Feeding the Angels

Thursday morning, walking Desmond in the park next to my temporary flat, I noticed a man on one of the benches. He was surrounded by shopping parcels (everyone here uses recyclables!) and was eating something out of a bag. I had noticed a small shed in the far corner of the park weeks before, and Friday, it had a sleeping bag spread out, visible through the bent tin door.
Desmond woofed at him - of course: he's male and a stranger - and then stopped, sidling up to investigate what he was eating. Opportunist. I apologized and shooed Desmond away. And as we returned along the path, the man approached and asked my name and place of origin. He was pleasant and friendly, and yet I did not tarry long, in part because work awaited. His name, he'd said, was Seraphim.

Seraphim stayed with me that day, an invisible presence, but a source of pensiveness and perhaps guilt.

My Avocation and My Vocation

Years ago, I was reading a favorite author and came across a reference to "Two Tramps in Mud Time," by Robert Frost, an American poet whom my family often quoted. The final stanza struck me then. Its resonance has deepened through my adult years:

But yield who will to their separation,

My object in living is to unite

My avocation and my vocation

As my two eyes make one in sight.

Only where love and need are one,

And the work is play for mortal stakes,

Is the deed ever really done

For Heaven and the future's sakes.

The poem was written in 1934 in the midst of America's Great Depression. The author is chopping wood when two tramps emerge from the forest, one stopping to watch the author, wanting - no, needing - to substitute his own hands on the axe in order to earn a bite to eat, an indoor refuge from the mud and chill of an outdoor bed.

Why do I write about this today? Ten years ago today, on a beautiful Indian Summer September morning, I was working from my home in Arlington, VA.

Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread

Today was my first holiday, the Jeûne genevois, which is traditionally a day of fasting. The curious - or perhaps less curious once one begins to know Geneva - exception is supposed to be la tarte pruneaux (plum tarte). Being the wonderfully good celebrater that I am, I plunked down my francs for a tarte this morning, when my local bakery was open.

The Swiss take family very seriously. In Geneva, shops are closed Sundays so people can spend time with their families. And from what I have seen of people in cafes, parks and along the lake, this is exactly what they do. Restaurants and cafes can be open... as can bakeries, but any other business must pay its employees 50% extra for working on Sundays. This, in a town where shops close at 1900 daily anyway...

In the Land of Many Fabrics

Thanks to @chris_saeger for referencing the 100th Anniversary of The Secret Garden. Barnes & Noble Community commentator Sarah-W writes about the life of author Frances Hodgson Burnett and reveals this nugget from Burnett's personal writings:

What is there to feed my poor, little, busy brain in this useless, weary, threadbare life? I can't eat my own heart forever. I can't write things that are worth reading if I never see things which are worth seeing, or speak to people who are worth hearing. I cannot weave silk if I can see nothing but calico--calico--calico.

Geneva is, without a doubt, a land of many fabrics. More than one person has remarked that Geneva is not truly Swiss, as most people here are from other lands. Having spent so many years in Washington, watching and welcoming others to my town, it is interesting to be on the other end of the spectrum. In a conversation with "international woman of mystery" Laura G, we discussed approaches to creating a community in a new town.