Epiphanic.

The tallest peaks in the Teton Range are sometimes called the Cathedral Group. The comments of Fritiof Fryxell, the park's first ranger naturalist, said: ‘More evident here than in many of the great cathedrals of men . . . the gothic note . . . it is seen in the profiles of the countless firs and spruces . . . congregated like worshippers on the lower slopes. It reappears higher in the converging lines of spire rising upon spire . . . it obtains supreme expression in the figures of the peaks themselves . . . that towering above all else, with pointed summits, direct one’s vision and thoughts yet higher.’ 

There are two small chapels in Grand Teton National Park. One, the Chapel of the Transfiguration, frames those peaks, the actual mountains a simulacrum, at a distance, of an altar.

All day today, driving in the golden light, we were transfixed.

self portrait with camera & Tetons.

the duomo of the cathedral.

pattern

Teton glacier

The Cathedral Group itself.

At Jenny Lake.

At Jenny Lake.

It was hard to drive away from them.

cloud & light

cascading away, over Jackson Lake.

The Pilgrim's Way.

Lindisfarne is known as the Holy Island. It turns out that this place, back in the 7th c., was full of learning and industry and, relatively speaking, wealth. It's where the Lindisfarne Gospels were produced. And the Vikings, those axe-wielding, longboat riding Vikings, busted it all up. It's fairly riveting as medieval religious stories go, since in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, it's reported that in 793 when the Vikings struck,

'In this year dire portents appeared over Northumbria and sorely frightened the people. They consisted of immense whirlwinds and flashes of lightening, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the air. A great famine immediately followed those signs and a little after that in the same year, on 8 June, the ravages of heathen men miserably destroyed God’s church on Lindisfarne, with plunder and slaughter.'

[Side note: among my excellent company today, which included a son-in-law educated in Scotland, a daughter who was an English major, and three Scottish schoolchildren--and the historian!--I was the only one who ever heard of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Frankly, I could not believe this, the people. On the other hand, my granddaughter said under her breath, 'dragons are real.' Thank you, Anglo-Saxon Chronicler!]
Anyway: as my daughter pointed out today, in the past two days, I've had the chance to do two things I have long wanted to do--visit Jupiter Artland, and walk from the mainland across the causeway at low tide to Lindisfarne. And visit the ruined priory, etc.
Yesterday, I was trying to size up the actual length and walking conditions of the walk. I thought I had read that it was about a mile. Piece of cake. But then I read somewhere a length of five miles, which isn't a big deal except that you have to get on and off the island during the hours of low tide, or you're stuck, and while I wanted to have a tiny inkling of that walking the pilgrim's way thing*, I didn't want to do it at the expense of seeing it with my daughter, the historian, my grandchildren. Also, the description of the five miles mentioned mud. And I only brought one pair of shoes on this road trip. (NOTE TO SELF: one pair of shoes is NEVER A GOOD IDEA.)
Last night at dinner, I said to my son-in-law, 'The good news is, I've made up my mind not to worry about the walking. I mean, I would like to do the walk, but I don't want to make a fetish of it, and the more important thing is going to the island.'
Sensibly, he pointed out that we could just check it out when we got there this morning. Of course. Just wait and see. And when we arrived this morning, the weather was beautiful, the length of the walk was clearly just under a mile, and they agreed they'd be glad to drive to the other side while the historian and I walked. Perfect.
So my one pair of shoes and the historian and I walked across the causeway:

and it was glorious.
***
When we got there, we saw this

and also this:

and also this:

Let it be noted in the Chronicles: this was a great day.

(and also: dragons are real.)

*It should be noted: the actual Pilgrim's Way is not the causeway--you have to follow markers, and it's longer, and--it must be said--muddier. Full disclosure: I took the easy way. The one pair of shoes way. Definitely, I did.

Happy Easter.

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —
Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

gerard manley hopkins

[couplet]

Photographic evidence.

Some of what we saw:



Wyoming--Big Horn Canyon and Medicine Wheel

Open letter to an enigma.

Dear Bruiser,

Just about an hour ago, I came home from a meeting with Dr. Write, wherein we worked on the curriculum for a new course, perused Amazon for possible books, and also discussed the political future of our great nation. As you know, before I left home for that meeting, I took you for a brisk walk. You may recall that you nearly spun me off my feet when you expressed vigorous interest in a cat crossing our paths. I was a little unnerved by this. Perhaps I spoke a little too hastily, possibly even harshly, at that moment. I apologize.

But that's not the subject of this letter, Bruiser. It's about the bag of bread I found in our bed. I had to leave in a bit of a hurry this morning, so I didn't get to make the bed before I left, but I came home prepared to rectify the situation, and there, on my pillow, was a quarter of a loaf of bread, tied fast with its little twisty tie. I'm sure you know it is good bread. Very good bread. But you hadn't eaten any of it, not even a crumb.

I am 98% certain that you conveyed the bread to our bed. Because, while I may occasionally eat a little popcorn on or near the bed, and maybe sometimes I bring a slice of toast into the bedroom, in general, neither the historian nor I bring food with all its packaging into the bed, for purposes of consumption or for any purpose, really. We just don't. And there's no one else but the cat, who, to her credit, has never taken the slightest interest in human food. Except for butter, and the less said about that, the better.

So Bruiser, that leaves you. And I am curious as to what you mean by this. What are you trying to communicate to me with the bread-in-the-bed message? Is it proverbial, such as "Cast thy bread upon the bed and it shall return unto thee twofold"? Are you, too, trying to tell me, by means of an ancient metaphor, that I should return to the study of the word of God? Or, more colloquially, do you think you deserve an allowance, to be spent upon dog toys and bacon? Perhaps you feel it's time I took up my long-planned sourdough bread baking project. I am flummoxed.

As I write this, you lie upon the bed, now made, where once you planted this little possibly metaphorical communication of bread in a bag. I shall continue to contemplate it. And perhaps that is your purpose, for you are nothing if not zen-like.

Thank you, Bruiser, for the koan: what is the sound of sliced bread sleeping?

Sincerely your friend, compatriot, and comrade,

&c. & c.