L.M. Montgomery and Our Mutual Love of Beauty

"Don't you just love poetry that gives you a 

crinkly feeling up and down your back?" 

L.M. MONTGOMERY, Anne of Green Gables 

I cannot say when I first became aware of beauty in the world around me. Perhaps it was when I was a little girl bending down in my grandma's garden to smell her pretty flowers. And being especially taken with the clove-scented blossoms—they might have been carnations or pinks (dianthus). I was in heaven when I sniffed their scent. There was also something unforgettable about those yellow and orange California poppies growing in her lawn, so bold and breezy showing up anywhere they pleased.

 

As a child enthralled with reading, I loved the 1950s beautifully illustrated Egermeier's Bible Story Book with its well-thumbed pages eventually read to shreds. Adoring the lithograph picture of Mary and Joseph with the Babe in swaddling clothes lying in a manger—it created such a safe and cozy feeling for me. I was especially aware of the beauty I saw at Christmastime. How often I felt that crinkly feeling up and down my back when I caught sight of the season's first snowfall, or when I sat quiet as a mouse on the couch breathing in the wonder of the coloured lights on the tree. Or to feel the wonderment at the Christmas cards, hanging from a string above me, some alive with midnight blue skies studded with stars and pinpricks of light streaming through tiny earthen windows. Oh holy night, indeed.

As a girl, I mainly read books for the stories, for the adventures. I wasn't so keen on the descriptions of sunsets or landscapes or pretty vistas. I just wanted to know what happened next without all that 'fluffy' stuff. But I gradually came to appreciate those descriptive, imaginative scenes. Scenes where autumn branches sat in a vase on a table and firelight made shadows dance on a wall. And the heroine would sigh and feel better for this bit of beauty. Those scenes, dripping from the pages, soaked into my own soul and made me feel better.

Then there came the season of life when I read anything I could find of Lucy Maud Montgomery's works. First it was her novels, such as the Anne or Emily stories, and The Blue Castle. I gobbled up her poetry, published letters, and published journals. And, as an aspiring writer, I noted her descriptive narration, vivid imagery, and keen eye for detail as she celebrated the beauty of nature, her garden, and walks in the woods on a late November afternoon. I began to dream about how I could try to write the way she did. Never forgetting that summer evening long ago when I sat on the back step entranced as twilight fell on our neighbourhood after a beautiful day. A notebook in my lap and pen in my hand, my heart yearning to describe the joy I felt that evening, longing to describe its loveliness in the Lucy Maud style. She inspired me to get on with living life as beautifully as possible and then writing about it. I was—and still am—energized to create work that expresses my own wonderment at all that remains lovely in a broken world. It gives me courage to carry on when things feel or look hopeless in whatever situation. And when I get to share it here with you, my heart bursts with a joy that leaves me content... and grateful. For there is great pleasure in sharing what we love and enjoy, what we learn, with others. 

I want to share a passage from Emily of New Moon which became one of my favourites:

"It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty. Between it and herself hung only a thin curtain; she could never draw the curtain aside—but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond—only a glimpse—and heard a note of unearthly music.  . . .

It never came twice with the same thing. Tonight the dark boughs against that far-off sky had given it. It had come with a high, wild note of wind in the night, with a shadow wave over a ripe field, with a grey bird lighting on her windowsill in a storm, with the singing of "Holy, holy, holy" in church, with a glimpse of the kitchen fire when she had come home on a dark autumn night, with the spirit-like blue of ice palms on a twilit pane, with a felicitous new word when she was writing down a 'description' of something. And always when the flash came to her Emily felt that life was a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty." L.M. Montgomery, Emily of New Moon, p. 7 - 8

That last line stands out as a marker—it and many others became transformative, defining moments when I came to recognize, and could admit to myself, that beauty remains the most inspirational and mysterious force in the world for me. And it makes me feel nearest to God. I came to see that if I could find the beauty, however tiny, in the midst of any given situation, I could carry on. Ms. Montgomery's writings gave me courage. They gave me hope there was a place inside my own God-given imagination where I could gather the beauty to hold onto in the midst of my own hard or sad times. Perhaps that's why I'm always tickled to see a simple dandelion living large as life in a fractured sidewalk. Surviving in a seemingly impossible place, living somehow as if it was in the best kind of soil, tended as if with the most loving of care. Its lesson is a beauty to behold.

There is so much more I could say, but suffice for the moment. As I close, my wish for you this week... mercies new every morning, grace that's sufficient for whatever you face, joy to strengthen you in the midst, and peace that keeps your heart steady in the storm. Oh, and a generous dollop of good, plain fun to make you laugh out loud.

❦

Heart hugs,

Brenda

Photo credits:

Image by TheOtherKev from Pixabay

My Autumn Schedule:

I post on Fridays

Friday Four, Including L.M. Montgomery's Inspiration to Journal

"Honestly, it is such a challenge to look at

the bigger picture these days, so I cone my focus

down to all the beautiful pauses in my day."

DARREN MARKLAND @drdagly on X

(with grateful permission)

It snowed the other day. As those first flakes fell, I felt the tiniest stirrings of being in the 'Christmas mood'. I know, I know, it's a little early. I even found myself humming notes from an old familiar carol—quietly under my breath so as not to get the resident Grinch grumbling that it's far too early for Christmas music. 

The snow has since melted, and we're back to landscapes in beige and sandy brown. Still, with the nights drawing in, hints of long winter evenings and upcoming holidays take shape. It seems a perfect time for settling in a comfy chair with a little poetry—or a new post from a favourite writer—for company.  

Today's post is a bit of this and that from my week, along with an old post I wrote about L.M. Montgomery and how I became inspired to journal by reading her own published journals. I hope you'll find something worth your visit. Thank you for stopping by.

One. The frost missed these

What a thrill to discover that a few blossoms in the garden had escaped the frost. A tiny reprieve. I brought them in and set them by the kitchen window—my beautiful pause in a busy day.

Two. A gentle read

"Granddad said you only have to look at nature to know that there's a higher power.  . . .  He said every time you look at a sunset and feel an expansion in your chest, that's the Divine in you recognizing the Divine in nature." SANTA MONTEFIORE, Here and Now

This charming novel is set in a small English village. Dennis and Marigold, both in their late 60s, currently have their two adult daughters and Marigold's aged mother living with them. Marigold loves taking care of everyone, but she's getting worried that she's forgetting things, especially when she forgets to take supper out of the freezer yet again or loses track of where her car is parked while out shopping. Having lived in the village for years she should know...and remember...why can't she remember? Is it just age creeping up?

I found this a heart lovely story about a family coming to terms with the possibility that their beloved daughter, wife, mother is experiencing dementia. Even as Marigold learns to live in the present moment when her memories start disappearing, her own family discover things about themselves. She keeps reminding herself, "What's wrong with now?" when she finds herself trying to imagine her life in the future without the memories of who and what she loves. But for today, it's okay. And that's how she tries to live her life as much as she can.

It's perfect timing to read this story. For it begins on a snowy day. Soon you're immersed, not with falling snow, but with finding yourself caring for the people in this tale. It's not a knuckle-gripping tale, so you can relax into your easy chair and let the story unfold gently around you, maybe even as you watch the snow softly falling outside your window.

T

Three. Note to Miss Chicken Little

"We've got to live, no matter how

many skies have fallen."

D.H. LAWRENCE, Lady Chatterley's Lover

Four. Lucy Maud and journaling

"I have just been reading over my first two volumes... The first volume seems—I think—to have been written by a rather shallow girl, whose sole aim was to "have a good time" . . . yet nothing could be falser to the reality.  . . .  Again, the second volume gives the impression of a morbid temperament, generally in the throes of nervousness and gloom. Yet this, too, is false. It arises from the fact that of late years I have made my journal the refuge of my sick spirit . . . Between these times I was quite tolerably happy, hopeful and interested in life.

Well, I begin my third volume. I am going to try to strike a better balance in it—to write out my happiness as well as my pain. And I mean to try, as far as in me lies, to paint my life and deeds—ay, and my thoughts—truthfully, no matter how unflattering such truth may be to me. No life document has any real value otherwise; the worst as well as the best must be written out—  . . . So, for good or evil, I begin this volume. I turn over its blank pages with a shrinking wonder. What will be written in them?"  ~ excerpted from her journal entry dated Friday, Feb. 11, 1910. See The Selected Journal of L.M. Montgomery, Volume II: 1910 - 1921.

I mentioned last week (post here) that this November marks Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery's 150th birthday. And in celebration I'm digging into my own archives to share with you things I've written over the years about her influence on my life.

Here is an excerpt from a post I wrote in July 2019 (it could do with a revamp, but it's where I was at the time as a writer, and I'm trying to get this finished on time). 😉

It's usually a bit of a thrill for me when I finish one journal and begin a crisp new volume. Such a moment happened this past week. The above notebook with the gold lettering and the pretty house and garden painting on its cover marks my 170th journal. 

I started journaling in the early 1980s when I was under the deep sway of influence from my beloved mentor from afar Lucy Maud Montgomery. When I learned that some of her own journals were being made available to the public, I eagerly sought them out. At the time, the library had only Volumes I and II; I had to wait some years for the rest to be published. I loved reading her journals, and soon I began to think, if Lucy Maud had been such a committed journal keeper, then maybe I could be one too. I've been pretty much dedicated to writing my own journals ever since.

My ever increasing collection (which is housed in file boxes in the closet) is a motley collection of sizes, shapes, and designs. Into these notebooks, I poured out all sorts of things on my mind. And, for some reason, the weather seemed necessary to mark my journey in some way—was it winter, summer, rainy, hot, dry, gloomy? Weather, we know, can affect our moods, and I'd decided a long time that I would try as much as possible not to live 'under the weather' but to create my own sunshine in my own way. Over time I'd come to appreciate every season in its every mood, whether clement (pleasantly dry and mild) or inclement (severely harsh weather that is wet and cold).

My journals were, and continue to be a bit of diary - said weather reports included. They are also a bit of venting, although I try not to vent too much in my journals, I don't want a paper copy of, er, my 'insane' moments. Venting is part of being honest with ourselves even if we are insane for the moment.

I do write about what I read in books or hear from people I follow online, noting many a quotation for future reference and inspiration. I also jot out lines from the Bible that offer a life boat of comfort and encouragement in difficult or stressful seasons. Not to mention bits of poetry and quotes that strike my fancy and thrill my soul for their beauty. As well, I note those aha! moments when I see something that has changed how I view myself or the world around me. Writing it out helps me to clarify what I'm thinking about, what I agree or disagree with, and what I really desire underneath all the fluffy superficial surfaces.

Journals, for me, are places where I turn to when I can't say what's in my heart to anyone else. There are some things we all carry that are too deep or personal, too scary, to share. Ofttimes we don't have the language or words to share it, even if we wanted to. So I make stabs at it in my journals. With hopes that those poured out bits of prayers and yearnings make sense to the God who, we are told, cares about the tiniest details of our lives and longs for us to share them with Him.

Then there are those multitude of moments and experiences that I don't ever want to forget. The ALIVE moments that make a day perfect in the end, even though it was less so overall. You know those glorious moments, when your heart zings with joy as you stand and watch a rainbow form after a summer shower. As you sit in the garden where the air is sweet with perfume and the birds chatter companionably at the feeders and our neighbourly Orange Kitty wanders in for a friendly visit or a quiet snooze in the garden. Where you are just glad, glad, glad to be alive. I love finding these entries when rereading my old volumes.

On that note, I'm wishing you days that are alive with beauty and grace. And with beautiful pauses that continue to make life worth getting up for.

❦

Heart hugs,

Brenda

Photo credits:

(Top) Image by Albertfotofilms from Pixabay

(Flowers) Image by Brenda Leyland @ It's A Beautiful Life

(Book Cover) Image from Amazon.ca

(Cup in Window) Image by Israelbest from Pixabay

(Journals) Image by Brenda Leyland @ It's A Beautiful Life

Autumn Blogging Schedule:

I post on Fridays

Friday Five: This and That (Including Celebrating L.M. Montgomery's 150th Birthday)

"It is a serious thing just to be alive on

this fresh morning in the broken world."

MARY OLIVER

 

Here we are... it's November 1st. The time of year for those of us in northerly climes when we start to long for cozy nights at home, snuggling into sweaters and fuzzy socks, wrapping fingers around warm beverages, partaking of hearty stews and thick, nourishing soups. Some of us, maybe many of us, start thinking about the holidays ahead. We begin gathering stacks of books that fit the mood of cooler weather and darkening days. We take time to notice the little things that make our souls flourish in these hopefully quieter, duller days of the year.

As I've gathered bits and pieces that are meaningful for me and stitched them loosely into today's post, you have been on my mind. I hope something here will encourage, stimulate or cause you to pause and take a breath for this season's challenges, whatever they may be.

I wish you days that are alive with beauty and grace. Peace of mind and heart, too.

 

One. Outside my window

It's grey and gloomy. Roof-tops are white with frost this morning. There was fog earlier. It's been a lovely autumn, but the days are definitely getting more 'wintry' in feeling. The garden has that forlorn, worn look. Although I cannot believe that, even with frost at night, the white alyssum annuals are still practically perfect. I assumed they'd succumb along with the marigolds and geraniums, but they are bold and beautiful in their pristine, white clumps. The sunflower that grew this summer—I mentioned it last week—has been stripped of all its black seeds, for the chickadees have taken advantage of the great feast before them, snapping up seeds and flitting off to eat them. I love chickadees. 

Two. Beauty to press on

"If you have been afraid that your love of beautiful flowers and the

flickering flame of the candle is somehow less spiritual than living in

starkness and ugliness, remember that He who created you to be creative

gave you the things with which to make beauty and the sensitivity

to appreciate and respond to His creation."

EDITH SCHAEFFER

Three. Celebrating L.M. Montgomery

This November marks Lucy Maud Montgomery's 150th birthday. After all these decades, I kind of hope she knows that there are still millions of us on this earth who love her writing and cherish the work she did over her lifetime. If you've followed me for anything length of time, you know this beloved Canadian writer of the Anne and Emily books is a clear favourite of mine. Browsing my archives, I realized I've written numerous posts over the years about my relationship with her—I consider her my mentor from afar. And so during November, I'm taking the liberty of republishing some of them to mark my own celebration of L.M. Montgomery. I'll start off with this excerpt I wrote in 2020 as a guest blogger for InScribe.

There are so many things I could share here about what I have learned from L.M. Montgomery. Looking back, she was a shining star—a mentor from afar—for most of my life. She taught me to appreciate the joy and beauty of the world around me, regardless of happy or unhappy circumstances. I shall always remember sitting with pen and paper in hand, trying to capture something of the twilight beauty of a long-ago summer evening. I had hoped to emulate Ms. Montgomery, for by then I was captivated with her ability to bring something of the beautiful to everything she wrote.

We live in an upside-down world where beauty and goodness are often forgotten, hidden behind misery and meanness, tragedy and trauma. Some people say, well that's life, that's the reality. Of course, we know sadness, cruelty, and ugliness are real, but I have so often pondered why these should carry more weight than the reality of love and beauty and kindness. Mr. Carpenter, Emily's schoolteacher in one of the Emily novels, entreated the aspiring authoress not to heed her critics but to press forward and continue to write from that place of beauty she saw in her own mind. He told Emily, "Don't be led away by those howls of realism. Remember—pine woods are just as real as pigsties and a darn sight pleasanter to be in."

The essence of those words became a touchstone for me. No matter what was going on in the world around me, Mr. Carpenter's wise words, through the pen of L.M. Montgomery, fixed my focus on how I wanted to write. You see, they matched those lines I love in Philippians (in the New Testament): whatever is lovely and of good report, think (write) on these things.

And that's been my aim ever since.

For the complete article "In the Shadow of the Bookshelf" published September 12, 2020. 

 

Four. A word to the wise

Take no thought for tomorrow: for tomorrow shall take care of itself.

Each day has enough trouble of its own.

GOSPEL OF MATTHEW

Grace and mercy are freshly minted every morning for us—

let's plan not to waste today's energy on yesterday's regrets or

tomorrow's frets. As they say, sufficient for the day.

Five. A thrill of hope

It’s early evening and you’re deep into the book you’re reading.

You hear a rustling in the kitchen and hope there’s a treat forthcoming…

a mug of hot chocolate, maybe a slice of toast, or something warm from the oven.

You feel the tiny thrill of anticipation.

❦

And now I wish you glimpses

of heaven in unexpected places,

Brenda

Photo credits:

(Top) Image by digitalmeta555 from Pixabay

(Leaves) Image by _Alicja from Pixabay

(Candles) Image by Ukanga from Pixabay

(L.M. Montgomery) Unknown

(Succulent) Image by dendoktoor from Pixabay

(coffee) Image from Pixabay 

Autumn Blogging Schedule:

I post on Fridays

Observing Trifles... or the Spectacle of the Ordinary

"To find new things,

take the path you took yesterday."

JOHN BURROUGHS

Following on the heels of last week's post about little thrills, I happened upon a book during my recent visit to the library that has taken me further into this theme. Titled On Looking by Alexandra Horowitz (2013),

". . . she shows us how to see the spectacle of the ordinary—to practice, as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle put it, “the observation of trifles.” Structured around a series of eleven walks the author takes, mostly in her Manhattan neighborhood, On Looking features experts on a diverse range of subjects, including an urban sociologist, the well-known artist Maira Kalman, a geologist, a physician, and a sound designer. Horowitz also walks with a child and a dog to see the world as they perceive it. . . . Page by page, Horowitz shows how much more there is to see—if only we would really look." excerpt from Amazon description

I was delighted by the chapter in which Alexandra shares about going for walks with her toddler son. She soon comes to see that her idea of going for a walk is far different than his idea. She slows down, begins to listen and pay attention to the world as he was showing how he perceived it. Having learned about the letter "O", what it looked like and how it sounded, her young son soon began discovering "O's" everywhere - in the sky, on the trees, in the litter along the sidewalk, in words on advertising boards. From there he grew beguiled by all the triangle shapes hidden in plain view. It was a time of wondrous discoveries for one little boy and his momma. 

Then there is the chapter where Alexandra walks with illustrator-artist Maira Kalman (I wrote about her book Women Holding Things in a post HERE). If you know anything of Maira's work, you won't be surprised by what Alexandra learns from her friend's observations and interactions with the world as they walk.

I'm only part way through the book so there's lots more to discover. If you want to ramp up your observation skills while out walking in your neighbourhood or wilderness area, I think you'd be inspired by Alexandra's book.

On that note, I turn away from my computer screen to my study window to discover the sun is shining against cloudless blue skies. Only a breeze flutters leaves still clinging to the trees. And the chickadees are busy at the large sunflower head that grew voluntarily in our garden this past summer. They are methodical about stripping the seeds from the head, going around the edges seed by seed towards the centre. Mmm... next spring we might have to sow more sunflower seeds on purpose. There's a real thrill to watching our little feathered friends.

Taking inspiration from Alexandra's example, I'm off for a walk around my block. I wish I had a little toddler to take with me, but I'll try to be observant as I go with Me, Myself, and I. Please take care, beautiful friends, we'll see you next week.

❦

Wishing you glimpses of heaven in unexpected places,

Brenda

Photo credits:

Image by Brenda Leyland @ It's A Beautiful Life

Autumn Blogging Schedule:

I post on Fridays

Dappled Things... and Other Little Thrills

"Glory be to God for dappled things –

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough..."

GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

This week, I've been thinking about those little things that give me a thrill deep on the inside. Now there are those folks who thrive on intense experiences to add thrills to their lives. I am not one of them. I don't crave activities with risks to get my adrenalin rushing. You won't find me hurtling off cliffs, sky diving, winter swimming in the ocean, or white water rafting, although I admire people who do it. I am more of a seeker of gentler thrills. Although these are often experienced in those softer, simpler moments of life, it still surprises me how often I feel that sudden thrill of pleasure or excitement. It's just there, one never has to work it up—the heart truly knows when it is startled with delight.

I still feel the thrill of coming to my desk in my office-study-library. I worked for years in an office setting, and I remember, even on the bad days, arriving in the morning, I'd get that tiny thrill the moment I caught sight of my desk in my small office. I loved to sit there. I felt at home in that space - it was my place, the place where I set out my work, my pens, turned on my typewriter, later my computer. I used to sit by a window that overlooked a brick wall, but now I happily sit at my desk at home by the window overlooking our back garden. I look out on the sky and watch clouds skimming by or birds fluttering in. I like seeing my Susan Branch 'Blue Bird' mugs lined up on the windowsill holding my pens and pencils and letter openers and scissors. And my books on my shelves within easy reach. This is my space, and this spot at my desk is my 'home' within my home.

I love the thrill of catching sunlight dappling through the canopy of leaves on these autumn days. And I still catch my breath when the light glints off the diamonds in my engagement ring, causing colours to flare and sparkle. Maybe it reminds me of the stars I once had in my eyes, and even after all these years that we're together, him and I, between us there's still a sparkle and a twinkle.

Other moments, in no particular order, that continue to thrill and delight me:

- when the wind catches crisp leaves and skitters them down the street, tossing them into piles

 

- the scent of coffee brewing in the morning air 

- tiny sandwiches piled on a plate

- the colour combination of cobalt blue and white

- opening a new box of crayons

- the music of Mozart

- dessert after dinner (especially since desserts are rarer these days)

- putting on a spritz of fragrance before stepping out

- hearing spoons clink against cups as they land in a saucer

- concentrating on a single task and completing it - what a thrill of satisfaction

- remembering being ten years old careening down a hill on the toboggan on a frosty winter afternoon

- catching sight of the full moon before it sets in the western sky

- twinkle lights laced on the trellis outside or strewn across a bookshelf inside

- the long shadows this time of year

- slipping out of the brisk wind into a warm-from-the-sun vehicle

- when the opera singer reaches for, and successfully lands, those high notes in her aria

- discovering a line in a book or poem that deliciously—and perfectly—says what I was searching to say

- cresting a huge hill and feeling gob-smacked at the sight of the horizon in the far, far distance with all that landscape 'plotted and pieced' in between... as far as the eye can see

- the northern lights dancing on an October night

- that moment when the plane lifts off the ground and heads into the sky

- a lamp in the window as evening falls

- an old, old hymn George Beverly Shea used to sing when I was a girl, All That Thrills My Soul is Jesus

- watching the summer landscape turn into an autumn kaleidoscope of colour

- hearing the geese overhead as they practice their vee formations for their long trek south

- recognizing the handwriting of a friend on an envelope in the mailbox

- watching for that certain smile on a loved one's face and seeing their face light up

- getting a compliment from someone totally out of the blue

- an answered prayer / a fulfilled secret desire 

I'll think of dozens more as soon as I sign off. But you caught a glimpse of what thrills my soul. I would love to know what thrills and delights your soul - will you share?

❦

Wishing you a beautiful weekend,

Brenda

Photo credits:

Image by iira116 from Pixabay

Autumn Blogging Schedule:

I post on Fridays

Note: Lately, for reasons I know not, Blogger sometimes doesn't update the feed list when I publish a new blog post. I post on Fridays, so even if you don't see a new post listed on the feed, it's probably here waiting for you when you next visit. 😉