5.3.12 | By: Megan Langham

The Comfort of These Thoughts


“There is ecstasy in paying attention. You can get into a kind of Wordsworthian openness to the world, where you see in everything 
the essence of holiness, a sign that God is implicit in all of creation.”

Anne Lamont

I'm coming in rather late to the party with my collection of "little, blessed things" (as Katie calls them). I did do something rather similar several months ago: similar, but quite different. This idea is more specific, more individual. Rather than vague impressions of beauty, these blessings are like pearls on strings, shining pure and perfect in the moonlight. The choosing and stringing of them has refreshed my soul, because turning towards joy is always a blessed change and a sweet gift to oneself.

my moonlit pearls

rain at the window-panes // irish breakfast in my teacup // kerchiefs over curls // angel, sweetest and softest of cats // the tree that flames vibrant red in the front garden each autumn // that springing thrill when each plot thread is tied up // "greensleeves" playing in the kitchen // the welsh marches // hours spent searching through crammed dusty bookshops // smoked salmon // bonds of friendship that distance can't sunder // selwin ap tuder // john chapter seventeen // tolkien's stirring song, streaked with sorrow // fresh lipstick // long walks by the river // sobbing over a book in the wee hours of the morning // swooning over literary heroes with my sister // my brown-bound notebook // puritan prayers // celtic blessings // faerie // evenings home alone with a book and a fire // obscure historical eras that take hours to research // foods that my characters would have eaten // wind whipping my hair about my face // holding hands in the middle of the ocean // sage green // the books I have read into raggedness (enemy brothers, the lantern bearers, that hideous strength, watership down, the little prince) // earrings dangling near my neck // the thought of a blue box // my celtic knot ring // starshine at midnight // my faith that did not begin with me // the knowledge that each of these is an individual grace borne of love, strong and sure...


"I bless and adore thee, the eternal God,
for the comfort of these thoughts,
the joy of these hopes."

The Valley of Vision

7 missives:

Jenny Freitag said...

John chapter seventeen! What, you too? Hurrah! What a thread of silver your life is, what strings of pearls your darlings are. The "little, blessed things" of my friends are hard to read, because they paint such a vivid, terrible picture in my mind's eye of your souls. It is almost like getting too close to the heat and colour of the heart of a fire. How we are defined by our loves and our hates, by our hopes and the things we leave behind.

And he saw in a little picture,
Tiny and far away,
His mother sitting in Egbert's hall,
And a book she showed him, very small,
Where a sapphire Mary sat in stall
With a golden Christ at play.
It was wrought in the monk's slow manner,
From silver and sanguine shell,
Where the scenes are little and terrible,
Keyholes of heaven and hell.

Megan Langham said...

Is it Chesterton? The little poem, I mean. Because it is perfect, and apt, and I've fallen rather hopelessly in love with it.

I know what you mean. It's like we put so much of ourselves into the stories that we write, and the characters, and the worlds, but there's always a veil. Sometimes it is thinner than other times. But here, when we list off our loves to the world, the veil is very nearly transparent. (I suppose that's what they mean by raw and real.) It is painful, if you think of it too long, but it is also good. Very good.

Jenny Freitag said...

Exactly. Painful if you think of it too long, but good. You said it perfectly.

And yes, that is Chesterton. While I'm not Catholic, I do, for the imagery and splendour of it, recommend The Ballad of the White Horse. It is an impossibly gorgeous epic poem the whole way through. I've read it through, but I keep picking it up and reading snatches of it, trying to commit pieces of it to memory, just for the beauty of it.

Katie S. said...

Raindrops on windowpanes. Dusty bookshops. Starshine. The wind in one's hair. Well-loved stories.

Such lovely things, MeganDearest. Such lovely, lovely things.

Rhoswen Faerie Wrose said...

Irish Breakfast! My favorite black tea!

"bonds of friendship that distance can't sunder // swooning over literary heroes with my sister // evenings home alone with a book and a fire // sage green" Yes, I most readily agree with those, and more. Though...I'm more likely to swoon with friends than my sister.

"faerie" A specific story? Or faeries in general?

"the thought of a blue box" Is that a certain blue box/ ;-)

Joy said...

Hi Megan,

Your blog looks great, and I'm a new follower.
I love your collection of pearls on strings <3. They are beautiful, and I think I can really identify with almost all of them. Like Jenny was saying, John 17 is a truly favourite of mine as well. The prayer Jesus prays is so rich, beautiful and powerful! I am always so blessed and encouraged by reading it.

This section: "swooning over literary heroes with my sister" I can identify with very much, my sisters and I do that so frequently, it is hilarious at times!

Thanks for sharing this,
In His love,
~Joy @ joy-live4jesus.blogspot.com

Megan Langham said...

Katie - You always understand. And you are a darling. Thank you. <3

Wrosie - Yes, indeed, that certain blue box. ;) And as for "faerie", read Tolkien's Smith of Wooton Major and you'll know what I mean.

Joy - Thank you, my dear, and be welcome: here's your tea and your ottoman and a little place to keep your books. (We mostly drink tea and read here and sometimes we nap. Molto bene.)

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