite restatements of it:

The Gods of the Copybook Headings
by Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936)

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wobbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return.

You can hear this read at Classic Poetry Aloud

Foretaste of Winter

Yes, that white stripe down Hogback Mountain is snow. Last night our steady rain on the farm turned to snow up on the higher ridges. Around here a little altitude can make quite a difference in your thermometer reading.

They grow up so soon

When I published my first post on this blog, the young man in the uniform was twelve. He is now twenty, a college student and part time soldier with the Virginia National Guard. The photo was taken this spring at Fort Benning at his graduation from basic training. It seems like just a day or two ago that his mother and I brought him home wrapped in small blankets. Enlisting was his idea. I am extremely proud of him, but I also find that I approach the prayers for peace in the Divine Liturgy with a previously unaccustomed fervency.

Blast From the Past

No, this is not a lightning strike. This is what happens when a small point and shoot digital camera and an unsteady hand meet the Browntown 4th of July fireworks display. This was not the picture I intended, but I kind of like the effect.

The March of the Pens

When I hung up my jacket this evening I found four pens in the inside pocket. I am not sure how four ended up there. Most days there are one or two, some days none at all. There seems to be a steady movement of writing implements from my desk to my jacket, to the top of my dresser and back again. I pick up what pens I see on the dresser in the morning, and take them out of the various pockets they have crept into when I change in the evening. At the end of some days, the pens in my pocket are not the pens that were there in the morning. Other days the pens are identifiable, but their numbers have changed, seemingly at random. Years ago I read a story in which it was discovered that odd socks, tangled coat hangers and abandoned bicycles were all different stages in the life cycle of a mimetic organism, possibly alien. I begin to wonder if I have become the transport system for another organism that adopts the disguise of a common writing implement to make its migration across the wastelands of modern life to feed, breed and eventually die, leaving pen shaped skeletons in the back of drawers and in the pockets of rarely worn overcoats.

Leavings

Amazon dropped the latest Wendell Berry's poetry collection, Leavings, on the doorstep last week.  It is vintage Berry; part polemic, part lyric, part pastoral with a few oddities thrown in.  I am still spending time with the poems, so no review today.  I do want to share the short poem that begins the collection.  So, bending fair use a bit, here it is:

LIKE SNOW

Suppose we did our work
like the snow, quietly, quietly,
leaving nothing out.

Stupid Sheep Tricks

No, I don't know what she was after in the wheel well. No, I don't know how she managed to get her head stuck. No, it was not easy getting her unstuck. Yes, she's fine.

Looking Towards Home

With the leaves turning I can look up the mountain and see the tourist traffic on Skyline Drive looking down on us. This summer Susan and I took our own trip on a free entrance day and took this picture of our home. Right now the green is mixed with yellow, orange and brown.

Back Again

Well, I did not set out to take a year long blog sabbatical. About this time last year I took a day off. A day became a week, a week became a month and the days, weeks and months just piled up. Not much has changed since then. We still raise sheep on the family farm. I still practice law in a small firm in a small town. I still worship at the local Greek Orthodox Church. The kids are taller, my hair is thinner and my knees creak a little more each morning. With the boys' schedules growing more complex as they grow older and an illness earlier this year sidelining Susan for months, the farm is showing the effects of a family labor shortage. In fact, I was tempted to rename the blog on this relaunch as "The Bad Shepherd Chronicles." No disasters so far, just a lot of small tasks left for later, much like this blog. Nonetheless, I am back and will resume a daily chronicle of life here in the Shenandoah Valley.

Bright Sunday Morning

Morning View, trees, mountain and cloud

Morning light with a few clouds

Tuesday Morning view from my library

Morning light and shadow, first hint of fall

Truck, tree, shed and barn

Abba Anthony 4

Abba Anthony said to Abba Poemen, "This is the great work of a man: always to take the blame for his own sins before God and to expect temptation to his last breath." This is a classic word from the Desert; no compromises, no illusions, no excuses. It is a very different word than we get from our culture. We have legions of experts ready to tell us that our faults are not in ourselves. We are victims of circumstance, bad genetics, poor parenting, bad government. It is not really that the experts are wrong. It is just that the work of the Christian is different. Let us take it for granted that we walked in in the middle of the story, that we stand, in the words of A. E. Houseman, "a stranger and afraid/In a world I never made." Recognizing all this, the Christian nonetheless insists that he is free, which is another way of saying that he is responsible. To place the blame for sins outside yourself is, ultimately, a way of diminishing your freedom. To accept blame is, paradoxically, the first great step to freedom. The last part of Abba Anthony's word, to expect temptation to the last breath, is the opposite of the message of almost every self-help guru and almost every book, CD, t-shirt, poster, or piece of jewelry marketed by the members of the Christian Booksellers Association. We want to buy easy answers and an end to struggle. Abba Anthony says that struggle itself can be the great work that, as free men, God has called us to. This is not a proposition with great marketing potential. It is nonetheless, as we will see in tomorrow's saying, the heart of the Desert message.

After the Break

I've taken a few days off from the blog, but will start regular postings again this evening with the next installment of Abba Anthony. In the meantime, here is a picture from a couple of winters ago; Susan bottle feeding a newborn down at the barn.

You Called?

From the Philokalia

In a comment on the last blog post "A.F." cites a few passages from St Peter of Damaskos included in volume three of the English translation of the Philokalia. I will move the last excerpt up here both because it cites St. Anthony and it captures my best intention for the series:

“…St. Antony says that every word or act ought to be supported by divine Scripture. It is in this spirit that I begin to write… I do not do this in order to teach others - God forbid! - but in order to reprove my unhappy soul, so that, shamed by my own words, as St. John Klimakos says, I who have done nothing but speak may begin to act.”

Abba Anthony 3

The first two sayings record Abba Anthony questioning his own life. With the third saying we see Abba Anthony taking the role of elder, giving a word in response to a question. Now if I were a true disciple seeking a word from an elder, I would listen, then spend a few years putting the word into practice and only after mastering the first advice would I dare come back for more. Being more of a dilettante than a real disciple, I will instead press on.

Abba Anthony is asked how one goes about pleasing God, what must one do, what rule to keep. Abba Anthony gives three precepts. The first says that whoever you are, always keep God before your eyes. Since we cannot see God, Anthony is not suggesting some kind of visualization exercise. He is commanding us to pay attention. In essence he is calling us to a kind of prayer, recollecting that no matter who we may be we are always standing before God. The second precept says that whatever you do, do it according to the testimony or witness of the scriptures. Even a "mystic" of the desert begins with the scriptures. Again, there is no secret knowledge just the same writings available to all Christians. The third precept advises that wherever you live, do not leave easily (or quickly). Abba Anthony is advising a virtue that will show up later in the monastic vow of stability. Underlying this is the view that you are where you are by the providence of God and have lessons to learn in the spot God has placed you. Of course we can put ourselves in bad places, but the principle remains the same. We cannot escape our problems by moving because we carry our problems with us. To put it in brief, live before God, live according to the scriptures, live where you are. As Abba Anthony concludes, do these things "and you will be saved."

Too Darn Hot

No update tonight. A long day at the office and an air conditioner that could not keep pace with the heat rising to my third story nook have left me with little to say and less energy to say it. With what few brain cells that were not steam cooked, I will contemplate further on Abba Anthony's third saying and report back tomorrow. In the meantime, here is a picture of the home place taken from the new winery.