It’s distracting, everything’s changing wherever I look; an electric blue patch of squill nearly makes me crash, and all the twigs are, suddenly, beaded with leaf buds, while the yellowness of the willows is brightening hourly. I park so I can watch, I jump out of the car and dance along, I’m beaming like a lunatic, and really, you’d think I’d be used to it by now, I’ve seen it happening over fifty times in many different places; I should know that as soon as these words are written, they’ll be old; the leaf buds will be emerald. You’d think I’d give up trying to catch the delicate insinuation of the air, which can’t be caught; the words collapse, they tumble and mesh together breezily interlaced in a tangle of green, the yellow caravel entirely madrigal, and every jonquil ravishment squeezed fresh.
Behind us, the channel half-clogged by bullhead lilies slips back into the smoke of yellow tamaracks clouding the shore and we glide on the silk of a dream so deep, herring break the surface from eighty feet below.
I am this hand skimming the water. I am these eyes dazzled by light.
I am you whom I loved before the seas were parted.
I ordered Garrison Keillor’s Life among the Lutherans as soon as I heard about it. Who could resist a title like that? Besides, in a way, it is a description of my life. Lutherans consistently have been important in my life.
Set in rural Louisiana, Udayan Prasad’s tender, affecting road picture The Yellow Handkerchief combines a coming-of-age narrative with the tale of a man driven to seek the salvation he believes he no longer deserves.
It was the holy part of the day, my loved ones asleep in other countries, me with no duties and rooms full of quiet. I ate my dark bread with brie and jam, pressed out two cups of dark coffee. And that must be the sun, skulking like a grown-up boy who knows it’s been too long since he visited his mother. He has no excuse but all is forgiven, she will open the curtains, haul up the shades, crack the windows though it’s far too cold for that. We will ring all the bells in the quiet church across the street, unscrew the doors from the jambs, dismantle all the borders, forgive the Russians whether they like it or not. And mercy will pour down like sunshine in the grand photographs in the vast inscrutable book I bought for ten euros at the bookstore downtown, a store full of books translated out of the language I know so that I could read only the authors’ names. Truth must be personal, said Kierkegaard, home from another of his long, brooding walks. And yet not merely private. You shall love the neighbor, he insisted. Outside my window the church is solid and pale, three stories and a squat round tower, in the tower three narrow windows that reveal nothing. Winter sun warms the green roof, but the entrance is still in shadow.
Ten refugees have been selected to compete in the Summer Olympics in Brazil this year. Five of them are runners from South Sudan who have been living in Kakuma, a refugee camp in Kenya. The Sudanese will be joined by two Congolese judo fighters, two Syrian swimmers, and an Ethiopian marathoner. Anjelina Nadai, one of the Sudanese runners, said she first started running while tending her family’s cows. She discovered she could get to the cows in half the time by running instead of walking. These athletes will compete under the Olympic flag, not that of any nation. If any of them should win a medal, the Olympic theme song will be played (The Christian Science Monitor, June 3).