The Second Day of Christmas . . .

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After all the butterflies for Christmas the other day, the breezes that be are blowing a few more your way, as the spirit of Christmas shouldn't be limited to a single day. Going back thousands of years, long before anyone had ever heard of a fellow named Christ, there were pagan feasts in the days after the 21st of December to celebrate the fact that the days were getting longer again. And that, imho, is an excellent reason to put on a big party. The feasting and partying at the start of winter got hijacked along the course of history by European culture for certain religious purposes, but I think it is good to remember that these post winter solstice celebrations go much farther back. So in that spirit, here are a couple more butterflies to bring you tidings of joy : The days are getting longer again !
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Baskets Full of Butterflies . . .

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I was trying to think of what I could get you all for Christmas
If I could get you anything, anything at all
And after a little reflection, it finally came to me
What better gift for bloggers than butterflies ?
Oodles of butterflies . . . bundles of butterflies
Baskets full and boxes and bags and wheelbarrows
All full of butterflies
Butterflies to let loose in your life
Bouncing on the breeze
Frolicking from one flower to the next
Fluttering freely in flight
Alighting where they will
Gracing purple blooms in your afternoons
For are we not all a bit like butterflies
Flapping from one blog to another
Resting a fleeting moment, then fleeing
Pollinating, cross pollinating
And off again to the fertile fields of daydreams . . .
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A Day For Quiet Contemplation . . .

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My job has been keeping me more than busy of late, and I regret not being out and about in the blogosphere more than I have been, but one must at times sleep, and at times relax. This past weekend I went for a walk in a local cemetery that I hadn't looked at closely in the past, simply to get out and breathe some fresh air and clear the head of cobwebs.
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In such places I find peace and quiet, and ample matter for consideration and reflection on the vicissitudes of life. One can learn about acceptance in cemeteries, acceptance of what is cruel and hard in the world, acceptance that we do not last forever, that there are some things that we can do absolutely nothing to change, and in accepting certain realities, one can perhaps better appreciate what we do have, and then make the most of it. And I love what graveyards reveal about history, about those who have gone before, who would otherwise lie forgotten, were it not for words carved on a stone, for a simple work of art created in memory of a departed soul. Even stones do not last forever, and as stones return to sand and dust, so do bones, so do bones.
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In this first, the sky and cross reflected on the surface of a glass globe serve to remind that James' Weekend Reflections is in progress.
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Daniel Camus passed on in 1920 at the age 7 years 7 months. After surviving the hardships of the war years, then the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1919 (which killed more people than the Great War did), his tombstone does not say what he died of. Angels Laid Him Away
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I couldn't help but think of Antoine de St Exupery who disappeared in 1944 over the Mediterranean off the south coast of France when I saw this sculpture on the tomb of Jean Pater, who died in 1940 at the age of 29. The graceful stone aircraft carving here reminded me of engravings of airplanes on several French postage stamps from the 1940s and '50s, images of which can be found, like most things these days, on the internet. A St Exupery memorial stamp was issued in 1948.
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A soldier from WWI...
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1927 to 1986...
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Marius Dufremelle died in the Argonne in July 1918. Just the name "Argonne" brought to mind immediately Robert William Service's poem The Man From Athabaska, which was beautifully set to music by Country Joe McDonald on his 1971 anti-war record. The stone here is slowly disintegrating, returning to sand. The verse in question says :
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"For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter
In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away;
And the partner on my right hand was an apache from Montmartre;
On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A.
(Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.)"
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Paul Plessier, 29 years old, killed at Douaumont on 28 April, 1916 (a fort which was the scene of fearsome fighting at Verdun)
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So young, so young to be killed for his country...
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Stained glass in disrepair...
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Sailing Away On a Pool in Paris . . .

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Do you remember how we used to look at the world when we were children ? The seemingly endless miracles and discoveries ? But how to keep that sense of wonder alive, as passing time and the endless stream of awful news from around the world strive to obliterate it ? Where corruption and greed seem infinite ? Is it still possible today to dream of a better world, where our remaining wildlife will not disappear, where humans could live peacefully without continual violence ? Where the dreams we dreamed as children could yet come true ? Where we could sail off on small boats toward a brighter future ? At a small round pool in the Tuilleries Gardens near the Louvre in Paris, the answer is Yes.
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And as there are some reflections in these last three pictures, this could then qualify for participation in James Weekend Reflections, where light bounces around in the most amazing manner, from all over the earth.
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Works of Art In the Strangest Places . . .

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As much as I love to wander in museums and wonder while pondering the profuse profundities of fine paintings and sculptures from over the centuries, I also love to wander out of doors and let chance play her mysterious role in revealing minor marvels and natural art, which spring into view unbidden and unexpected in surprising places. One just has to tune in to their frequency, and oscillate with them for a while. Here are just a few examples seen recently while out walking hither and thither. Hunting and gathering. Watching how time and weather transform most anything, from what it was, into something entirely other.
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