Holiday for holiday's sake?

Many of us have learned about the guy who nailed a pamphlet on a church door somewhere in Germany or whatever that neck of the woods was called back in the 15th - or was it 16th - century, thus setting off a new movement which resulted in humans killing other humans for no reason other than those others appeared to believe in something else than themselves, thus invariably proving once again that humans are nuts.

(excuse me, my friend, for borrowing the words you borrowed from someone else; and apologies to the other reader who has no clue what this is about – it doesn't really matter)

Anyhow, October 31, the day Martin Luther is considered to have presented his 95 theses by nailing them on the door of the church in Wittenberg (the year, by the way, was 1517), thus starting the Protestant Reformation, has been acknowledged as the Reformation Day and is celebrated by the Lutheran church on the Sunday before or on October 31. However, Slovenia, as the only country in Europe apart from some German states, and although predominantly Roman Catholic, has proclaimed this day a civic holiday, back-to-back with the Catholic holiday, All Saints' Day, which befalls on November 1.

It is true that the Reformation contributed to the cultural development in this region, but what's the point in making this day a national holiday? A way of making up for the past injustices? I don't mind having a day off but I suspect I'll never understand the duplicitous ways of the politicians.

What do you see?

anything funny, smutty, angry, sad?

Autumn rain

grey clouds
the drip drip drip
of raindrops
against the windowsill
turn the lights on
in the middle of the day
monochrome world
monochrome words
in the sunday paper
where are the colours?
there...
spring onions
beans
cauliflower
persimmon
ah, persimmon!
ripe
soft
sweet
juicy
the colour
of sunrise
still
the rain patters
against the windows
in a monochrome world
outside

Cranes

Cranes are large, long-legged and long-necked birds of the order Gruiformers, and family Gruidae. Unlike the similar-looking but unrelated herons, cranes fly with necks outstretched, not pulled back. Most have elaborate and noisy courting displays or "dances". While folklore often states that cranes mate for life, recent scientific research indicates that these birds do change mates over the course of their (considerable) lifetimes. Some species and/or populations of cranes migrate over long distances, while some do not migrate at all. Cranes are gregarious, forming large flocks where their numbers are sufficient.

Most species of cranes are at least threatened, if not critically endangered, within their range.

They are opportunistic feeders that change their diet according to the season and their own nutrient requirements. They eat a range of items from suitably sized small rodents, fish, amphibians, and insects, to grain, berries, and plants.

(Wikipedia)

A colony of cranes has settled upon the city. They can be seen from every nook and cranny raising their necks high into the sky. The one picced below is still a juvenile and hasn't yet reached its full size. It appears they are here to stay the winter.

Fly With Us V

A Pan Am 727 flight, waiting for start clearance in Munich, overheard the following: Lufthansa (in German): "Ground, what is our start clearance time?"
Ground (in English): "If you want an answer you must speak in English."
Lufthansa (in English): "I am a German, flying a German airplane, in Germany. Why must I speak English?"
Unknown voice from another plane (in a beautiful British accent): "Because you lost the bloody war!"

Vera

The following text could use some revising but I'm posting it as is. The woman described in it really exists.

The sun lay low above the horizon when a dark slim figure appeared from one of the houses at the outskirts of the town. The warm late afternoon light softened the contrast between almost white, unkempt hair framing a creased visage of an elderly woman and her pitch black clothes. The woman paused for a moment, looked towards the setting sun, then crossed the street with a few measured steps and stood with her bare feet on a small mound of earth amidst the parched grass. She closed her eyes, turned her face towards the setting sun and took a few deep breaths. Then she opened the eyes directly into the sun and stared unblinkingly at the fiery globe for a full minute. She closed her eyes again, turned away from the sun, which was now almost kissing the edge of the hill, kept still for another minute, then descended towards the house and disappeared inside.

Vera has lived on the island for decades. She knew the town, its character, its inhabitants, their customs. But she knew she would never become one of them. She grew up in the plains of Panonia where fields of corn stretched to infinity. She lived there until her husband-to-be brought her to the island. They married and brought up two children, a boy and a girl. She was reasonably happy there but missed her fields and the friends she had left behind, so she sought the company of visitors, she sought word from the outside world. She would visit her relatives and friends back in Slavonia on occasion but less so in the latter years.

Things went for the worse, though. Her son, now a father of two adolescents, became gravely ill. She watched him wane and there was nothing she could do. When they buried him, she was overwhelmed by grief and never fully recovered. The trauma affected her eyes and the doctors told her they couldn’t help her and she might go completely blind.

Soon after she was faced with that fact, she woke up one night and couldn’t fall back asleep. So she turned on the TV although she could hardly see anything, and there was a show about people who practiced the ritual of looking into the sun and what beneficial effects that ritual had. Vera thought she had nothing to lose and if she was destined to blindness she could as well try performing the ritual as she had heard on that show. To the her own and her doctors’ utter surprise her condition not only ceased to deteriorate but started to improve significantly.

Every morning and/or evening Vera can be seen emerging barefoot from her home, stepping on the mound of earth she had made for her ritual and looking into the sun for a measured period of time. She believes the ritual has improved her eyesight and general condition and it gives her the energy to continue fighting.

A poem

I am inclined to post some poetry, hence the following poem. Song About Man is a poem by Edvard Kocbek, a 20th century slovenian poet I value very much.

*

Incapable of being, except in our body, collected, girded, suffering force:
Each of us convulsively clings to himself, even asleep
we contract like worms under stones.
Something always compels us, we vibrate
in all directions, and at rest we are perplexed.
The longer we live, the more we are tangled in gravity,
we acknowledge encounters only when they have passed.
We pulse constantly, the human race contains limitless
movements, whatever occurs is completing itself.
Wind tires us, a song makes us anxious, a tree unsettles
us, the earth puts us to sleep.
Looking is marvelling, running is fear, solitude is
nostalgia and speech solemn vows.
Extending beyond our own selves, time sips, space
extends us, we are stretched taut on the earth’s magnetic field.
When we come back together we are drunk with each
other, our faces are changed, someone else is among us.
When suffering lets go we look at our hands and play
with them, we lift them, reverently moving
the fingers, all of it equally dear.
In the expanse of the world we are a trembling of leaves
or the shadows of clouds over brightly colored hills.
We cannot abide by either morning or evening, at noon
we deny ourselves, and at night we shiver from strangeness.
We can find neither beginning nor end in ourselves, in
the great silence we hear perpetual music and bow our heads.
We are placed among lines and figures for convenience’
sake, some are horizontal, others stand vertical, it is assuring to grasp them.
Objects jut silently into space, maintaining their taut
forms. They neither collapse nor contract, they will
endure to the end with us.
Outside animals respire, their meekness overwhelms us,
and in their huge eyes we lose our balance.
Everything is the foundation of what is higher, the
crown to what is lower, bindweed to whatever is at hand.
The mark of man is in dualities that attract and affirm
one another, the game outruns its own speed.
The transitions and joints make sense of each other like
a word pronounced in the ear, truth seethes like a troubled ocean.
We move our bodies ritually and deliberately like priests
chanting, each side gives way, humility and splendor complete one another.
Man’s heart beats audibly, it hears and deciphers more
all the time, man’s heart is one fruit among many,
the tithe from the harvest of dying time.
Each thing in its proper place, earth and sea, night and
day, sorrow and joy, oblivion and the gift, within them man, unique.

(translated by Michael Biggins)