cherchez la femme

advent begun

Posted in Uncategorized by stefanie on November 29, 2011

a voice cries out: “in the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God;

every valley will be lifted up and ever hill made low,

the rough ground will be made level and the rugged places a plain,

  and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all the flesh shall see it together,

for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.’

happy first week of advent!

(image via eja photo)

young emmylou

Posted in Uncategorized by stefanie on November 16, 2011

 I love this, just beautiful.

via TomboyStyle

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homage

Posted in Uncategorized by stefanie on November 15, 2011


La Mort des Amants

Nous aurons des lits pleins d’odeurs légères,
Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux,
Et d’étranges fleurs sur des étagères,
Ecloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux.

Usant à l’envi leurs chaleurs dernières,
Nos deux coeurs seront deux vastes flambeaux,
Qui réfléchiront leurs doubles lumières
Dans nos deux esprits, ces miroirs jumeaux.

Un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique,
Nous échangerons un éclair unique,
Comme un long sanglot, tout chargé d’adieux;

Et plus tard un Ange, entr’ouvrant les portes,
Viendra ranimer, fidèle et joyeux,
Les miroirs ternis et les flammes mortes.

— Charles Baudelaire


ballad of the harp weaver

Posted in Uncategorized by stefanie on November 14, 2011

In a madeleine-de-proustian moment this afternoon, I was visited by a vague memory of my favorite childhood book, The Ballad of the Harp Weaver.  It was strangely a moving moment for me, first because I don’t think I’ve had a single thought about it in over 10 years, but probably more because such a feeling of sadness came over me as I started to work through my memories to remember the actual story.

It’s a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, the story of a mother and her son who love each other so dearly… and when the winter comes and their clothes are not warm enough and they’ve burnt the last of their furniture for firewood, they sit together and hold each other and laugh and sing into the cold night.  And as the boy drifts off into sleep, he begins to dream his mother is sitting at their harp, singing and weaving him clothes of bright and luxurious threads… only to awake in the morning to find her frozen dead.

I wonder what a little girl I was to have loved something so sad…  And to be honest, I am not sure what moves me more — the story itself, or the thought that a little 8 year-old heart could already be so compelled by such beauty and sorrow.