Wednesday, October 31, 2012

To Renew (step 2): Binding Up Lost Pages


It's like a juggling act.  Now to this add this:

  1. 1000 words a day
  2. sentence practice
  3. daily diagram
  4. photo books (digitize, back up, price out)
  5. read La biblioteca de Babel in Spanish
  6. memorize Donne's "Meditation XVII"
  7. write & deliver notes of thanks
the texts: "Meditation XVII" by John Donne, La biblioteca de Babel by Jorge Luis Borges, The Unimaginable Mathematics of Borges' Library of Babel by William Goldbloom Bloch, How to Write a Sentence: and how to read one by Stanley Fish

Friday, October 26, 2012

bellwether

I have the unenviable happiness of having voted for every winning president since I first began to vote.  No, even before that.  Since I was first aware of presidents, I have chosen the winners.  If that's what you can call that gallery of successful candidates to the American presidency.  I don't know what this says about me politically.  That I am tuned into the wider national vibe?  That I can whiff out the scent of rising power?

Maybe I am just the bellwether"indistinguishable from the rest of the flock, only a little greedier, a little faster, a little hungrier, a little ahead of the flock."   Or as Kirkus Reviews puts it, "while seeming totally incompetent, unknowingly acts as a human bellwether, causing fads and trends to crystallize around her as she lurches chaotically through life."

I like to think I weigh my decision carefully, as if the fate of the nation waited on my choice.  I like to think I look beyond party lines, look beyond putting someone just like me in office. (I wouldn't want someone just like me in office.  Too much would never get done.)  I like to think all my reading of the news, watching the economy, watching different economies, keeping abreast of local and world events helps me to focus not on one or two pet political projects but on what our country widely needs for these particular next four years.

Sometimes though, my choice is just disgust at one incumbent I can't respect only to vote in another candidate I can't admire and when I vow next time to vote for anybody else but the best the other party can come up with is John Kerry.

But the president, every year of my adult life, has always been my president because I have voted for him.  His stupidities a personal shame to me, his abuses of office a personal affront. Occasionally, his sparks of wit or prudence, my personal satisfaction or glee. But always, I have felt, that the president has been my president, the best of a bad choice maybe, but the choice I made as a voice in America. 

About one candidate's response in the recent presidential debates, a friend said,
Except, MJ, he kept going on and on and it became more obvious that it was an over-thought answer and not one that came naturally. He was digging an ever deeper hole. Especially when he said that he needed to be flexible fore a women who needed to get back home because she wanted to be home to make dinner for her family (maybe she did, but it would have been better to say she wanted to get back to *spend* dinnertime with family) . . .
I can't disagree.  So much about this election, as so many elections, makes me sad. 

But a choice must be made.  This month I've been trying to retrain myself to a more natural rhythm of work and sleep.  To sleep when it is night, to attend the sunsets, I have had to give up some goings, I have had to stop -- midstream -- some doings.  Important doings and goings.  But I only have so many hours and if I keep pushing into the night, into the red in October, I have learned I pay in February with my annual bout of pneumonia.  Something in me has learned this month to acknowledge that everything takes time, takes resource, though we live in a society that is blind to the time-cost for most of our daily needs.  Cooking -- what a fun thing to do on a lazy Sunday afternoon.  Growing a vegetable garden -- what a great hobby!  We are all far too blind to the work someone somewhere is putting in to get food into our family's bellies. 

I do wish we had a candidate who assumed everyone, male and female, needed to get home to make dinner.  But it isn't offending me, as it seems to be so many other Americans, to hear someone publicly assign value to the actual making of dinner, the labor, the work, the prior preparation, the sacrifice of time and other forms of ambition.  There is something in me that resonates more with the straightforward utility of "be home to make dinner for her family," than with the politically correct warm fuzzies of "spending dinnertime together."

There are other reasons to vote for or against our two present candidates.

To my eye, they are both intelligent and talented.  Both more willing to put themselves on the line trying to get solutions into our nation's problems than most of us have shown ourselves.

This is the year I think I may break my string of successful picks.  But I've decided the president will still be my president.  Still accountable to me and my vote, still worthy of my not uncritical support.

Go vote.  Be a voice for America. 

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

why it doesn't matter if i keep singing after everyone has left the room


I am the white-haired woman, Chinese and unconcerned, in dawn-colored silk running suit.  She moves slow and self-contained through her poses in the park. It's autumn and the leaves come trailing down in golden spirals.  Flurry of pigeons just beyond like sudden insight, flights of fancy.  She moves to invisible music. People walk by, in dark clothes and bundled against their own frosty breath.  She is still there a long time after. 

I tell myself this.


Or maybe, probably, I'm not so graceful as that.  Nothing flows.  Maybe instead I'm the driver of the red convertible I saw once from far behind on one of the last sunny days of October.  The driver was holding something up, shaking it.  Shaking it and shaking it. Trying to shake a map open?  But it would not shake open.  I got closer and could see it wasn't a map.  It was white. It was a bird?  A puppet of a bird?   Some elaborate way of flipping other drivers off?  The driver was a heavyset, middle-aged woman.  On her raised hand a real live bird.  A cockatiel?  Her helmet hair softened by the wind.  She wore white eyelet, short-sleeves, unashamed of her soft freckled arms. Dimples on her elbow.  She held easily a white bird testing its wings in the bright wind of the road, held it up next to her in her open red convertible.  The license plate said BLISS.  And she was smiling into the sunlight and never noticed me passing her.

This really happened.


Saturday, October 20, 2012

sunset, sunrise . . . October


I have been younger in October         
than in all the months of spring, says W.S. Merwin.


Why does it feel so  right to begin my blogal  year in  October?  I was born the first day of the first month, first child, first grandchild, first day of the week . . . maybe it was already too much priority to maintain without a  running start.


Or maybe October is just a good month for beginning things.


YoungSon and I are bumping along together in a yellow school bus, side by side.  I'm wearing his extra sweatshirt under my wooly hoodie and we're sitting close to keep warm.  It's a chilly morning.  October's bright sunshine shines on our faces through the passing leaves.  We're on our way to a young forest, growing up out of new volcanic soil over the old forest that once grew there.  Young, new . . .  meaning in this case more than 1900 years old.

YoungSon, who is now suddenly my older son, but who doesn't want his handle here changed.  He is still my young son.  He will always be my young son.  What I will call his adopted brother here in these pages hasn't come to me yet.  I'm waiting for a name to come.  It will be the only name I give him, my younger son.  My younger son who has come to me already named -- as perhaps all children come if we were paying closer attention.

What do we put on them with the names we put on our children?



How do we change what we see by the way we count it?

I grew up loving calendars.   Especially calendars that showed the phases of the moon and all the unfamiliar holidays.  Unfamiliar  . . . meaning celebrations my family didn't celebrate.  Mysterious holidays, possibly as magical and delicious as Christmas or Halloween or Easter and Thanksgiving.

What was Sweetest Day? Yom Kippur?  Candlemas?  And so many different New Year's Days.  At first it was disconcerting to discover it was not, as I had first supposed, that everyone in the world celebrated how the world began with my birthday on the first of January.  Rosh Hashanah in September, Nowruz in the Spring, Chinese New Year in February.  Or Hijri, the Islamic New Year swimming from month to month like a moon-bellied fish, showing up in a different month each year.

That our own ninth month was called Sept and our tenth month was called Oct warned me that things had been different even in my own stream of tradition before I was born.



You understand, these are not just arbitrary beginning points for any culture. How deeply delightful to discover that people who begin their year at the winter's solstice, will also begin reckoning their day at the turn of midnight. But if the year begins for them with spring, then day begins with dawn.  Or if autumn begins their year, sunset is when they'll begin to count the start of a new day.  I love this.  The consistency of vision, perhaps, is what I'm responding to.  The cadence of sense and evidence of story made.

The backstory to our own Northern European calendar then:  the icy stars of the Viking creation story, a world made out of endless frozen cold. Of course it would begin in January.  At midnight.

Or  the more temperate innocence of beginning everything in a garden. In a childlike and Edenic spring. At dawn. Like waking up to your own birthday party, balloons and streamers everywhere and the smell of cake already.

But to begin in the fall?  To begin with a Fall.  The oldest historical record I had as a child showed a hybrid sense of time.  Biblical months are counted with an Edenic spring accounting -- the first month of the Bible is around the vernal equinox, the time of the Passover, the release from the bondage of Egypt and winter.  But the New Year, the head of the year, comes nearly a half-turn of the sun later, near the autumn.  And the day shows the same two-headedness:  the hours of the day are counted from dawn, but the new day begins with sunset.  Evidence of two cultures combined, lapping one over the other?

Or evidence of revision?


Today YoungSon and I are just two of a jostling body of students come to see the ancient new forest growing over the even older, more ancient forest beneath it that was buried in a volcano blast.  The young and fresh-faced forest ranger, her long red hair the color of October leaves, points out the moss covering the forest floor.  This is a sign of a young forest, the moss loving the acidity of the basalt which is what lava hardens into.  The moss breaking the basalt into softer soil for the grasses and forbs that will come after.

We walk along a boardwalk to avoid walking on the fragile new forest that has been growing here before our state was here -- long years for us, short years for the forest.  We walk along a boardwalk also to avoid the sudden pits.  Round and deep.  Drillings.  Troll's foxholes.  "What are all these holes?"  one boy, faint mustache already shadowing his young lip, asks what we've all been wondering.

"Ah!" she says, our ranger, delighted.

The holes are the old forest.  The immense boles of ancient trees, caught in the livid bath of lava, burned to charcoal and disappearing into ash as the lava itself cools against the disappearing burnt-away bark.

With the other adventurous members of his class,YoungSon and I climb down a ladder into one deep pit, the negative space of a pillar that was once a tree.  At the bottom, we turn and then crawl hands-and-knees inside a tunnel, the casting of another long-gone trunk once fallen onto that long-covered forest floor.  Some kind of canal, a hollow vein through solid rock.

Above us is seven, eight feet of solid basalt.  This tunnel that was once the heartwood of a tree is narrow enough and long enough and dark enough, I have to remind myself to breathe. Crawling with my shoulders brushing either side, crouching as I crawl to avoid the curving rock above me.   I have to remind myself that many many other people have passed through and come out the other side. The roughness of the bark impressed itself into sharp and icy basalt, a roughness that doesn't give as wood would but cuts the palms of my hands until they sting.


Coming out the other side, seeing the leaves, I am thinking only how glad I am to have made it through without embarrassing myself.  No screams, no panicked thrashing.  How nice the light is.  How cold my hands are.  How hard and unrelenting the stone.  How heavy it felt above me.  How light the air and wide.

Only later on the bus home, I find myself trying to remember a haiku I once knew . . . something about the midwife's hand, something about the maple leaf.

It is fall in a fallen world and it seems to me a hopeful thing to begin the year at the winding down of autumn. What confidence to take for granted the turning of the sun. Moving into a new year trusting on that turning.


I consider life after life as treasures, says Merwin in another place,
oh it is the autumn light                 

that brings everything back in one hand
the light again of beginnings





Friday, October 12, 2012

Itinerary: this year's course



I'm good at planning travel itineraries. 

People ask me to do it for them,  staging a narrative for them to play out in real time.  Though there's nothing difficult about it -- just grouping stuff together that needs to happen together, in the order that's going to make the most sense and result in the fewest emotional breakdowns.  This isn't a skill or a gift.  Though my daughters have listed it among my particular virtues.  Maybe other people just have better things to do than bothering with all the searches and communications and small considerations for lodgings and meals and transportation.

But I like it.  I like all of it.  I feel I'm stealing half their pleasure.  So much of my enjoyment in travel comes beforehand in the planning:  surveying possible futures, making selections, schedules,setting up the rhythm of running and rest, the alternation from ridiculous to sublime that my psyche, anyway, needs in order to keep its beat.

It's not just my enjoyment beforehand.  So much of my enjoyment traveling in actu, in media res, in extremis, and even in memoriam comes from the successful playing out, or revelatory interruptions of my wonderful plans.

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LONG RIDES | imaginary bicycle.wordpress.com


The pleasure of shaping travel plans is like the kind of pleasure I get jotting down syllabi for Courses I Will Never Teach.  For example, Home, House & the Poetics of Space:  
Housekeeping by Marilynne Robison 
Colcorton by Edith Pope
Howard's End by E.M. Forster
The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard
A Pattern Language: towns, buildings, construction by Christopher Alexander
plus extracts from
Home Comforts: the Art & Science of Keeping House by Cheryl Mendelson
The Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder
Shirley by Charlotte Bronte
Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier
Wise Child by Monica Furlong
 also poems:
"Housewife" by Sylvia Plath
various Emily Dickinson
"Lord: it is time" by Rilke
 "An Old Woman of the Road" by Yeats
also picture books:   
"A House is the House for Me"
 several by Margaret Wise Brown . . . 


I don't know when I'll ever teach that class and hear the fabulous discussions that would arise. But meantime I get a secret pleasure from planning journeys no one ever takes. Like going to Budapest -- the cakes I would eat, the ancient baths, the buildings, the bridge walks, the towers I would sleep in.  Or impossible biking trips from Maine to Virginia with stop-offs at  historic inns. Or a hiking tour of Northern California.  Or walking the Ancient Ridgeway, that prehistoric drover's path along the spine of England -- the farms I'd set up tent, the cozy inns, the wildflowers and butterflies I'd see along the way.

But recently I've been thinking I need a syllabus to live through.  Or maybe I mean an itinerary.  There's somewhere I want to go.  I'm not sure exactly where I'm going to end up but I'm calling my destination Renewal.  And to keep my magpie mind from flapping after any glittery thing I've decided I need a touchstone text for each month

So here is my Renewable Resource Reading List for the fifth year of my ride here, the itinerary for this year's course:

Getting to Renewal 
  • (oct) Keeping Time - The Sabbath World: glimpses into a different order of time by Judith Shulevitz  (incredibly intelligent and witty and heartfelt survey of the history and meaning and inner architecture to keeping/not-quite-keeping Sabbath)
  • (nov) Binding up Loose Pages  - "Meditation XVII" by John Donne and "The Library of Babel" by Jorge Luis Borges (two short pieces I've loved since high school:  Elizabethan poet and preacher thinking about "No man is an island" and Argentine poet and essayist's fantastic short story about infinity)
  • (dec) Learning to Dance  - The Dancing Bear by Peter Dickinson (wonderful children's book about the fall of Byzantium -- oh, and courage and compassion, too)
  • (jan) Living in a Nutshell  - Showings by Julian of Norwich (medieval mystic's visions - the measured calm of her perspective, the exquisite detail of her vision, the compassion of her view, the clarity of her intellect, the nurture of her understanding of God )
  • (feb) Allowing Love - Gilead by Marilynne Robison, Captain Corelli's Mandolin by Louis de Berniere, and Gate of Angels by Penelope Fitzgerald (lush and lovely novels)
  • (mar) Growing a Garden - Gardening and Beyond by Florence Bellis (Oregonian coast gardening classic)
  • (apr) Being a Bridge - People on a Bridge by Wislawa Szymborska  (sly, clear and very dear Polish poet)
  • (may) Flourishing of the Physical Body - American Primitive by Mary Oliver and The Wild Iris by Louise Gluck (two American poets writing with powerful simplicity)
  • (jun) Honoring the Grandmothers - A New England Town: the first hundred years, Dedham, Massachusetts by Kenneth A. Lockridge and The Perfect Heresy: the revolutionary life and death of the medieval Cathars by Sean O'Shea (eminently readable histories of utopias some ancestors of mine lived in)
  • (july) Open House - The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard and A Pattern Language: towns, buildings, constructions by Christopher Alexander (a classic book about how we experience intimate spaces and a magical analysis of what parts make up the whole of those intimate spaces)
  • (aug) Relearning the Alphabet - alphabet by Ingrid Christensen (incantatory cycle of poems structured on Fibonacci sequence from clear-eyed Danish poet)  or maybe I will call this month Seeing Things
  • (sep) Lighting a Candle - Gaviotas: a village to reinvent the world by Alan Weisman (ongoing history of a remarkable Colombian community)

It's a path, anyway.  I wonder where it'll take me?




Monday, October 8, 2012

The Whorled Snail


"Why does Kuo Ming build the stone shrine instead of taking care of his farm?" asked the trainer.  Our trainer is from Chicago, quick-witted, sleek-shirted.  This was the last week of September.

It's so obvious I can hardly bother putting it into words. But we're supposed to write a few sentences.  And so, "Grief," I write.  And am done.

 But I want to be helpful.  Our trainer is so enthusiastic.  I try again, "Grief @ being re-orphaned."  Do we really have to go through all of this?  

But he -- the trainer -- wants evidence from the text.  And I am good at this, and so . . . .

 Kuo Ming is orphaned
 page 110: "He lived alone. His parents had died two years before" and page 109: "He walked slowly, for he was not eager to return to his house."  

Then he's not orphaned
After finding a snail and bringing it home -- page 111:  "the farmer found his dinner waiting for him on the table -- a bowl of cooked rice, steamed vegetables, and a cup of hot tea," and "the next evening, his dinner was again waiting for him - and this time there was a branch of wild peach set in a vase on the table,"  or page 112:  "Every evening, his dinner was waiting, and always there was a wildflower in the vase,"  and page 113:  "his loneliness disappeared. He skipped to the fields in the morning and walked quickly home in the evening.  His dinner was always waiting.  The house was shining.  The air was sweet.  And his heart was full."

Then he's re-orphaned
page 115:  "He stood in the pouring rain a long time.  Then he went back into the house.  The snail shell was there.  He picked it up.  No living creature was inside"  and "He thought only of White Wave and how to bring her back." 

I admit this is a magic story for me.  So why am I reluctant to look at it more closely?   My heart has leapt up, beating more fierce to see this story show up today, of all days, a story about a snail who is really the moon goddess . . .

 She was pure light.  Her dress was made of silk, and as she moved, her dress rippled, changing from silver to white to gold.  Wherever she stepped in the room, the room shone.



I loved reading this story, recognizing it even though I'd never heard it before.  A moon snail who is really the good mother returning.  Who when she leaves  -- as she must leave -- leaves an empty shell that is not really empty.  A shell that in the young farmer's last, most desperate need pours out blessing.
The farmer held the shell in front of him.  Then he raised it in the air, and with his last strength he cried:  White Wave, I need you.
Slowly he turned the shell toward him.  A wave of gleaming white rice cascaded out of the shell and onto the floor.  He dipped his hands into it.  The rice was solid and firm.  
And of course, I explain later, when it's my turn to talk in the training class -- there are twenty-seven of us, teachers, specialists, volunteers learning to teach our town's students to read more richly -- Of course, I say, the farmer never needs to call on her again.  He is the shell.  He had thought he was empty when he was abandoned again and again.  He built the stone shrine as another shell, a better shell, trying to make a space where life might want to enter in again.  Until he realizes he may be a shell but he is not empty.

It has made my heart full of light to read this story.  To have it appear like this in the last week of September, claiming me right while I'm pursuing my duties, all in the midst of the self-forgetting forging that adopting a new child has been . . . it's like getting a letter from a faraway friend.



Because the snail, you know.  Because once, when I was working my way through heavy weather, my mother-the-therapist, hoping to help, asked me to consider what animal I might be.  The totem of my soul.

And because that morning, or the morning before, I had been out walking after a rain, the animal most fresh in my mind had been a small white snail I had stooped to see.  I had stooped, then scooped it softly, its lightness resting in the little valley of the palm of my hand before I set it back down on the green grass away from the dangers of the road.

The sight of the snail had struck me to the heart.  Oh my soul, I had said,  here you are!  So small and brave and uncomplaining.  The pearly iridescence of her neck, the nuance of her eyestalks, her questing the air for the smells she was seeking, retracting with discrimination, yearning forward.  I had coveted the snug self-providence of the shell that allowed her to move through a wet world without ever going homeless.

And so I told my mother, "A snail."

"Oh," my mother said, her voice turning professional and bright.  But I know my mother so well and she could not hide her dismay.  She didn't want to think of me so burdened down, so slow, so shy, so ready to retire.  She wanted me to be something bolder, braver.  Something bigger at least.

And so I retracted, "Or . . . a dog?  Maybe a watch dog?" And after that if I mentioned snail it was to speak disparagingly of what was weak in me.

But in the way that the forbidden always looms all the louder in its brooding silence, the snail became more and more my secret sign.  A symbol, a story I did not care to interpret.  Just to know that there was some persevering iridescence, some sheltered vulnerability.  To know my soul traveled.  Slowly.  Without apology.  Was everywhere at home.

Only once did I find myself telling a new friend a little of this story.  When she later wrote a myth of her own, I read it like a better echo, booming back louder and changing.



So now to be given this other snail story like an unlooked-for gift in this last week of what I am coming to see as the last month of my inner year -- this month that I have spent renaming the months to come:  October:  Keeping Time, November:  Binding Up Lost Pages, December Learning to Dance, January: . . . what should this month be called? Living in a Nutshell?  Counting on Fibonacci? . . . The story appeared and I already knew what was going to happen when the young sad farmer notices a small white stone that is not really, after all, white but all the colors of the rainbow, and not a stone but a snail. 
"And what was the most wonderful good fortune -- it was alive!"
I knew like Kuo Ming knows "though no one had told him"  that the lovely girl the snail turns into is really a moon goddess.  I knew like he knows "though no one had told him, that he must never try to touch her."



"How does he know?"  asked one of the teachers in our group.  She was the same one who answered the trainer's opening question ("Why does Kuo Ming build the stone shrine instead of taking care of his farm?")  with "Well, he broke the rules.  He had to atone for being a rule-breaker."

Other people said, "He had an unhealthy obsession.  He was sick and selfish and had to almost starve himself before he got over it."

Or, "He owed her a home that didn't include him getting housework and free meals."

Or, "To honor her and glorify her out of gratitude for being so good to him."

They each said their answers as if each were as obvious as "Grief @ being re-orphaned."



Hello, said the snail.  Have you forgotten me?

How many ways could this story be told?
 

Monday, October 1, 2012

Keeping Time


I am sitting in the softness of the full moon waiting for the sun to rise.

There is the wind.  Moving  and moving through the trees like a reverent crowd passing.  Some dried leaves scrape the pavement near my feet, gather up against the side of the house.  The sunny-side of the house, I could say in an hour's time. But now, just the side of the house most open to the world.  The side that looks out over the woods my neighbors claim as theirs, over woods and the darker-colored  trees that mark the river. But I'm imagining those woods, that river.

I can't see any of that this morning.  This morning I am trying to see.

All I see are the sharp shapes of the nearest and tallest Douglas fir, their jagged serration against the paling sky.  Faraway, the lights of Portland make a false dawn.  The real dawn goes stretching up more wide and high, more darkly red than bright.  A bright stripe across the eastern sky above a brooding band of gray.  Bright and dark both tingeing redly more and more, each time I look up to see.  I have to look up to see.

I have to keep bending my laptop's overbright face down, half-closing it over my fingers. I bend my computer's face down to shine on the keys so I can see them and to let my eyes come back into tune with the real light growing all around me.  I am doing this literally.  I am doing this symbolically.

Meanwhile the lights of the city keep pulsing restlessly.  Small in this sweep of sky, but the city draws the eye.  There is almost a rhythm to the random sweeps of lights, almost the jittery syncopation of Gershwin.  Above them, the lights of airplanes buzz  like yellow wasps until they break away into the darker west and turn into impatient stars trailing after their mother Moon.

It's October and has been for a dozen or half a dozen hours, depending how you count the hours of your day.


But I'm waiting for it to begin. This new day, which could be any day, but resonates with me for reasons I want to understand.  Which is why I'm standing here, sitting here, watching the sun rise.  The sun rises too slow for me to watch.  But moment by moment I can tell it's coming on more and more.  The morning never stops approaching.  A giant snail, iridescent, moving irresistibly.


The birds begin to fly.  A flock curling overhead, writing invisible letters against the sky.  I should know what they are and do not. Small birds like black letters that change before I can read them.

They wheel around the brighter warming circle overhead.  Watching them hungrily sweeping the sky, I guess their word is nothing more mystical than BREAKFAST.



Which word is now put on me, now that YoungSon comes out to join me.  Now that the first, "Oh Mom, how cool!" changes to, "Can I sit in your lap?" changes to singing along with, "Then wake up! and do something more ... ," changes to, "Let's go inside.  Come on. Please.  I'll take this for you.  You're coming in, right?"

The sky is bright as day.  Day claims me.


 

"I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean . . ."
                                          Gerard Manley Hopkins


October: "Keeping Time"
1. attend the sunset
2. play piano at evening
3. sleep when it is night
4. witness the sunrise
5. sing in the morning
6. work the day's work when it is day
7. prepare and keep a real sabbath
(touchstone text:  The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time, by Judith Shulevitz)
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