Author: christinestaffa

My life's journey has taken me from the streets of New York, up the Hudson Valley, to a little goat farm under Vermont's highest mountain.

Book Corner 2024.45

Meditations for Mortals

by Oliver Burkeman

I subscribe to Burkeman’s email list, so I had kind of already read a lot of these.

I can’t believe he gave a shout-out to someone who advocates the mantra, “I choose to live in Easy World, where everything is easy.” I get the spirit of what he was trying to say; but I went to that woman’s website, and talk about woo-woo out the wazoo.

One of my favorite topics, arguing with myself about how bad a person I am, is covered (on Day 17). “Does anyone imagine that Vladmir Putin lies awake at night, worrying if he’s really as caring and thoughtful a person as he’d like to believe?” See? You’re better than Vladmir Putin. Reducto at Putinum.

Goat Love

Today after a normal feeding time, Columbia walked outside and just stood in the pasture, staring at the road, as you see here.

Zowie (foreground, turning to look at me) followed shortly thereafter. She stood a ways back and stopped, just looking at her mom from a short distance. Just keeping an eye. Just making sure she was OK. Because it was kind of unusual. And Zowie would surely rather be eating hay or drinking water or licking salt or grazing a bit, rather than doing nothing, but mom was acting strange, so maybe best to just keep an eye in case she needed anything.

They love each other so much.

I hope Columbia’s OK and was just enjoying the rare sunshine on her back.

Wolf Hall

I wanted to save a couple of quotes from Wolf Hall before I return the book.

“How can he explain to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from his border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from castle walls, but from countinghouses, not by the call of the bugle but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the page of the promissory note that pays for the gun and the gunsmith and the and the powder and the shot.”

“And beneath Cornwall, beyond and beneath this whole realm of England, beneath the sodden marches of Wales and the rough territory of the Scots border, there is another landscape; there is a buried empire, where he fears his commissioners cannot reach. Who will swear the hobs and the bogarts who live in the hedges and in the hollow trees, and the wild men who hide in the woods? Who will swear the saints in their niches, and the spirits that cluster at holy wells rustling like fallen leaves, and the miscarried infants dug into unconsecrated ground: all those unseen dead who hover in winter around forges and village hearths, trying to warm their bare bones? For they too are his countrymen: the generations of the uncounted dead, breathing through the living, stealing their light from them, the bloodless ghosts of lord and knave, nun and whore, the ghosts of priests and friar who feed on living England, and such the substance from the future.”

Booker.