“Hermis at a Wedding”, Sappho

There a bowl of ambrosia

was mixed, and Hermis

took the jug and poured wine for the gods

and then they all

held out cups and poured

libations and prayed for all blessings

for the groom.


“Of a Young Lover,” Sappho (fragment)

When I was young I wove garlands


“Songs” Sappho

to the Groom:

What are you like, lovely bridegroom? / You are most like a slender sapling.

for the Bride:

O bridegroom, there is no other woman now / like her


“Song to Groom and Bride”, Sappho

It is common these days to speak of your “partner” or your “significant other.”  Very practical.  I wonder, though, if we haven’t traded bliss for the quotidian, and lost much in the exchange.

Isn’t the essence of love to melt and merge, to reach bliss, even an enduring and seasoned bliss, where “other” is lost?  To be sure, balance requires the distinction of two, while endurance demands the solidity of one.  It is love, pure and simple, that soaring arrow, aimed high, which arches gracefully toward the apex.

When did we let go of a “love affair?”  How have we lost use of that glorious phrase?  Let us travel that path now, and let Sappho be our guide.  Over the next few blogs, we will listen to her songs, beginning here with “Song to the Groom and Bride.”

Happy groom,

your marriage you prayed for

has happened.

You have the virgin bride

of your prayer.

You the bride

are a form of grace,

your eyes honey.

Desire rains on your exquisite face.

Afroditi has honored you exceedingly.


Bringing a Moose to Bear Mountain

Recently I had the great pleasure of working with Johnston Foster, hanging his Moosehead Trophy sculpture on a mantle on Bear Mountain Road in Carrabassett Valley, Maine.

Johnston is immensely talented.  His sculptures are made of detritus gathered along highways and back alleys, then transformed into powerful images.  This piece measures 4′ high x 6′ wide.  It was quite a challenge to hang that piece, but we figured it out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


“Habitation,” Margaret Atwood

Marriage is not

a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

the edge of the forest, the edge

of the desert

the unpainted stairs

at the back where we squat

outside, eating popcorn

the edge of the receding glacier

where painfully and with wonder

at having survived even

this far

we are learning to make fire


A Cathedral of Trees

In the State of Maine, I am now a Notary Public and authorized to wed beloveds.  Notaries are also authorized in Florida and South Carolina, and the latter caught my eye, for an anecdote once I heard.

A man from the low country told me that in South Carolina, when two beloveds stand beneath a Live Oak tree and give voice to their shared love, then that tree is their witness.  They are legally wed.

I cannot vouch that law stands, but I can vouch that Quercus virginiana – the southern Live Oak, known to live more than 1,000 years, with a trunk circumference of 40 feet or more, and a crown spread of 90 feet or more – has a powerful draw to couples seeking to give voice to their vows.

The fact is, our blog of June 16, 2011 “Thomas Berry and the Tree of Life” wrote about marriage beneath the live oak tree – that would be my elopement with Becca in August 2004 – and that blog has received the highest number of hits on our Art Farm.  Couples have pulled quotations from our text and shown links to our ceremony under the Tree of Life, in Audubon Park in New Orleans. Couples are drawn to that spot, and our experience stands as a marker now along their path.

To be sure, the draw is that tree, more than my prose, and that power is undeniable.  To the ancient Greeks, the oak tree was the domain of Zeus, a lightning god and their principal deity.  Its rustling leaves, the voice of Zeus.

But more than just elemental power, the oak provides habitat for hundreds of insects and invertebrates, not to mention birds and animals.  It is no wonder that the Gauls and Romans associated the tree with the god of agriculture and healing.  Healing, perhaps, drew me to the tree.

In Northern New England, Pine trees abound and in Breton legend, that was the tree Merlin climbed, had a revelation and never returned to mortal life; in this sacred tree the soul of Merlin awaits his return.  A tree of vitality and continuity, the Pine symbolizes the life force, death and resurrection.

Maine is the Pine Tree state.  In colonial days, all Pine trees of a certain girth belonged, by fiat, to the King of England, as masts for the ships of His Majesty’s Navy.  But before the English arrived the Indigenous Americans were calling trees, all trees, “our standing brothers,” the quiet center of being.

And if you look around you start to notice that in the ancient wisdom trees were at the center of many traditions: the Tree of Life; the Tree of Knowledge; the “Assembly Tree of the Gods”; the axis mundi of the cosmos; in pre-hieroglyphic script of Egypt, the word for “giving birth” is derived directly from the word for tree.  The Tree it seems is the great mother of creation.

They are the yeomen of the oxygen factory but photosynthesis is only one small aspect of their abundance.  They gift to us food, clothing and shelter and have informed the architecture of our great spaces.  Both Egyptian and Greek temples had columns originally made of trees, later stylized in stone, and from those buildings columns came to adorn places of worship, including banks and government buildings.

It has been argued that the arches and vaults of Gothic cathedrals represent the interlacing branches of trees; the path down the nave becoming a symbolic path among “our standing brothers.”  Chartres Cathedral, it has been claimed, was built upon the site of a grove sacred to the Druids.

It is hard to fathom how vast the symbolism may be, and yet easy to understand why lovers are ever drawn, nestled safely among the trees, to give voice to their love.


“La Vita Nuova”

This excerpt, from one of Dante’s lesser known works, captures the essence of meeting your beloved for the first time:

In that book which is

My memory…

On the first page

That is the chapter when

I first met you

Appear the words…

Here begins a new life.


a tree-mendous fort

A couple years ago, at my day job, we built a tree fort.  A furnituremaker helped, and the joinery made this something special; we cantilevered two platforms within an apple tree and it was quite beautiful, wrapped in blossoms during the spring flowering, hidden by leaves throughout the summer, ripe red fruit easily grabbed come autumn.

Something told me not to anchor the fort into the apple tree, and that premonition proved true a year later – last year – when we were told to move the fort to a different location.  Down came the pieces (and the tree remains pristine) and the platforms were reassembled, this time surrounded by Austrian Pine trees.  We added a crow’s nest, tucked high back among the pines.

But even that was not quite right.  As children love a spot to hide in, we wanted to add a roof, and enclose the second level.  Dimensioned lumber – your basic 4x4s or 2x4s – would not be right so off we went into the woods looking for beech and birch trees, to limb and cut down and use for the ridgepole, rafters and beams.  We “beavered” the rafters and notched the cross beams.  We used some pine boards for the walls and roof.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Nice,” we were told, but “how about some old barn boards?  And maybe some lobster rope to wrap some of the boards, and maybe a control panel, and maybe some driftwood, and…we need to trick this out.”

Given those marching orders, off we set looking for old barn wood.  I put out a call to the network of Maine woodworkers, and found a woman whose husband dismantled a barn and has stored the wood in the loft of another barn on their farm.  She wrote, “About 35 years ago, we tore down a barn in Auburn and put the wood in the loft of our barn.  It has quite a few antique nails.  I’d love to find a good home for this wood, but I don’t know if this is what [you’re] looking for.  It is the siding of the barn, what was under the clapboard, and the wood is all different lengths much of it short.  It is not “finished” in any way – may be too rough… but I’d be happy to have you take a look.”

Maybe not the wide beams used in fancy floors, but for a tree fort, with an ocean view…this may just be right.  Soon I will be driving north in search of those special boards to add just the touch.  In the meantime, the fort sure is a nice place from which to watch the lobster boats crossing the Saco Bay homeward with their day’s catch.  As E said, as she tested out the fort, “Daddy, two thumbs up!”


“The Owl and the Pussy-cat” by Edward Lear

Recently, while reading this to little E, she asked me, “Daddy, will you be the Turkey?” Why, yes, indeed, and this classic surely belongs in our summer’s reading list of love.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat