“Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.”
(They change their sky, not their soul, who rush across the sea.)”
― Horace, The Odes of Horace
image: unknown found here
“Silk rebozos worn with the best dress – de gala, as they say.
Cotton rebozos to carry a child, or to shoo away the flies.
Devout rebozos to cover one’s head with when entering
church. Showy rebozos twisted and knotted in the hair with
flowers and silver hair ornaments. The oldest, softest rebozos
worn to bed. A rebozo as cradle, as umbrella or parasol, as
basket when going to market, or modestly covering the blue veined
breast giving suck.”
image: just one of the amazing from here
text: from Caramelo Sandra Cisneros
“Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.”
“I have known the joy and pain of friendship. I have served and been served. I have made some good enemies for which I am not a bit sorry. I have loved unselfishly, and I have fondled hatred with the red-hot tongs of Hell. That’s living.”
image of Zora Neale Hurston (and her hands!) by Carl Van Vechten
What were your sister’s dreams like?
She wanted to live like a member of The Swiss Family Robinson, with impossibly friendly animals in impossibly congenial isolation. Her oldest son, Jim, has been a goat farmer on a mountaintop in Jamaica for the past eight years. No telephone. No electricity.
image: A mother and daughter plant a garden in DeKalb County in the 1940’s
(TN State Library and Archives)
kurt vonnegut interview: here
Do you write every day?
No. I write in spurts. I write when I have to because the pressure builds up and I feel enough confidence that something has matured in my head and I can write it down. But once something is really under way, I don’t want to do anything else. I don’t go out, much of the time I forget to eat, I sleep very little. It’s a very undisciplined way of working and makes me not very prolific. But I’m too interested in many other things.
“As Gill says, “every man is called to give love to the work of his hands. Every man is called to be an artist.” The small family farm is one of the last places – they are getting rarer every day – where men and women (and girls and boys, too) can answer that call to be an artist, to learn to give love to the work of their hands. It is one of the last places where the maker – and some farmers still do talk about “making the crops” – is responsible, from start to finish, for the thing made. This certainly is a spiritual value, but it is not for that reason an impractical or uneconomic one. In fact, from the exercise of this responsibility, this giving of love to the work of the hands, the farmer, the farm, the consumer, and the nation all stand to gain in the most practical ways: They gain the means of life, the goodness of food, and the longevity and dependability of the sources of food, both natural and cultural. The proper answer to the spiritual calling becomes, in turn, the proper fulfillment of physical need.”
Wendell Berry, Bringing it to the Table: Writings on Farming and Food
image: A farm mother and her child. ca. 20th Century. National Archives