5-5-56 May Apples

clumps of may apples - their low-lying leaves shone & sparkled in the sun

dandelions, carpet of
fruit trees in opening bloom
a spring-blue sky
many young leaves on bush & tree were tinged with a reddish newness

10-12-55 Huston Smith

I want to remember here some things Huston Smith mentioned on his Hindu (?) program of the Religions of Man TV series. He said that the Yogas compare the restlessness of the mind of man - first with a monkey in a cage - but that is not quite restless enough - they add that it is like a drunk monkey in a cage and then must go still further & give this drunk monkey in a cage a case of St. Vitus' Dance - but this conception is still short of the mark and they achieve the desired comparison only when they say the mind of man is as restless as a drunk monkey in a cage with St. Vitus' Dance who has just been stung by a hornet! And he said, they strive to learn and do learn through their various body positions, to concentrate completely and absolutely on whatever idea they wish as long as they wish. Their minds will stick to an idea as a lump of dough thrown at a certain spot will stick until, and only until, they wish to remove it. What a treasure that talent would be!

10-12-55 The Back Doorstep

I sat outside just now on the back doorstep, wanting to gain some satifsaction (that's not quite the word - someday I'll put my finger on it) from this October nighttime - but I didn't stay long - the sky was sparkling clear and the air refreshingly cool, but the street noises, the lights & houses were all too close and I had no tree under which to sit, to look upward and through whose leaves to single out stars. There were only the hillside of house lights and the steepled church lit up by a pale blue glow - all like a Reporter cover and I could see straight ahead where 51 would curve around the red sky glow signifying the pouring of the glowing slag from its train of bucket cars.

August 28, 1955 - Home From The Farm

We came home from the farm today. I knew I'd miss it but I didn't know in what ways. I have missed it already in several ways - unconscious ways. I felt out of place on the parkway coming home - somehow as though I were being returned to some place I did not want to go - some place of confinement. We are happy here at 3349, but it is confining after what we have lived the past two weeks. And tonight as I sat quilting & watching the TV I hadn't missed, I felt myself resisting the idea of going to bed. At the farm I never resisted it, but here I did. I didn't, I don't want to close the day. Why, I asked myself. It seemed somehow connected with that idea of confinement. Here all there is, is the shelter of this house - four sides & a roof above. That doesn't seem like enough. I guess I was waiting for more - for something better to close the day. Out there, there was so much more than the walls & the roof & the space inbetween - there were fields behind and before - there were chickens to feed & look after - there was space all around & infinite space above - a whole, full sky above from horizon to horizon, from hill to hill, never dull - never ending - and there were the views of those horizons and those fields - full, satisfying views, staving my hunger & thirst for life & growth & progress & beauty & freshness & nature. There were an eternal number of things to notice & to absorb - to love and joy over - the somehow pathetic leaf plucked from the apple tree behind the house - already a mottled red & yellow - warm & beautiful in its premature autumn scheme - recalling all the sweet, sad remembrances of that best of all seasons; the comical resemblance of the small chick as it bent over to scratch, to a fat boy in knickers viewed from behind; the mother hen a perfect picture of the doting mother, large in bosom and of managing nature; the gladsome variety of wild flowers, some resting close to earth and others stretching tall above the earth - a multitude of colors & shades of colors, pink, lavender, deep king's purple, golden yellow & butter yellow, creamy white and periwinkle - some feathery, delicate - others bold & confident, making a richer bouquet than could be cultivated; the endlessly varied pageantry of the sky & clouds, never failing to rest me & supply me with hope and joy and peace. All these things and many, many more will be missed. And here I want to express my gratitude to God for all such things, true expressions of His qualities.

I guess I was satisfied to close the day on the farm because I knew the things that made the farm & all the countryside important & valuable to me, would be there tomorrow, if not the same as they were today, then different, more interesting, more developed, but still in all unchanged - while here I'm not so sure about tomorrow - the things I must deal with are of lesser value, of more temporal nature & not nearly as satisfying. The farm things gave me more fulfillment during each day & when night fell & was met, it was enough & bed was welcome - but, perhaps in the city there is no fulfillment, at least for me.

Barn Drawing - Circa 1955

8-18-55 'Til Now

Today has been cloudy & I've been inside 'til now, reading, playing the piano, and cleaning. Didn't hear that strange bird last night - wish I knew what made the call. The sunset last evening was lovely - layers of pink, peach, orange & even smoky green clouds smeared across the whole of the sky - I watched while the sun sank & took its gaudy scarves with it - the color, drained from those clouds leaving them grey & drab like the colored flavoring I suck from a popsicle leaves the tasteless ice behind.

Yesterday I walked up the hill behind the barn up to the row of hawthorne (?) trees & sat & watched the panorama that was opened to my eyes - I could see hills overlapping hills & distant farms & fields all diminished by the tremendous reach of sky above - it was a joyous sky, exciting & activating - it appeared that the different layers of trembling clouds were sailing in different directions but I think just the lower strata was moving swiftly, appearing to make the upper static layer move in the opposite direction.

There was a hawk flying above the trees opposite & I watched her - she barely moved her wings during the whole time I watched her flight - she soared in a spiral - banking around & then over & up higher, around again & again, catching, I guess, and using to advantage each updraft of air - I can hardly describe the joyous freedom & complete effortlessness with which she rose higher & higher 'til I scarce could keep my eye on her - over, around & ever upward with never so much as a flutter of her wings. I envy that hawk & it reminds me of Bob's and my secret promise - to learn to fly soon.

I'm getting so to like the chickens here - I never knew any so well before. They are certainly social - almost to a bird they grub or rest together - I like to watch them look for food - they're sharp eyed & seldom miss an insect their beady eye spies - their large feet mince forward, all eyes alert for aught that moves - their head bobbing at a great rate - the layers of feathers down to the base of thin neck sliding forward with each bob - there's one now having a try for the buttons on the knees of my kneepants - I like the soft, fluffy mess of feathers about their legs & hindparts like feather boas - they come down to their knees like ruffly pantaloons - when they crowd around my hand as I sprinkle the feed in the trough I can feel they are warm & cushiony - soft & smooth - they rest from their labors & the heat of the day under the peony bushes or lilac bush, all puffed out & round - there's an old hen in the barn yard whose red comb is so large as to flap over one side of her head, comically looking like a sunbonnet or rakish cap.

8-17-55 Not a Cat's Meow

I heard the strangest sound last night. We were reading in the living room while the radio played softly & pleasantly. All at once I heard or thought I heard a sound over & beyond the music - I listened intently, trying to separate the sound & identify it - from where I sat, it sounded like it might be the small white & black cat that stayed around the barn, like the small, plaintive cry of a lonely cat but when I went on to the screened porch I heard it distinctly & it was not a cat's meow - it was a sad, mournful & eerie cry - I motioned to Bob to come & hear for himself - it could only be the call of some bird, completely foreign & fascinating to my ears - it reminded me of what I had read of the call & habits of the poor-me-one bird of Columbia, Panama and tropical America - it had the same sound of some desolate human being, crying out in sorrow & anguish - was the same type of call - a series of notes, six or so, starting high and falling with each note - it gave me the strangest sensation, not a little uncomfortable-

would that I knew someone who knew about such things & with whom I could discuss such experiences & who could teach me & tell me the things I'm so interested in knowing.