Ransom was so small that the state highway department noted its existence only by the SPEED LIMIT 25 sign on the way into town and the SPEED LIMIT 55 sign on the way out. Lacey was on her way out, and she had no intention of keeping any speed limits. It was a summer’s morning just after dawn, the road was empty, and her windows were rolled down. She wanted to feel the wind on her face as she left Ransom, a small place for small people. She wanted to fly.
Maybe our touchstone now should be G. M. Hopkins, who made up his “own” set of formal constraints and then blew everyone’s footwear off from inside them. — David Foster Wallace,in The Review of Contemporary Fiction, summer 1993 I named this website Windhovering after the poem by the nineteenth century Jesuit poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins….
Mother Teresa once invited Dorothy Day to speak to her novices on the occasion of Dorothy’s visit to Calcutta in 1970. Eileen Eagan, who was traveling with Dorothy, tells of the novices’ reaction to Dorothy: “. . . I saw their eyes widen as she recounted the many times she had chosen to go to jail….
THE RIVER FLOWS SOUTH, AND ALL THE FLOWING WATERS OF half a continent run to it — morning dew, whole gray-white fields of melting snow, rain running down rooftops and cascading through the leaves of trees, rivulets in the streets, brooks and streams and creeks and tributaries — all wash clean over the people and the land, drawing together in the broad and heavy river that pushes south. Even teardrops move to find solace in the warm southern sea; shed too many tears, and they will bear your soul along with them. A loose enough body might follow, only half aware of the currents that carry it along.
The crab apple tree was in full bloom, glowing white in the moonlight. Cathy stood underneath it, her small mouth slightly agape as she looked up into a galaxy of blossoms. She was dressed in a pink flannel nightgown and she could feel the dew from the grass soaking through her slippers.
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