Dolce Far Niente

Dolce Far Niente, 1897
John William Godward, 1861 - 1922
[one of several "Dolce Far Niente" paintings by Godward
My friend Nikki recently taught me a new phrase to describe these mellow late fall days when we're inclined to hunker down in the kitchen, whiling away the autumnal hours under a pile of inconsequential projects: a little reading, a little writing, a lot of dabbling. How did I not know before now (especially since I'm so good at it) that the proper name for this kind of time - wasting is dolce far niente: the sweetness of doing nothing, pleasant relaxation in carefree idleness, or, as Nikki puts it, "indentured servitude to the goddess."

I admit that often when I say "I'm working from home today," I am, in reality, doing nothing from home all day! Still, I like to refer to it as "working" because, after all, I am always making connections:

Similar proverb: "How beautiful it is to do nothing and then to rest afterward."

Mark Twain: "Work consists of doing what a body is obliged to do; play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do."

And of course dear Anne Lamott: "puttering . . . my main spiritual practice."

Sometimes, I'm practicing the piano!

Spirit, 1885
George Roux, 1853 - 1929
Thanks to Sir Igor for sharing this scary painting!

DYFJ

Thanks to Purdue for Permission to Re-print
I have to admire my son Sam (#43; far right) who spends the summer getting up most mornings at 5:45 for a couple hours of weight training and then returns in the afternoon for a couple more hours of kicking practice. He shared with me a little mantra that he learned from one of his coaches on how to stay focused when all the world around seems out of whack: "DYFJ" (just do your f---ing job)!

With that in mind, I have assembled the following collection, all related to the theme of work and, more importantly, DYFJ!

"Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do.
Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do."

Mark Twain
from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
************************
“The Master of the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his education and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which; he simply pursues his vision of excellence in whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he is always doing both.”

Lawrence Pearsall Jacks

************************I Want A Lot

You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.

So many live on and want nothing
and are raised to the rank of prince
by the slippery ease of their light judgments.

But what you love to see are faces
that so work and feel thirst.

You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a hoe.

[Alt. translation:
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.]

You have not grown old, and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.

[Alt. translation:
You are not dead yet, it’s not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life that reveals itself quietly there.]

Rainer Maria Rilke / translated by Robert Bly

************************To Be Of Use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Marge Piercy
************************

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Huckleberry

Another June lake image from friend and photographer Jay Beets:I could swear that's Huckleberry Finn down there on the dock,
with his fishing pole, waiting for his raft to arrive!
What a wise child, Huckleberry Finn -- Mark Twain's quintessential boy of summer! Of Huckleberry's many memorable observations on his journey down the Mississippi, my favorite has to be the last line of Chapter 24 when his innocence and sense of honor is further tarnished by the chicanery of his elders: "It was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race."

And from No. 44, The Mysterious Stranger: "Ernest Wasserman, 17, apprentice; braggert, malicious, hateful, coward, liar, cruel, underhanded, treacherous. He and Moses had a sort of half fondness for each other, which was natural, they having one or more traits in common, down among the lower grades of traits. . . . when she heard my tale she was full of pity for me and maledictions for Ernest, and promised him a piece of her mind, with foot-notes and illustrations."

Speaking of Huckleberry Finn, the following musical was recently recommended to me by my friend Burnetta Hinterthuer, a botanist and woman of letters:
Big River by Roger MillerBurnetta is a discerning scholar who seeks merit in all and never loses her sense of humor along the way. Everything she suggests is excellent; so I ordered a copy of Big River from amazon and was listening to it in the car a couple of weeks ago while driving around town running errands. Just as the song "Free At Last" began to play, I experienced my coincidence of the day, when the traffic slowed for the passing of a funeral cortege. As I idled alongside the road waiting for the stream of cars to pass, Roger Miller's perfectly timed lyrics filled my head:

Free At Last

I wish by golly I could spread my wings and fly
And let my grounded soul be free for just a little while
To be like eagles when they ride upon the wind
And taste the sweetest taste of freedom for my soul

Then I'd be free at least, free at last
Great God Almighty, I'd be free at last

To let my feelings lie where harm cannot come by
And hurt this always hurtin' heart
That needs to rest awhile
I wish by golly I could spread my wings and fly
And taste the sweetest taste of freedom for my soul

Then I'd be free at least, free at last
Great God Almighty, I'd be free at last

I'd be free at least, I'd be free at last
Great God Almighty, I'd be free at last

words & lyrics by American Singer and Songwriter
Roger Miller, 1936 - 1992

As the CD advanced to the final track "Muddy Water," the flow of traffic resumed, and the still small voice of John Donne whispered in my heart:
"never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee."

A Perfect House

A house without a cat, and a well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered cat, may be a perfect house, perhaps, but how can it prove its title? -- Mark Twain

Above: Properly Revered Cats, Josef and Marcus (in 1993)

Could anyone have posed these cats any more perfectly or symmetrically than they posed themselves? How did they know to do that? When we adopted these two little guys from the Animal Shelter (way back in 1988), we could tell they were going to grow up pretty, but we never guessed just how gorgeous!

When they were about a year old, we were heading out of town for a week and needed to board them. This would be a new experience for them and also for us, since we had only recently moved to the area and had to find a new vet.

We finally picked a place to leave them, based on reputation and location, and were asked to fill out a questionnaire when we dropped them off. The last question on the list was "How long do you expect your pet to live?" We were puzzled by this question, and my immediate thought was "Well, we certainly expect them to be alive when we come to pick them up, if that's what you're asking!"

What made the question even worse for us was that Marcus was, in fact, recovering from an illness, which was the main reason we wanted to board him with a vet instead of with a friend--so that he could get emergency medical care if necessary. During the week we were gone, I called at least once every day, just to be sure that the cats were staying alive! And, boy, was I ever glad to get back home to them.

Luckily, Marcus did make a full recovery, and he and Josef went on to become very long-lived pets indeed. Marcus was with us for eleven years, Josef for nineteen.

As for that question, "How long do you expect your pet to live?" Gerry finally decided on "As long as we do" for his answer; and I wrote down: "Forever."

Thanks to my brother Bruce for this photograph
of Mark Twain and Little Feline Friend