VISITING THE ANCESTORS

 Florence and Bat went on a little trip to Genova, Italy, to visit Florence's family at Cimitero di Staglieno: one of the most beautiful cemeteries in the world. 

When I was little, my aunt Virgina brought me to a beautiful garden. I remember the air being hot, dry, and infused with the smell of pine. We wandered through a maze of mysterious sculptured figures and monuments so elaborate in intricate detail, so life-like, I was sure the people were alive under the dusty marble facades. We were visiting our ancestors. The garden was a cemetery, and it was gorgeous. Ghosts of the past are here in their final resting place. And what a beautiful place to be in death. Cimitero Monumental di Staglieno; haunting and so beautiful. I was never to forget it. 

Below is an excerpt of what the American writer Mark Twain said after visiting Staglieno :

 “Our last sight was the cemetery (a burial place intended to accommodate 60,000 bodies), and we shall continue to remember it after we shall have forgotten the palaces. It is a vast marble colonnaded corridor extending around a great unoccupied square of ground; its broad floor is marble, and on every slab is an inscription - for every slab covers a corpse. On either side, as one walks down the middle of the passage, are monuments, tombs, and sculptured figures that are exquisitely wrought and are full of grace and beauty. They are new and snowy; every outline is perfect, every feature guiltless of mutilation, flaw, or blemish; and therefore, to us these far-reaching ranks of bewitching forms are a hundred fold more lovely than the damaged and dingy statuary they have saved from the wreck of ancient art and set up in the galleries of Paris for the worship of the world." 

"Believe nothing you hear and half of what you see." 

GENOA: Stunning sculptures 🏛️, Monumental Cemetery (Cimitero Monumentale di Staglieno)

@batandmaggie @hauntedwalk @rideau_walkingtours @harpercollinsch@ottawabloggers #art #artgallery#ghost #bookstagram #book #booklover #catart #story #instagram #instagood#instadaily #insta #cimiteromonumentale#cimitero#cemetery #halloween #grave #beautiful #haunting

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️

Sometimes, you have to believe in ghosts, fairies, and the luck of the Irish.

This little black pussy cat was rescued early this morning on Saint Patty's Day. Florence picked up the tiny creature who wasn't quite ready for upstairs with some help from the fairies. They lent Florence their Fairy's ladder made of Lily of the Valley. The fragrance was heavenly. Now, Florence had a new kitten to name.


Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️


This is a very old Irish poem written by a monk in the 8th or 9th century.

"Pangur was a common name for cats at that place and time and the word “Ban” means white in Gaelic." 




Pangur Ban - THE IRISH CAT POEM (vulpeslibris.wordpress.com)

I and Pangur Ban, my cat,

'Tis a like task we are at;

Hunting mice is his delight,

Hunting words I sit all night.




Better far than praise of men

'Tis to sit with book and pen;

Pangur bears me no ill will;

He, too, plies his simple skill.




'Tis a merry thing to see

At our task how glad are we,

When at home we sit and find

Entertainment to our mind.




Oftentimes a mouse will stray

Into the hero Pangur's way;

Oftentimes my keen thought set

Takes a meaning in its net.




'Gainst the wall he sets his eye

Full and fierce and sharp and sly;

'Gainst the wall of knowledge I

All my little wisdom try.




When a mouse darts from its den.

O how glad is Pangur then!

O what gladness do I prove

When I solve the doubts I love!




So in peace our tasks we ply,

Pangur Ban, my cat and I;

In our arts we find our bliss,

I have mine, and he has his.




Practice every day has made

Pangur perfect in his trade ;

I get wisdom day and night,

Turning Darkness into light.'




Translation by Robin Flowers 

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! ☘️

LILIES OF THE VALLEY

When at the end of spring I pick for the last time
My favourite flowers— a yearning fills my breast,
And to the future I urgently appeal:
Let me but once again look upon the lilies of the valley.
Now they have faded. Like an arrow the summer has flown by,
The days have grown shorter. The feathered choir is still,
The sun more charily grants us its warmth and light,
And already the wood has laid its leafy carpet.
Then when harsh winter comes
And the forests don their snowy cover,
Despondently I roam and wait with new yearning
For the skies to shine with the sun of spring.
I find no pleasure in books, or conversation,
Or swift-rushing sledges, or the ball's noisy glitter,
Or Patti, or the theatre, or delicate cuisine,
Or the quiet crackling of smouldering logs on the fire
I wait for spring. And now the enchantress appears,
The wood has cast off its shroud
And prepares for us shade,
And the rivers start to flow, and the grove is filled with sound,
And at last the long-looked-for day is here!
Quick to the woods!—I race along the familiar path.
Can my dreams have come true, my longings be fulfilled?—
There he is! Bending to the earth, with trembling hand
I pluck the wondrous gift of the enchantress Spring.
O lily of the valley, why do you so please the eye?
Other flowers there are more sumptuous and grand,
With brighter colours and livelier patterns,
Yet they have not your mysterious fascination.
Where lies the secret of your charms? What do you prophesy to the soul?
With what do you attract me, with what gladden my heart?
Is it that you revive the ghost of former pleasures,
Or is it future bliss that you promise us?
I know not. But your balmy fragrance,
Like flowing wine, warms and intoxicates me,
Like music, it takes my breath away,
And like a flame of love, it suffuses my burning cheeks.
And I am happy while you bloom, modest lily of the valley,
The tedium of winter days has passed without a trace,
And oppressive thoughts are gone, and in my heart in languid comfort
Welcomes, with you, forgetfulness of trouble and woe.
Yet now you fade. Again in monotonous succession
The days will begin to flow slowly, and stronger than before
Will I be tormented by importunate yearning,
By the agonizing dream of the happiness of days in May.

And then someday spring again will call
And raise the living world out of its fetters.
But the hour will strike. I shall be no more among the living,
I shall meet, like everyone, my fated turn.
And then what?—Where, at the winged hour of death,
Will my soul, heeding its command, soundlessly soar?
No answer! Be silent, my restless mind,
You cannot guess what eternity holds for us.
But like all of nature, drawn by our thirst to live,
We call to you and wait, beautiful Spring!
The joys of earth are so near to us, so familiar—
The yawning maw of the grave so dark! ~ PYOTR LLYICH TCHAIKOVSKY

Spring is late this year but on a good note, it gave me a chance to pick my favorite flower...LILIES OF THE VALLEY and I was ☘️ to find this painting "Lady of Shallott" by Waterhouse.