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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 1996, 2009 by Donna Woolfolk Cross All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. www.crownpublishing.com Three Rivers Press and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cross, Donna Woolfolk. Pope Joan / Donna Cross.—1st Three Rivers Press ed. Originally published: New York : Crown, © 1996. 1. Joan (Legendary Pope)—Fiction. 2. Popes—Legends— Fiction. I. Title. ps3553.r572p66 2009 813'.6—dc22 2008051919 isbn 978-0-307-45236-8 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 First Three Rivers Press Edition
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For my father, W i l l i a m Wo o l f o l k , and there are no words to add
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T WAS the twenty-eighth day of Wintarmanoth in the year of our Lord 814, the harshest winter in living memory. Hrotrud, the village midwife of Ingelheim, struggled through the snow toward the canon's grubenhaus. A gust of wind swept through the trees and drove icy fingers into her body, searching the holes and patches of her thin woolen garments. The forest path was deeply drifted; with each step, she sank almost to her knees. Snow caked her eyebrows and eyelashes; she kept wiping her face to see. Her hands and feet ached with cold, despite the layers of linen rags she had wrapped around them. A blur of black appeared on the path ahead. It was a dead crow. Even those hardy scavengers were dying this winter, starved because their beaks could not tear the flesh of the frozen carrion. Hrotrud shivered and quickened her pace. Gudrun, the canon's woman, had gone into labor a month sooner than expected. A fine time for the child to come, Hrotrud thought bitterly. Five children delivered in the last month alone, and not one of them lasted more than a week. A blast of wind-driven snow blinded Hrotrud, and for a moment she lost sight of the poorly marked path. She felt a swell of panic. More than one villager had died that way, wandering in circles only a short distance from their homes. She forced herself to stand still as the snow swirled around her, surrounding her in a featureless landscape of white. When the wind let up, she could just make out the outline of the path. Again she began to move forward. She no longer felt pain in her hands and feet; they had gone completely numb. She knew what that could mean, but she could not afford to dwell on it; it was important to remain calm. I must think of something besides the cold. She pictured the home in which she had been raised, a casa with a
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prosperous manse of some six hectares. It was warm and snug, with walls of solid timber, far nicer than their neighbors' homes, made of simple wooden lathes daubed with mud. A great fire had blazed in the central hearth, the smoke spiraling up to an opening in the roof. Hrotrud's father had worn an expensive vest of otter skins over his fine linen bliaud, and her mother had had silken ribbons for her long, black hair. Hrotrud herself had had two large-sleeved tunics, and a warm mantle of the finest wool. She remembered how soft and smooth the expensive material had felt against her skin. It had all ended so quickly. Two summers of drought and a killing frost ruined the harvest. Everywhere people were starving; in Thuringia there were rumors of cannibalism. Through the judicious sale of the family possessions, Hrotrud's father had kept them from hunger for a while. Hrotrud had cried when they took away her woolen mantle. It had seemed to her then that nothing worse could happen. She was eight years old; she did not yet comprehend the horror and cruelty of the world. She pushed her way through another large drift of snow, fighting off a growing light-headedness. It had been several days since she had had anything to eat. Ah, well. If all goes well, I will feast tonight. Perhaps, if the canon is well pleased, there will even be some bacon to take home. The idea gave her renewed energy. Hrotrud emerged into the clearing. She could see the blurred outlines of the grubenhaus just ahead. The snow was deeper here, beyond the screen of trees, but she drove ahead, plowing through with her strong thighs and arms, confident now that safety was near. Arriving at the door, she knocked once, then immediately let herself in; it was too cold to worry about social courtesies. Inside, she stood blinking in darkness. The single window of the grubenhaus had been boarded up for winter; the only light came from the hearth fire and a few smoky tallows scattered about the room. After a moment, her eyes began to adjust, and she saw two young boys seated close together near the hearth fire. "Has the child come?" Hrotrud asked. "Not yet," answered the older boy. Hrotrud muttered a short prayer of thanks to St. Cosmas, patron saint of midwives. She had been cheated of her pay that way more than once, turned away without a denar for the trouble she had taken to come. www.ThreeRiversPress.com
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At the hearth fire, she peeled the frozen rags from her hands and feet, crying out in alarm when she saw their sickly blue-white color. Holy Mother, do not let the frost take them. The village would have little use for a crippled midwife. Elias the shoemaker had lost his livelihood that way. After he was caught in a storm on his way back from Mainz, the tips of his fingers had blackened and dropped off in a week. Now, gaunt and ragged, he squatted by the church doors, begging his living off the charity of others. Shaking her head grimly, Hrotrud pinched and rubbed her numbed fingers and toes as the two boys watched in silence. The sight of them reassured her. It will be an easy birth, she told herself, trying to keep her mind off poor Elias. After all, I delivered Gudrun of these two easily enough. The older boy must be almost six winters now, a sturdy child with a look of alert intelligence. The younger, his round-cheeked, three-year-old brother, rocked back and forth, sucking his thumb morosely. Both were darkavised, like their father; neither had inherited their Saxon mother's extraordinary white-gold hair. Hrotrud remembered how the village men had stared at Gudrun's hair when the canon had brought her back from one of his missionary trips to Saxony. It had caused quite a stir at first, the canon's taking a woman. Some said it was against the law, that the Emperor had issued an edict forbidding men of the Church to take wives. But others said it could not be so, for it was plain that without a wife a man was subject to all kinds of temptation and wickedness. Look at the monks of Stablo, they said, who shame the Church with their fornications and drunken revelry. And certainly it was true that the canon was a sober and hardworking man. The room was warm. The large hearth was piled high with thick logs of birch and oak; smoke rose in great billows to the hole in the thatched roof. It was a snug dwelling. The wooden timbers that formed the walls were heavy and thick, and the gaps between them were tightly packed with straw and clay to keep out the cold. The single window had been boarded over with sturdy planks of oak, an extra measure of protection against the nordostroni, the frigid northeast winds of winter. The house was large enough to be divided into three separate compartments, one containing the sleeping quarters of the canon and his wife, one for the animals that sheltered there in harsh weather—Hrotrud heard the soft scuffle and scrape of their www.ThreeRiversPress.com
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hooves to her left—and this one, the central room, where the family worked and ate and the children slept. Other than the stone castle of the Emperor, still unfinished and therefore rarely inhabited, no one in Ingelheim had a finer home. Hrotrud's limbs began to prickle and throb with renewed sensation. She examined her fingers; they were rough and dry, but the bluish cast had receded, supplanted by a returning glow of healthy reddish pink. She sighed with relief, resolving to make an offering to St. Cosmas in thanksgiving. For a few more minutes, Hrotrud lingered by the fire, enjoying its warmth; then, with a nod and an encouraging pat for the boys, she hurried around the partition to where the laboring woman was waiting. Gudrun lay on a bed of peat topped with fresh straw. The canon, a dark-haired man with thick, beetling eyebrows that gave him a perpetually stern expression, sat apart. He nodded at Hrotrud, then returned his attention to the large wood-bound book on his lap. Hrotrud had seen the book on previous visits to the cottage, but the sight of it still filled her with awe. It was a copy of the Holy Bible, and it was the only book she had ever seen. Like the other villagers, Hrotrud could neither read nor write. She knew, however, that the book was a treasure, worth more in gold solidi than the entire village earned in a year. The canon had brought it with him from his native England, where books were not so rare as in Frankland. Hrotrud saw immediately that Gudrun was in a bad way. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse dangerously rapid, her whole body puffed and swollen. The midwife recognized the signs. There was no time to waste. She reached into her sack and took out a quantity of dove's dung that she had carefully collected in the fall. Returning to the hearth, she threw the dung on the fire, watching with satisfaction as the dark smoke began to rise, clearing the air of evil spirits. She would have to ease the pain so Gudrun could relax and bring the child forth. For that, she would use henbane. She took a bundle of the small, yellow, purple-veined flowers, placed them in a clay mortar, and skillfully ground them into powder, wrinkling her nose at the acrid odor that was released. Then she infused the powder into a cup of strong red wine and brought it to Gudrun to drink. "What is that you mean to give her?" the canon asked abruptly. Hrotrud started; she had almost forgotten he was there. "She is
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weakened from the labor. This will relieve her pain and help the child issue forth." The canon frowned. He took the henbane from Hrotrud's hands, strode around the partition, and threw it into the fire, where it hissed briefly and then vanished. "Woman, you blaspheme." Hrotrud was aghast. It had taken her weeks of painstaking search to gather that small amount of the precious medicine. She turned toward the canon, ready to vent her anger, but stopped when she saw the flinty look in his eyes. "It is written"—he thumped the book with his hand for emphasis—" 'In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children.' Such medicine is unholy!" Hrotrud was indignant. There was nothing unchristian about her medicine. Didn't she recite nine paternosters each time she pulled one of the plants from the earth? The canon certainly never complained when she gave him henbane to ease the pain of his frequent toothaches. But she would not argue with him. He was an influential man. One word from him about "unholy" practices, and Hrotrud would be ruined. Gudrun moaned in the throes of another pain. Very well, Hrotrud thought. If the canon would not allow the henbane, she would have to try another approach. She went to her sack and withdrew a long piece of cloth, cut to the True Length of Christ. Moving with brisk efficiency, she wound it tightly around Gudrun's abdomen. Gudrun groaned when Hrotrud shifted her. Movement was painful for her, but that could not be helped. Hrotrud took from her sack a small parcel, carefully wrapped in a scrap of silken fabric for protection. Inside was one of her treasures—the anklebone of a rabbit killed on Christmas Day. She had begged it off one of the Emperor's hunting party the previous winter. With utmost care, Hrotrud shaved off three thin slices and placed them in Gudrun's mouth. "Chew these slowly," she instructed Gudrun, who nodded weakly. Hrotrud settled back to wait. From the corner of her eye, she studied the canon, who frowned in concentration on his book till his brows almost met over the bridge of his nose. Gudrun moaned again and twisted in pain, but the canon did not look up. He's a cold one, Hrotrud reflected. Still, he must have some fire in his loins, or he wouldn't have taken her to wife.
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How long had it been since the canon brought the Saxon woman home, ten—or was it eleven?—winters ago. Gudrun had not been young, by Frankish standards, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four years old, but she was very beautiful, with the long white-gold hair and blue eyes of the aliengenae. She had lost her entire family in the massacre at Verden. Thousands of Saxons had died that day rather than accept the truth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Mad barbarians, Hrotrud thought. It wouldn't have happened to me. She would have sworn to whatever they asked of her, would do it now for that matter, should the barbarians ever sweep through Frankland again, swear to whatever strange and terrible gods they wished. It changed nothing. Who was to know what went on in a person's heart? A wise woman kept her own counsel. The fire sparked and flickered; it was burning low. Hrotrud crossed to the pile of wood stacked in the corner, chose two goodsized logs of birch, and put them on the hearth. She watched as they settled, hissing, into the fire, the flames licking upwards around them. Then she turned to check on Gudrun. It was a full half hour since Gudrun had taken the shavings of rabbit bone, but there was no change in her condition. Even that strong medicine had failed to take effect. The pains remained erratic and ineffectual, and Gudrun was weakening. Hrotrud sighed wearily. Clearly, she would have to resort to stronger measures. The canon proved to be a problem when Hrotrud told him she would need help with the birthing. "Send for the village women," he said peremptorily. "Ah, sir, that is impossible. Who is there to send?" Hrotrud raised her palms expressively. "I cannot go, for your wife needs me here. Your elder boy cannot go, for though he seems a likely lad, he could get lost in weather such as this. I almost did myself." The canon glared at her from under his dark brows. "Very well," he said, "I will go." As he rose from his chair, Hrotrud shook her head impatiently. "It would do no good. By the time you returned, it would be too late. It is your help I need, and quickly, if you wish your wife and babe to live." "My help? Are you mad, midwife? That"—he motioned distastewww.ThreeRiversPress.com
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fully toward the bed—"is women's business, and unclean. I will have nothing to do with it." "Then your wife will die." "That is in God's hands, not mine." Hrotrud shrugged. "It is all one to me. But you will not find it easy, raising two children without a mother." The canon stared at Hrotrud. "Why should I believe you? She's given birth before with no trouble. I have fortified her with my prayers. You cannot know that she will die." This was too much. Canon or not, Hrotrud would not tolerate his questioning her skill as a midwife. "It is you who know nothing," she said sharply. "You have not even looked at her. Go see her now; then tell me that she is not dying." The canon went to the bed and looked down at his wife. Her damp hair was pasted to her skin, which had turned yellowish white, her dark-rimmed eyes were hollow and sunken into her head; but for the long, unsteady exhalation of breath, she might have been already dead. "Well?" prodded Hrotrud. The canon wheeled to face her. "God's blood, woman! Why didn't you bring the women with you?" "As you said yourself, sir, your wife's given birth before without a speck of trouble. There was no reason to expect any this time. Besides, who would have come in weather such as this?" The canon stalked to the hearth and paced back and forth agitatedly. At last he halted. "What do you want me to do?" Hrotrud smiled broadly. "Oh, little enough, sir, little enough." She led him back to the bed. "For a start, help get her up." Standing on either side of Gudrun, they grabbed her under the arms and heaved. Her body was heavy, but together they managed to lift her to her feet, where she swayed against her husband. The canon was stronger than Hrotrud had thought. That was good, for she would need all his strength for what came next. "We must force the babe down into position. When I give the command, lift her as high as you can. And shake hard." The canon nodded, his mouth set grimly. Gudrun hung like a dead weight between them, her head fallen forward on her chest. "Lift!" shouted Hrotrud. They hoisted Gudrun by the arms and began to shake her up and down. Gudrun screamed and fought to www.ThreeRiversPress.com
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free herself. Pain and fear gave her surprising strength; the two of them were hard put to restrain her. If only he had let me give her the henbane, Hrotrud thought. She would be half-sensible by now. Quickly they lowered her, but she continued to struggle and cry out. Hrotrud gave a second command, and again they hoisted, shook, then lowered Gudrun to the bed, where she lay half-fainting, murmuring in her barbarous native tongue. Good, Hrotrud thought. If I move quickly, it will all be over before she regains her senses. Hrotrud reached into the birth passage, probing for the opening to the womb. It was rigid and swollen from the long hours of ineffectual labor. Using her right index fingernail, which she kept long for just this purpose, Hrotrud tore at the resistant tissue. Gudrun groaned, then went completely limp. Warm blood poured over Hrotrud's hand, down her arms, and onto the bed. At last she felt the opening give way. With an exultant cry, Hrotrud reached in and took hold of the baby's head, exerting a gentle downward pressure. "Take her by the shoulders and pull against me," she instructed the canon, whose face had gone quite pale. Nevertheless he obeyed; Hrotrud felt the pressure increase as the canon added his strength to hers. After a few minutes, the baby started to move down into the birth passage. She kept pulling steadily, careful not to injure the soft bones of the child's head and neck. At last the crown of the babe's head appeared, covered with a mass of fine, wet hair. Hrotrud eased the head out gently, then turned the body to permit the right shoulder, then the left, to emerge. One last, firm tug and the small body slid wetly into Hrotrud's waiting arms. "A girl," Hrotrud announced. "A strong one too, by the look of her," she added, noting with approval the infant's lusty cry and healthy pink color. She turned to meet the canon's disapproving stare. "A girl," he said. "So it was all for nothing." "Do not say so, sir." Hrotrud was suddenly fearful that the canon's disappointment might mean less for her to eat. "The child is healthy and strong. God grant that she live to do credit to your name." The canon shook his head. "She is a punishment from God. A punishment for my sins—and hers." He motioned toward Gudrun, who lay motionless. "Will she live?" "Yes." Hrotrud hoped that she sounded convincing. She could www.ThreeRiversPress.com
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not afford to let the canon think he might be doubly disappointed. She still hoped to taste meat that night. And there was, after all, a reasonable chance that Gudrun would survive. True, the birthing had been violent. After such an ordeal, many a woman came down with fever and the wasting disease. But Gudrun was strong; Hrotrud would treat her wound with a salve of mugwort mixed in fox's grease. "Yes, God willing, she will live," she repeated firmly. She did not feel it necessary to add that she would probably bear no more children. "That's something, then," the canon said. He moved to the bed and stood looking down at Gudrun. Gently he touched the whitegold hair, darkened now with sweat. For a moment, Hrotrud thought he was going to kiss Gudrun. Then his expression changed; he looked stern, even angry. "Per mulierem culpa successit," he said. "Sin came through a woman." He dropped the lock of hair and stepped back. Hrotrud shook her head. Something from the Holy Book, no doubt. The canon was a strange one, all right, but that was none of her affair, God be thanked. She hurried to finish cleaning the blood and birth fluids off Gudrun so she could start back home while there was still daylight. Gudrun opened her eyes and saw the canon standing over her. The beginnings of a smile froze on her lips as she saw the expression in his eyes. "Husband?" she said doubtfully. "A girl," the canon said coldly, not troubling to hide his displeasure. Gudrun nodded, understanding, then turned her face to the wall. The canon turned to go, stopping briefly to glance at the infant already safely ensconced in her pallet of straw. "Joan. She will be called Joan," he announced, and abruptly left the room.
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HUNDER sounded, very near, and the child woke. She moved in the bed, seeking the warmth and comfort of her older brothers' sleeping forms. Then she remembered. Her brothers were gone. It was raining, a hard spring downpour that filled the night air with the sweet-sour smell of newly plowed earth. Rain thudded on the roof of the canon's grubenhaus, but the thickly woven thatching kept the room dry, except for one or two small places in the corners where water first pooled and then trickled in slow, fat drops to the beaten earth floor. The wind rose, and a nearby oak began to tap an uneven rhythm on the cottage walls. The shadow of its branches spilled into the room. The child watched, transfixed, as the monstrous dark fingers wriggled at the edges of the bed. They reached out for her, beckoning, and she shrank back. Mama, she thought. She opened her mouth to call out, then stopped. If she made a sound, the menacing hand would pounce. She lay frozen, unable to will herself to move. Then she set her small chin resolutely. It had to be done, so she would do it. Moving with exquisite slowness, never taking her eyes off the enemy, she eased herself off the bed. Her feet felt the cool surface of the earthen floor; the familiar sensation was reassuring. Scarcely daring to breathe, she backed toward the partition behind which her mother lay sleeping. Lightning flashed; the fingers moved and lengthened, following her. She swallowed a scream, her throat tightening with the effort. She forced herself to move slowly, not to break into a run. She was almost there. Suddenly, a salvo of thunder crashed overhead. At the same moment something touched her from behind. She yelped, then turned and fled around the partition, stumbling over the chair she had backed into. This part of the house was dark and still, save for her mother's rhythmic breathing. From the sound, the child could tell she was deeply asleep; the noise had not wakened her. She went quickly to the
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bed, lifted the woolen blanket, and slid under it. Her mother lay on her side, lips slightly parted; her warm breath caressed the child's cheek. She snuggled close, feeling the softness of her mother's body through her thin linen shift. Gudrun yawned and shifted position, roused by the movement. Her eyes opened, and she regarded the child sleepily. Then, waking fully, she reached out and put her arms around her daughter. "Joan," she chastised gently, her lips against the child's soft hair. "Little one, you should be asleep." Speaking quickly, her voice high and strained from fear, Joan told her mother about the monster hand. Gudrun listened, petting and stroking her daughter and murmuring reassurances. Gently she ran her fingers over the child's face, halfseen in the darkness. She was not pretty, Gudrun reflected ruefully. She looked too much like him, with his thick English neck and wide jaw. Her small body was already stocky and heavyset, not long and graceful like Gudrun's people's. But the child's eyes were good, large and expressive and rich hued, green with dark gray smoke rings at the center. Gudrun lifted a strand of Joan's baby hair and caressed it, enjoying the way it shone, white-gold, even in the darkness. My hair. Not the coarse black hair of her husband or his cruel, dark people. My child. She wrapped the strand around her forefinger and smiled. This one, at least, is mine. Soothed by her mother's attentions, Joan relaxed. In playful imitation, she began to tug at Gudrun's long braid, loosening it till her hair lay tumbled about her head. Joan marveled at it, spilling over the dark woolen coverlet like rich cream. She had never seen her mother's hair unbound. At the canon's insistence, Gudrun wore it always neatly braided, hidden under a rough linen cap. A woman's hair, her husband said, is the net wherein Satan catches a man's soul. And Gudrun's hair was extraordinarily beautiful, long and soft and pure white-gold, without a trace of gray, though she was now an old woman of thirty-seven winters. "Why did Matthew and John go away?" Joan asked suddenly. Her mother had explained this to her several times, but Joan wanted to hear it again. "You know why. Your father took them with him on his missionary journey." "Why couldn't I go too?" www.ThreeRiversPress.com
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Gudrun sighed patiently. The child was always so full of questions. "Matthew and John are boys; one day they will be priests like your father. You are a girl, and therefore such matters do not concern you." Seeing that Joan was not content with that, she added, "Besides, you are much too young." Joan was indignant. "I was four in Wintarmanoth!" Gudrun's eyes lit with amusement as she looked at the pudgy baby face. "Ah, yes, I forgot, you are a big girl now, aren't you? Four years old! That does sound very grown-up." Joan lay quietly while her mother stroked her hair. Then she asked, "What are heathens?" Her father and brothers had spoken a good deal about heathens before they left. Joan did not understand what heathens were, exactly, though she gathered it was something very bad. Gudrun stiffened. The word had conjuring powers. It had been on the lips of the invading soldiers as they pillaged her home and slaughtered her family and friends. The dark, cruel soldiers of the Frankish Emperor Karolus. "Magnus," people called him now that he was dead. "Karolus Magnus." Charles the Great. Would they name him so, Gudrun wondered, if they had seen his army tear Saxon babes from their mothers' arms, swinging them round before they dashed their heads against the reddened stones? Gudrun withdrew her hand from Joan's hair and rolled onto her back. "That is a question you must ask your father," she said. Joan did not understand what she had done wrong, but she heard the strange hardness in her mother's voice and knew that she would be sent back to her own bed if she didn't think of some way to repair the damage. Quickly she said, "Tell me again about the Old Ones." "I cannot. Your father disapproves of the telling of such tales." The words were half statement, half question. Joan knew what to do. Placing both hands solemnly over her heart, she recited the Oath exactly as her mother had taught it to her, promising eternal secrecy on the sacred name of Thor the Thunderer. Gudrun laughed and drew Joan close again. "Very well, little quail. I will tell you the story, since you know so well how to ask." Her voice was warm again, wistful and melodic as she began to tell of Woden and Thor and Freya and the other gods who had peopled her Saxon childhood before the armies of Karolus brought the Word of Christ with blood and fire. She spoke liltingly of Asgard, the radiant home of the gods, a place of golden and silver palaces, which www.ThreeRiversPress.com
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could only be reached by crossing Bifrost, the mysterious bridge of the rainbow. Guarding the bridge was Heimdall the Watchman, who never slept, whose ears were so keen he could even hear the grass grow. In Valhalla, the most beautiful palace of all, lived Woden, the father-god, on whose shoulders sat the two ravens Hugin, Thought, and Munin, Memory. On his throne, while the other gods feasted, Woden contemplated what Thought and Memory told him. Joan nodded happily. This was her favorite part of the story. "Tell about the Well of Wisdom," she begged. "Although he was already very wise," explained her mother, "Woden always sought greater wisdom. One day he went to the Well of Wisdom, guarded by Mimir the Wise, and asked for a draft from it. 'What price will you pay?' asked Mimir. Woden replied that Mimir could ask what he wished. 'Wisdom must always be bought with pain,' replied Mimir. 'If you wish a drink of this water, you must pay for it with one of your eyes.' " Eyes bright with excitement, Joan exclaimed, "And Woden did it, Mama, didn't he? He did it!" Her mother nodded. "Though it was a hard choice, Woden consented to lose the eye. He drank the water. Afterward, he passed on to mankind the wisdom he had gained." Joan looked up at her mother, her eyes wide and serious. "Would you have done it, Mama—to be wise, to know about all things?" "Only gods make such choices," she replied. Then, seeing the child's persistent look of question, Gudrun confessed, "No. I would have been too afraid." "So would I," Joan said thoughtfully. "But I would want to do it. I would want to know what the well could tell me." Gudrun smiled down at the intent little face. "Perhaps you would not like what you would learn there. There is a saying among our people. 'A wise man's heart is seldom glad.' " Joan nodded, though she did not really understand. "Now tell about the Tree," she said, snuggling close to her mother again. Gudrun began to describe Irminsul, the wondrous universe tree. It had stood in the holiest of the Saxon groves at the source of the Lippe River. Her people had worshiped at it until it was cut down by the armies of Karolus. "It was very beautiful," her mother said, "and so tall that no one could see the top. It—" www.ThreeRiversPress.com
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She stopped. Suddenly aware of another presence, Joan looked up. Her father was standing in the doorway. Her mother sat up in bed. "Husband," she said. "I did not look for your return for another fortnight." The canon did not respond. He took a wax taper from the table near the door and crossed to the hearth fire, where he plunged it into the glowing embers until it flared. Gudrun said nervously, "The child was frightened by the thunder. I thought to comfort her with a harmless story." "Harmless!" The canon's voice shook with the effort to control his rage. "You call such blasphemy harmless?" He covered the distance to the bed in two long strides, set down the taper, and pulled the blanket off, exposing them. Joan lay with her arms around her mother, halfhidden under a curtain of white-gold hair. For a moment the canon stood stupefied with disbelief, looking at Gudrun's unbound hair. Then his fury overtook him. "How dare you! When I have expressly forbidden it!" Taking hold of Gudrun, he started to drag her from the bed. "Heathen witch!" Joan clung to her mother. The canon's face darkened. "Child, begone!" he bellowed. Joan hesitated, torn between fear and the desire somehow to protect her mother. Gudrun pushed her urgently. "Yes, go. Go quickly." Releasing her hold, Joan dropped to the floor and ran. At the door, she turned and saw her father grab her mother roughly by the hair, wrenching her head back, forcing her to her knees. Joan started back into the room. Terror stopped her short as she saw her father withdraw his long, bone-handled hunting knife from his corded belt. "Forsachistu diabolae?" he asked Gudrun in Saxon, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. When she did not respond, he placed the point of the knife against her throat. "Say the words," he growled menacingly. "Say them!" "Ec forsacho allum diaboles," Gudrun responded tearfully, her eyes blazing defiance, "wuercum ende wuordum, thunaer ende woden ende saxnotes ende allum . . ." Rooted with fear, Joan watched her father pull up a heavy tress of her mother's hair and draw the knife across it. There was a ripping sound as the silken strands parted; a long band of white gold floated to the floor.
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Clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, Joan turned and ran. In the darkness, she bumped into a shape that reached out for her. She squealed in fear as it grabbed her. The monster hand! She had forgotten about it! She struggled, pummeling at it with her tiny fists, resisting with all her strength, but it was huge, and held her fast. "Joan! Joan, it's all right. It's me!" The words penetrated her fear. It was her ten-year-old brother Matthew, who had returned with her father. "We've come back. Joan, stop struggling! It's all right. It's me." Joan reached up, felt the smooth surface of the pectoral cross that Matthew always wore, then slumped against him in relief. Together they sat in the dark, listening to the soft, splitting sounds of the knife ripping through their mother's hair. Once they heard Mama cry out in pain. Matthew cursed aloud. An answering sob came from the bed where Joan's seven-year-old brother, John, was hiding under the covers. At last the ripping sounds stopped. After a brief pause the canon's voice began to rumble in prayer. Joan felt Matthew relax; it was over. She threw her arms around his neck and wept. He held her and rocked her gently. After a time, she looked up at him. "Father called Mama a heathen." "Yes." "She isn't," Joan said hesitantly, "is she?" "She was." Seeing her look of horrified disbelief, he added, "A long time ago. Not anymore. But those were heathen stories she was telling you." Joan stopped crying; this was interesting information. "You know the first of the Commandments, don't you?" Joan nodded and recited dutifully, "Thou shalt have no other gods before me." "Yes. That means that the gods Mama was telling you about are false; it is sinful to speak of them." "Is that why Father—" "Yes," Matthew broke in. "Mama had to be punished for the good of her soul. She was disobedient to her husband, and that also is against the law of God." "Why?"
Page 16
"Because it says so in the Holy Book." He began to recite, " 'For the husband is the head of the wife; therefore, let the wives submit themselves unto their husbands in everything.' " "Why?" "Why?" Matthew was taken aback. No one had ever asked him that before. "Well, I guess because . . . because women are by nature inferior to men. Men are bigger, stronger, and smarter." "But—" Joan started to respond, but Matthew cut her off. "Enough questions, little sister. You should be in bed. Come now." He carried her to the bed and placed her beside John, who was already sleeping. Matthew had been kind to her; to return the favor, Joan closed her eyes and burrowed under the covers as if to sleep. But she was far too troubled for sleep. She lay in the dark, peering at John as he slept, his mouth hanging slackly open. He can't recite from the Psalter and he's seven years old. Joan was only four, but she already knew the first ten psalms by heart. John wasn't smart. But he was a boy. Yet how could Matthew be wrong? He knew everything; he was going to be a priest, like their father. She lay awake in the dark, turning the problem over in her mind. Toward dawn she slept, restlessly, troubled by dreams of mighty wars between jealous and angry gods. The angel Gabriel himself came from Heaven with a flaming sword to do battle with Thor and Freya. The battle was terrible and fierce, but in the end the false gods were driven back, and Gabriel stood triumphant before the gates of paradise. His sword had disappeared; in his hand gleamed a short, bone-handled knife.
Page 426
Š isolde ohlbaum
About the Author A New York City native, Donna Woolfolk Cross graduated cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, from the University of Pennsylvania in 1969 with a B.A. in English. She moved to London, England, after graduation and worked in a small publishing house on Fleet Street, W. H. Allen and Company. Upon her return to the United States, Cross worked at Young and Rubicam, a Madison Avenue advertising firm, before going on to graduate school at UCLA where she earned a master's degree in literature and writing in 1972. In 1973, Cross moved to Upstate New York and began teaching writing at an upstate New York college. She is the author of two books on language, Word Abuse and Mediaspeak, and coauthor of the college textbook Speaking of Words. The product of seven years of research and writing, Pope Joan is her first novel. Cross is at work on a new novel set in seventeenth-century France.
To purchase a copy of
Pope Joan
visit one of these online retailers: Amazon Barnes & Noble Borders IndieBound Powell's Books Random House
Published on Jun 3, 2009
For a thousand years her existence has been denied. She is the legend that will not die–Pope Joan, the ninth-century woman who disguised her...


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A public speaker could not believe his eyes when he saw just one man among the audience. Nevertheless, he decided to go ahead with his speech. He asked him the reason for coming attending his speech. The man replied, "It's a hot day out there. The air conditioning is pretty good in here." Read More »
Category Archives: Joke of the dayFeed Subscription
Home Improvement
Kathy goes to her local bank, walks into the manager's office, and says, "I want a loan. I am going to divorce my husband." "Oh, we don't give loans for divorces," the manager says. "We offer loans only for things like real estate, appliances, automobiles, businesses, and home improvement." Kathy interrupts: "Stop right there. This definitely falls into the category ... Read More »
Carpet Installation and… replacement
A man was carpeting his living room, and once finished, he couldn't find his pack of cigarettes. Then he saw the lump in the middle of the carpet. He decided he didn't want to pull up the new carpet for one pack of smokes, so he took his hammer and pounded the lump flat. His wife came in the room ... Read More »
Scavenger hunt
A woman answered her front door and saw a little boy holding a list. "Ma'am," he explained, "I'm on a scavenger hunt, and I still need three grains of wheat, a pork-chop bone and a piece of used carbon paper so I can earn a dollar." "Wow," the woman replied. "Who sent you on such a challenging hunt?" "My babysitter's ... Read More »
Now I know..
A father took his small daughter to Disneyworld. When they arrived, the little girl headed straight for the space mountain rollercoaster and rode it twice. The following year, they returned to the park and the father took the girl to space mountain. She hesitated for a moment, then said to her father that she wouldn't be riding. Father asks her, ... Read More »
Small head
An old man with a cue ball sized head is sitting at the bar. "Excuse me," says the guy next to him. "I don't mean to be rude, but I noticed you have an extremely small head. Is that a birth defect?" The old man says, "No my ship was torpedoed by the Germans in World War II. I was ... Read More »
Pay with a smile!
"I hate paying my income tax." "You should be a good citizen – why don't you pay with a smile?" "I'd like to but they insist on money!" Read More »
Best balls
Eddie came to work Monday and his co-workers asked him how his weekend was. He said he played a little golf. So his co-worker asked him how well he did. "I hit two of my best balls," he said. "Tell me about it," said his co-worker. "I stepped on a rake." Read More »
The New SUV
Two old friends were chatting. One said to the other, "My 85th birthday was yesterday. The wife gave me an SUV." Other guy responded, "Wow, that's amazing! Imagine that, an SUV… what a great gift!" "Yup! Socks, Underwear, AND Viagra!" Read More »
Fresh Flowers
There are women whose thoughtful husbands buy them flowers for no reason. And then there's me. One day I couldn't stand it any longer. "Why don't you ever bring me flowers?" I asked. "What's the point?" my husband said. "They die after about a week." "So could you," I shot back, "but I still like having you around." Read More »


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Connect with your inner core of power and actually start to feel powerful in a spiritual fun way.
Check out these different ways to have some spiritual fun in your life. Below, check out a couple of Miracle Grids sample meditations along with seeing your soul's path using the Enneagram Personality Drive.
See how these video meditations help you. And remember to have some spiritual fun on your journey.
- Theta waves & binaural beats in best guided meditation videos
- Universal truths about your true nature that guide you to upward so you can have feelings of peace & calm
- Visuals that help you focus in the NOW moment
Watch this now "Be a Winner Video Meditation" Use your best ear listening devices so you can understand that you are a winner.
Have your kids meditate too!
Have them watch "Children Receiving Love Meditation".
Have your inner child watch – I won't tell.
The Enneagram Personality Drive also known as the soul's path. Read along and see the path of ease that your soul has for you.
Don't know your Enneagram Personality Drive? Click here: Enneagram Persoanlity Drive
True Soul Path 1 -3
Reformer 1
- The Reformer enneagrm personality follows your soul's path when you strive to have fun accepting an imperfect world.
- Then understand and think more deeply.
- Third, rely on yourself.
- Fourth, know that you are loved always.
- Fifth create exceptional things and then see your world reform before your very eyes.
True Soul Path 4 -6
Creator 4
- The Exceptional One or Creator enneagram personality follows your soul's path by first doing what is right by letting go of feeling flawed.
- Then have fun seeing how reality really works.
- Third, you think clearly about your true nature so as to be self reliant.
- Then in knowing you are loved by the Divine.
- Now you can create by inspiring others and doing exceptional things.
True Soul Path 7 -9
Adventurer 7
- The Adventurer enneagram personality follows your soul's path and when you think more deeply to focus your thoughts.
- Then use that focus to become self reliant.
- Third, know that you are loved by the Divine so you can then create being more intimate within yourself.
- Now, you have the character to do what is right, love yourself rather than get a feel good fix.
- You can truly find the adventure that life is about.
Helper 2
- The Helper enneagram personality follows your soul's path by accepting where you are now & create love for yourself.
- Then you do what is right to others by accepting them completely and setting them free.
- Third, you find the adventure of life through touching the joy of giving without conditions to get.
- Then you think about receiving from the Divine.
- Fifth, now rely on yourself to love unconditionally, and receive love from your world abundantly.
Investigator 5
- The Investigator enneagram personality follows your soul's path when you are open to act on what you know now.
- Be self reliant.
- Third you know you are loved even if you don't have all the answers.
- Then inspire yourself by doing what is right without worrying if it is wrong.
- Fifth, having that freedom, enjoy the adventure that life is. Then you will enhance your ability to think more clearly.
Leader 8
- The Self reliant enneagram personality follows your soul's path when you use the power of your magnanimous heart to trust yourself as being loved enough by the Divine that you would never be without power.
- Then you can be creative to inspire others rather than control them.
- Third, reform yourself and find the fun in life.
- Now use more of your intellect.
- Now you can genuinely lead and be relied upon.
Achiever 3
- The Achiever enneagram personality follows your soul's path when you reject any self deception and be who you really are. Free yourself from seeking outside approval and find safety and security by knowing yourself first.
- By knowing you are loved by the Divine always, you make peace with yourself and then others.
- Then you achieve anything your heart desires.
Safe & Secure 6
- The Loyal enneagram personality follows your soul's path when you find peace within.
- You then achieve freedom of being run by your fears by facing them.
- You are able to move to a sense of well being, and can find the safety and security of life for yourself and others.
Peacemaker 9
- The Peacemaker enneagram personality follows your soul's path by knowing your priorities matter to the Divine always. Then achieve anything you desire keeping in mind what is good, true and beautiful about it.
- Now provide safety and security for yourself and others.
- Then you can truly use your talents of conceiving and communication to bring peace to your community and yourself.
I have created products that help make spiritual growth fun. See the Miracle Grids Shop for Video Meditations and Healing Talisman – Instant HD Download on your computer then install on any device.
Are you frustrated with not being told how to actually feel better? You've got to check these new product sets with meditations, guides and practical how to actions. I've included proven techniques to help you feel made in the image of Divine Creation. Both download and streaming versions.
Click the image below for a FREE Miracle Grid Meditation Instant Access
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Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Christian Dior Haute Couture FW 11/12
6 comments:
Aren't these beautiful???ReplyDelete
Hi my 1st time on your blog. Love Dior too. Have u seen yet their SS 2012 collection. Vibrant, lovely and one of my favorites!=)ReplyDelete
@Kristen Yeah!! The show itself got awful reviews, but I think its pretty interesting! Its far more 'betsey johnson' than 'couture', but its still pretty awesome. :)ReplyDelete
@Carma I am a complete Dior addict. Anything the come out with is perfetion. :)ReplyDelete
I would love it if we could follow each other and stay connected through Facebook. You have an amazing blog. XOXO
@venus Sounds great!ReplyDelete
Thank you for visiting Mallory in New York!
Feel free to leave any questions, comments, or suggestions. If you would like me to check out your blog, please leave me a link and I will do my best to take a look. :)
I look forward to hearing from you!


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We planned to stay one night at Rosewood Inn of the Anasazi then travel further north to Ojo Caliente for three more nights and then back to the Rosewood for one more night before we left. But the staff at the Inn made our visit so wonderful that we came back early for more of their superior service and luxurious accommodations.
I cannot say enough great things about Samuel at the front desk who was wonderful from the first moment we met him to the last (sad) moment we had to say good-bye. We were four very diverse women traveling together and he made us feel so welcome and special. He knew us by name and welcomed us back with a huge smile....we felt like we were home again!
It's people like Samuel, Neal and Jeff (at the front door) and Bob at the Concierge desk that can make or break a hotel and they are the main reason this one deserves five stars. The hotel is small enough that you come to know everyone and that is the almost imperceptible "extra" that the larger hotels fail to have.
The rooms at the Inn (both public and private are beautifully decorated and appointed and the beds were very comfortable. Brand new bathrooms, great bed linens, very clean. Each morning there is coffee in the lounge plus flavored water (drink lots in Santa Fe!) and cookies in the afternoon. And one thing about this hotel that I loved-free water! I know it sounds odd but having been to so many hotels that want to charge you $5 for a bottle of water this small gesture means something.
We ate at the restaurant twice and both times the food was great. However, the front desk (Samuel, et al) and the Concierge (Bob) are very pleased to make recommendations and reservations on where to walk for a dinner out.
The location is probably the best in Santa Fe if you want to be right next to the shopping plaza downtown.
I HIGHLY recommend this to anyone that wants their own special oasis in Santa Fe. This is a small Inn and, for us, was just the right size with GREAT people.
- Official Description (provided by the hotel):
- Perfectly located and with one of the best restaurants in Santa Fe, this hotel provides local color in luxurious surroundings. ... more less
- Reservation Options:
- TripAdvisor is proud to partner with Booking.com, Hotels.com, Expedia, Cheap Tickets, Orbitz, Priceline, Travelocity, Hotwire and getaroom.com so you can book your Rosewood Inn of the Anasazi reservations with confidence. We help millions of travelers each month to find the perfect hotel for both vacation and business trips, always with the best discounts and special offers.
- Also Known As:
- Rosewood Inn Of The Anasazi Hotel Santa Fe
- Inn Anasazi


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Category Archives: Iris
Posted in Amaryllis, Colocasia, Color, flower photos, Garden Tapestry, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Nature art, Nature Photography, Perennials, Photography, Plant photos, Roses, Spring garden, Texture, Verbena, Zone 7B Cultural Information
Tags: 'Black Coral', Amaryllis, Bearded Iris, Colocasia, Flower photographs, Forest Garden, Garden photography, Gardening addiction, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris 'Stairway to Heaven', Perma-culture, Photography, Rosa 'The Generous Gardener', Siberian Iris, Spring garden
"Why Does It Always Rain On The Iris?" and Other Gardening Conundrums
Our Iris are in full, glorious bloom, and its raining…
Ironic, that just as soon as these gorgeous blooms open, they are inundated. Petals turn to mush; stems fall over under their waterlogged weight.
Same with the roses, if you must know. The first gorgeous buds began to open on Saturday morning. The rains started on Saturday, too, with more on the way.
Now, I am always grateful for rain, please don't misunderstand. It is much easier to garden in rain than drought. But I can't help but noticing these beautiful flowers, with such a short period of bloom, blooming in the rain.
How many of us gardeners plan with the 'worst case' scenario in mind? Very few, I'd bet.
Gardeners must be optimists. Otherwise, we'd be living in rented flats in a tall building somewhere, enjoying the local parks instead of puttering in our own unruly gardens. We tend to expect the best and overlook the rest.
But real life is full of quirks and challenge. We must make long range plans and then hope that we get to enjoy them. Like the Iris, which take nearly a full year, or more, from when you plant their rhizome until they bloom. We just plant them with a sprinkling of faith that eventually we'll enjoy a few days of their delicious flowers.
I have a packet of 'Ten Free Flowering Trees' from Arbor Day which arrived in Friday's mail. They arrived late in the day, while I was finishing up other projects, with no energy left to plant them.
They are still lying there in the garage, waiting for me. We may still get a break in the rain, at least enough to get some of them in the ground today, I hope. We have room for only a few. The rest I hope to give to friends.
It takes faith to plant a rooted twig, only a foot high, and envision the tree which will eventually manifest. If one stops to consider the many things which may happen along the way, one might never even consider planting a tree of one's own.
Two Live Oaks I planted last spring ended up broken off by something over the winter. A very hungry deer, maybe? (I gathered up the broken tops, and thrust them into pots hoping they might root.)
But consider our wild Scarlet Buck-Eye, Aesculus pavia. This lovely tree began life as a volunteer seedling, before it was crushed by fallen oak trees four summers ago. It was broken to a 4″ stump, and we could only hope it would recover.
I think that its strong roots helped it come back so quickly. What you see is four years of growth, and its best bloom yet. A gift of nature, it draws every eye in our garden this week.
A gardener learns to suspend judgement after a while. Calling a happening 'good' or 'bad' proves one short-sighted, all too often. Better to keep an open mind, and find ways to work with events as they arise.
But that still doesn't explain why this rogue, self-planted 'Firecracker Tree' looks stupendous today, even in the pouring rain, while our expensive and carefully tended Iris are melting before our eyes.
Maybe all of those purists who urge us to plant more native plants have a point, when you look at things dispassionately. Did I mention that hummingbirds love those gorgeous red flowers? Should any find our garden, their buffet lies waiting for them…..
A gardener's life comes filled with conundrums. So many choices, so little time…. And yet, we get a fresh go at it with each passing season.
I've come to look at life in our garden as some sort of ongoing science experiment. We try this, we try that. When something succeeds, that is very gratifying. When something fails, we have learned something new.
I'll try it differently next time.
And does that mean I'm going to rip out the Iris and plant something else; something that will stand up to our rainy springs? Not a chance.
I'll just grab my jacket and a hat and enjoy our garden in the pouring rain, and perhaps even find spots to add a few more Iris ….
Virginia Historic Garden Week April 22-29
Photos by Woodland Gnome 2017
"When you find your path, you must not be afraid.
You need to have sufficient courage to make mistakes.
Disappointment, defeat, and despair
are the tools God uses to show us the way."
Paulo Coelho
Posted in Color, Flower Gardening, flower photos, Garden planning, Garden Tapestry, Gardening addiction, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Perennials, Perma-culture, Photography, Plant photos, Roses, Scarlet Buckeye, Trees, Use of Native Plants, Weather, Williamsburg, Zone 7B Cultural Information
Tags: Flower photographs, Garden photography, garden planning, Gardening addiction, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Native Trees, Nature Photography, Perma-culture, Roses, Scarlet Buckeye Tree, Spring garden, trees, Virginia, Virginia Historic Garden Week, Weather, wildlife gardening
Sunday Dinner: Water Is Life
"Brushing the clouds away from my eyes,
I see clarity in the raindrop
and beauty in the first ray of morning sun…
Life is strange and wondrous…"
Virginia Alison
"On the fifth day, which was a Sunday,
it rained very hard.
I like it when it rains hard.
It sounds like white noise everywhere,
which is like silence but not empty."
Mark Haddon
"The sky mingled with the Earth infinitely
in the tenderness of rain drops."
Meeta Ahluwalia
"Sometimes enlightenment descends upon you
when you least expect it…"
Dean Koontz
Photos by Woodland Gnome 2017
"Mist to mist, drops to drops.
For water thou art,
and unto water shalt thou return."
Kamand Kojouri
Posted in Garden Tapestry, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Nature art, Nature Photography, Perennials, Photography, Roses, Silent Sunday, Spring garden, Sunday Dinner, Symmetry, Water, Weather
Tags: Environmental preservation, flower photography, Forest Garden, Iris, Nature Art, Nature Photography, Perennials, Perma-culture, Photography, Rain, Rose, Silent Sunday, Spring flowers, Spring garden, Sunday dinner: Water is Life, Water, Weather
For the Love of Iris
I fell in love with Iris as a child. My parents accepted a gift of Iris rhizomes from a retired friend, who happened to hybridize and grow German bearded Iris. Dad came home one summer evening with his trunk loaded with paper grocery bags, each containing the mud caked rhizomes his friend had dug and discarded from his working garden. He needed to repurpose the space for his new seedlings.
My mother looked at the sheer volume of gifted plants. A conversation followed about what to do with them all. And then, Dad started digging. He dug long borders in our sunny Danville, Virginia back yard. Full sun and good loam were just what those Iris needed.
The first spring after that, we were all speechless at the absolute beauty of them. And the fragrance! I don't know whether my parents' friend was selecting for fragrance, but these were the most fragrant flowers my young nose had ever discovered.
The colors of these special Iris ranged from white to intense reds and nearly black shades of purple. They bloomed orange and pink and many shades of blue. I was smitten, and have loved Iris since the day these Iris first bloomed in our back yard.
When we moved, a few years later, we labeled the Iris by color while they were in bloom so we could dig some of each variety. Back into grocery bags, we carried this legacy to our new home. The new place had a shadier yard, and yet we set to work digging a new Iris bed, even while still unpacking boxes and settling into the house.
That began a new ritual around our family's moving. Each time after, we would try to dig and move as many Iris as we could. As each of us left home, and our parents aged, that became a little more challenging with each move.
Even though I dug divisions for each of my gardens over the years, we still lost many of the cultivars along the way.
But I never lost my enthusiasm for growing Iris. And when I learned about re-blooming German bearded Iris a few years back, I began collecting and digging new beds for Iris in sunny spots in our Forest Garden. I bought several varieties from local breeder Mike Lockatelle, and have ordered others from online catalogs. Now, it is as common for us to enjoy Iris in bloom in November or December as it is to enjoy them in May.
We now grow many types of Iris, ranging from the earliest winter blooming cultivars which grow only a few inches tall, to our beautiful Bearded Iris which may grow to 4′ if they are happy. We plant a few more each year. There is a shallow pool filled with bright yellow flag Iris in our front yard, inherited with the garden.
A master gardener friend gave me divisions of an antique variety of bearded Iris grown in Colonial Williamsburg, and all over this area, from her own garden. Other friends have also given us beautiful gifts of Iris over the years, and each remains special to me. The blooming Iris remind me of friendships and loved ones; other times and places in my life.
Iris can be grown successfully and enjoyed even if you have deer grazing in your garden. Deer will not bother them. This is one of the reasons why we find Iris to be a good investment. They grow quickly, and can be easily divided and spread around the garden. They pay amazing dividends as they get better and better each year.
Iris can be easy to grow, if you can give them hot, sunny space to spread. They are heavy feeders and perform best when grown in rich soil and are fed once or twice a year. But without sun and space, many varieties will just fizzle out. Make sure bearded Iris get at least six hours of direct sun; more if possible.
Iris want soil that drains after a rain. Most established Iris can tolerate fairly dry soil after they bloom, which makes them a good selection for hot climates, like ours. Japanese Iris and Louisiana Iris species require moist soil year round, and are happy growing in standing water.
Sometimes, their foliage will die back; but the roots remain alive and ready to grow new leaves when conditions improve. I was very pleasantly surprised to find these beautiful miniature Iris growing this spring.
I though we had lost them during last summer's drought, when they disappeared. I'm still waiting for our Iris pallida 'Variegata' to reappear, which struggled last summer, too.
Dutch Iris, always fun to cut for a vase, grow each spring and then, like so many other bulbs, die back. They come in an amazing array of colors and can be ordered for pennies a bulb.
Showy Louisiana Iris don't have a place in our garden. They grow best with their roots always wet, usually at the edge of a pond. I admire them, but don't have the right conditions to grow them. But I am always happy to grab a shovel and make a spot for more bearded Iris.
I've been moving Iris around my parents' garden, the last few years, to bring shaded plants out into the sun. I hope to salvage and increase what is left of their collection. We are enjoying the fruits of that effort this week, as they have gorgeous Iris blooming here and there around their home.
We discussed plans for a new Iris bed when I was there last weekend. While I'm moving them, I plan to cull a few divisions for myself, too. And, I will take them a few roots from our garden, too.
Sharing is one of the nicest things about growing Iris. No matter how many roots you give away, more will grow. Each division of rhizome needs at least one leaf and root. Plant the division in amended soil, with the top of the rhizome visible.
Cover all roots well with good earth, and mulch lightly around the newly planted roots, without covering the exposed rhizome. Water the plant in, and then keep the soil moist until new growth appears. I feed our Iris Espoma Rose Tone each spring when I feed the roses. A light application of dolomitic lime or Epsom salts makes for stronger, faster growth.
Once each flower blooms and collapses, gently cut it away from the main stem. A single stem may carry 5 or 6 buds, each opening at a slightly different time.
Once all of the buds have finished, cut the stem back to its base. Remove browned or withered leaves a few times each year, as needed. With a minimal investment of effort, Iris give structure to the garden year round.
And when they bloom, oh, the fragrance and color they give…..
Woodland Gnome 2017
Posted in Colonial Williamsburg, Color, Deer management, Flower Gardening, flower photos, Garden Resources, Garden Tapestry, Gardening addiction, Gardening How-To, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Perennials, Perma Culture, Photography, Plant photos, propagation, Zone 7B Cultural Information
Tags: "Immortality", Bearded Iris, deer resistant perennials, Flower photographs, flowering perennial, Forest Garden, Gardening addiction, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Iris 'Echo Location', Iris 'Stairway to Heaven', iris histrioides, Perma-culture, Re-blooming Iris, Rosalie Figge Iris, Siberian Iris, Spring garden
Wednesday Vignette: Iris
"Hope is a rainbow of thought."
Harley King
"To find the rainbow and life's incredible beauties,
learn to play with adversity."
Debasish Mridha
"Be a rainbow in someone else's cloud."
Maya Angelou
"If it rains during sunshine,
don't worry; you'll see your rainbow."
"Pointing to another world
will never stop vice among us;
shedding light over this world can alone help us."
Walt Whitman
"Love, I'm pretty sure, is light."
Jan Zwicky
Photos by Woodland Gnome 2017
"Iris was the personification of the rainbow in Greek mythology, as well as messenger of the gods along with Hermes. She was also known as the goddess of the sea and the sky. It was said that she traveled on the rainbow while carrying divine messages to the mortals."
from Greekmythology.com
Posted in Color, flower photos, Garden Tapestry, Gardening addiction, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Nature art, Perennials, Photography, Plant photos, Spring garden, Stump garden, Summer Garden, Wednesday Vignettes, weekly challenge, Wordless Wednesday
Tags: Forest Garden, Garden photography, Gardening addiction, Iris, Nature Art, Nature Photography, Spring garden, Wednesday Vignette: Iris, Wordless Wednesday
Sunday Dinner: Turning In Circles
"Everything turns in circles and spirals
with the cosmic heart until infinity.
Everything has a vibration that spirals inward or outward —
and everything turns together in the same direction
at the same time.
This vibration keeps going: it becomes born and expands
or closes and destructs —
only to repeat the cycle again in opposite current.
Like a lotus, it opens or closes, dies and is born again.
Such is also the story of the sun and moon,
of me and you.
Nothing truly dies.
All energy simply transforms."
Suzy Kassem
"The life of man is a self-evolving circle,
which, from a ring imperceptibly small,
rushes on all sides outwards
to new and larger circles, and that without end.
The extent to which this generation of circles,
wheel without wheel, will go,
depends on the force or truth of the individual soul."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Photos by Woodland Gnome 2017
With wishes for happiness at Eostre
"If patterns exist in our seemingly patternless lives —
and they do —
then the law of harmony insists
that the most harmonious of all patterns, circles within circles,
will most often assert itself."
Dean Koontz
Posted in Azalea, Color, Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly, Environmental Preservation, Flower Gardening, flower photos, Iris, Perma Culture, Silent Sunday, Spring garden, Sunday Dinner, Wildlife gardening
Tags: Azalea, Eastern Black Swallowtail butterfly, Eostre, Forest Garden, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Nature Photography, Perma-culture, Photography, Silent Sunday, Spring garden, Sunday Dinner: Resilient: Turning in Circles
Blossom XXIII: Iris
"…Every day I discover even more beautiful things.
It is intoxicating me, and I want to paint it all –
my head is bursting…"
Claude Monet
"The priceless lesson in the New Year
is that endings birth beginnings and beginnings birth endings.
And in this elegantly choreographed dance of life,
neither ever find an end in the other."
Craig D. Lounsbrough
Photos by Woodland Gnome 2017
"The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning
Blossom XXII: " …and Spring After Winter…"
Posted in Blossom, Flower Gardening, flower photos, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Nature art, Perennials, Perma-culture, Photography
Tags: Bearded Iris, Blossom, Flower photographs, Forest Garden, Garden photography, Gardening addiction, Gardening in Williamsburg, Perennials, Photography, Spring garden
Blossom XX : February Iris
Imagine our surprise to find this vibrant miniature Iris reticulata blooming in the garden this afternoon.
We've had a sunny day today. Once the wind died down, the temperature crept over 50F. And so late this afternoon the warm February sun coaxed this bud to open. What a joy to find it as I cleaned up from planting the carrots!
"Isn't that the only way to curate a life?
To live among things that make you gasp with delight?"
Maira Kalman
Photos by Woodland Gnome 2017
"Being here to witness the beauty,
to learn, to be astonished, to love –
is enough. Being able to create
in addition
is a delightful honour."
Jay Woodman
Blossom I
Blossom II
Blossom III
Blossom IV
Blossom V
Blossom VI
Blossom VII
Blossom VIII
Blossom IX
Blossom X
Blossom XI
Blossom XII
Blossom XIII
Blossom XIV
Blossom XV
Blossom XVI
Blossom XVII
Blossom XVIII
Blossom XVIX
Posted in Blossom, Color, Early spring garden, Flower Gardening, flower photos, Gardening addiction, Gardening in Williamsburg, Iris, Viola, Winter Garden
Tags: Blossom, Early spring flowers, Early Spring Garden, Flower photographs, Iris reticulata, Pansy, Photography, winter garden
Making Our Blessings Count
"Cultivate the habit of being grateful
for every good thing that comes to you,
and to give thanks continuously.
And because all things
have contributed to your advancement,
you should include all things
in your gratitude."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Happy Thanksgiving day to you. I hope it has been a good day, spent in a way that makes you happy and with folks you love. Thanksgiving is a gentle holiday, and one that I especially enjoy. I try to avoid travel and keep the day as low key as possible.
Whether at home with family, or gathered elsewhere with family, I'm always one of the cooks. And I find satisfaction in creating a warm and satisfying meal filled with the flavors and memories which knit our years together into a seamless fabric of loving.
While we celebrate gratitude and appreciation on Thanksgiving Day, most of us are also gearing up for Christmas this time of year. For many, that means sharpening up our shopping skills and compiling a list of holiday plans and desires. Ironic, isn't it?
"We should certainly count our blessings,
but we should also make our blessings count."
Neal A. Maxwell
Thanks-giving is not a passive thing. It isn't about leaning back in our comfy chairs and thinking happy thoughts.
It begins with awareness; progresses to acknowledgement; stops for a moment to express appreciation and love to others; and then gets down to the real business of using those blessings for the greater good.
Having a blessing isn't enough. We find ways to make use of the goodness it brings to our lives, to make our lives count for something.
I've always thought of appreciation as an active thing; an investment in more joy and productivity. What good are seeds left in an envelope?
"Great things happen to those
who don't stop believing, trying,
learning, and being grateful."
Roy T. Bennett
Which brings us back to those holiday desires, which can wake us up and move us forwards.
Whether we're formulating birthday wishes, sharing a Christmas list, planning a Christmas celebration, or pondering new year's resolutions; we harness our imagination, our desire, and our personal energies to create a new reality for ourselves.
Gratitude and growth go hand in hand. We appreciate the blessings we enjoy already, and then multiply that sense of happiness and well being into the next step. We express appreciation to a loved one, in hopes they will use that good feeling as fuel for their own growth and evolution.
There is always more to accomplish, more to experience, more to learn, more to do for the benefit of others. We just have to imagine it, and then fuel it with faith and confidence until it materializes in our lives.
Wisdom teachers tell us that our gratitude and appreciation attract more of the same into our lives.
But the reverse is also true: when we complain and focus on what is lacking, when we criticize loved ones and take them for granted; we lose that rocket fuel called 'love' which feeds our happiness. When we overlook the tiny miracles and blessings of each day, we put blinders on our hearts and imagination. Eventually, we close ourselves off to the possibilities around us.
"You probably have the ability
to get what you want.
And you likely have everything you need
to be completely satisfied.
But do you also have the ability
to want what you've got?
That just may be one of
the most important questions you will ever answer."
Steve Goodier
But we all find obstacles in our path from time to time. Perhaps a loved one's illness or depression makes us put our own lives on 'hold' for a while. We lose jobs we need, see the storms of chance change our lives in unexpected ways. Things just don't go according to plan….
Obstacles become detours, but the path stretches before us for as long as we live. And meeting every obstacle with an open mind, a grateful heart, and determination to find the most benevolent outcome in each circumstance is how we keep moving towards a brighter, happier, more fulfilling life.
"Attitude is everything…" We learn this as children, but practice it always. Our attitude of gratitude serves us well, as we appreciate each and every day of our lives.
Photos by Woodland Gnome 2016
A Forest Garden 2017 garden calendar is now available
"Thankfulness is an attitude of possibilities,
not an attitude of liabilities."
Craig D. Lounsbrough
Posted in Camellia, Garden Tapestry, Gardening in Williamsburg, Helleborus, Herbs, Iris, Nature art, Nature Photography, Opinion, Photography, Plant photos
Tags: Appreciation, Autumn Garden, Camellia sasanqua, Flower photographs, Garden photography, Hellebores, Opinion, Re-blooming Iris, Rosalie Figge Iris, Thanksgiving
Wednesday Vignette: Rest


text:
Support » Installing WordPress » FTP Error: Listing directory failed message on upgrade
6 years, 10 months ago
I have been trying to upload wordpress upgrade via ftp, but continually get the error message
FTP Error: Listing directory failed
Can't change directory to …….. No such file or directory
There are no duplicates so unsure why this is happening.
I am upgrading from 3 to 3.0.1
does anyone know what is going wrong?
I'd contact your web host. Something sounds really wrong with your ISP.
Hi Overlander:
I found on some of my sites that I was unable to overwrite all of the directories and files at one time.
Try doing 1 directory at a time. Make sure you follow the "manual upgrade" directions for files/directories that need to be overwritten and those that MUST NOT be over written.
I think I tried the wp-includes directory 1st. By breaking up the upload, my upgrade went fine
Ops! Re=read your post – you're not even getting into your directory listing. Check settings in your FTP program.
Can you still see your site when you use a browser? If you can, then your files are some where on your server. Can you access your host account by your ISP's cpanel?


text:
OVERVIEW: The humiliation of the Servant (Messiah) (53:1-12); the blessings of the Servant (Messiah) (54:1-55:13); the blessing of God upon the Gentiles (56:1-8); the condemnation of God upon the wicked (56:9-57:21); the restoration of true worship (58:1-14); the transgression of Israel (59:1-8); the confession of Israel (59:9-15a); the Lord's deliverance of Israel (59:15b-21).
Isaiah 53 is one of the most incredible chapters in the entire Bible. It was this very chapter that the Ethiopian eunuch was struggling to understand out on that desert road in Acts 8, when the Lord prompted Philip to ask him if he understood what he was reading. When he responded, "How can I, except some man should guide me?" (Acts 8:31), "Then Philip opened his mouth, and began at the same scripture, and preached unto Him Jesus" (Acts 8:35). Philip used this passage to lead this Ethiopian dignitary to Christ, and it is commonly believed that it was through his conversion that the gospel first made its way into the continent of Africa in the first century. This is the most comprehensive, and yet concise passage in the entire Bible concerning the life and death of our Lord Jesus Christ. Because of its significance, we will devote most of our attention to this chapter of today's reading.
In verses 1-3, Isaiah prophesies the rejection that our Lord would endure. John 1:11 says, "He came unto his own, and his own received him not." By the time the Lord Jesus Christ came to the earth, the Jews were living under the oppression domination of Rome. The Messiah they were looking for was a political revolutionary who would come in warrior-like fashion to overthrow the Roman government and establish His own Kingdom and empire on the earth – a Kingdom in which the Jews would be preeminent. They failed to understand that the physical oppression of Rome under Caesar was just a minor illustration of a spiritual oppression they were experiencing because of sin, and the fact that they were being held in the "snare" of this world by the very will of Satan himself (II Tim. 2:26; Eph. 2:2). They failed to realize that in order for their Messiah and King to have citizens in His kingdom, the sin issue that caused spiritual death in them (Gen. 2:17; Rom 5:12) would have to b!
e dealt with, and that they would need to call upon the name of the Lord to be delivered from their sin, and experience a spiritual birth, before even they, the Jews, would qualify for kingdom citizenship. They failed to realize that their Messiah would take up a cross before He would take up His crown; that there would be humiliation before His exaltation; that there would be suffering before there would be glory.
Isaiah begins in verse one to foreshadow the fact that there would be difficulty for the Jews "believing," once the "arm of the Lord" (the Lord Jesus Christ) was "revealed" on the earth. Their difficulty, Isaiah says in verse 2, is how He came into this world. He came as a humble bush ("tender plant"), not as a stalwart tree. "Dry ground" is a reference to the barren spiritual condition of the Nation of Israel when their Messiah would be "revealed." He came offering life to the parched soil of their lives, but it wasn't the life they were looking for. He didn't come on the scene displaying the power and majesty that would attract them to Him ("he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him" – 53:2). Because of it, the Jews "despised and rejected" God's glorious Servant, and their Messiah. He who is the King of kings became "a man of sorrows." The One to whom belonged all glory, was "acquainted with grief." The !
One who offered life and forgiveness to all who would simply look to Him, had his own people "hide" their "faces from him." The One who should have been lauded and honored, was "despised" and "esteemed not."
Even though He came to bare the "griefs" and the "sorrows" man inflicted upon himself through the choice of sin, it was of no consequence. The Lord Jesus Christ was treated as a common criminal, one worthy of the treatment He received (53:4).
Note in verse 5 the price that he paid through His crucifixion: He was "wounded;" "bruised"; "chastised;" "striped" (referring to the stripes upon His back through being scourged with whips). Notice also in verse 5, the reason for such brutality: It was "for our transgressions." It was "for our iniquities." It was so we might experience "peace" – "peace" with God, and thus, "peace" with ourselves. It was so we could be "healed." (Certainly not physical healing, but the healing that was necessary in our spirit and soul because of sin!) It was because every one of us had "gone astray," turning from God "to our own way." It was the Father providing His only begotten Son to die a substitutionary death for our sin ("the Lord hast laid on him the iniquity of us all"). Through the entire ordeal of His unfair trial and merciless crucifixion, never did "the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world" (John 1:29) ever "open his mouth" (53:7-8).
Isaiah said that when He died, it would be with "the wicked" (i.e. crucified between two thieves), and yet His burial would be connected with "the rich" (i.e. He "borrowed" the tomb of Joseph of Arimithea, or rich man – Matt. 27:57).
And yet, all of this, according to verses 10-12, was purposed and planned by God! It is the same incomprehensible truth Peter preached about on the Day of Pentecost. That Christ was "delivered by the determinate counsel and foreknowledge of God" (Acts 2:23)!
You can keep your bearings through today's reading by following the content of the chapters detailed in today's overview, but do allow yourself to lose your bearings today in the wonder of our glorious Saviour and His willingness to offer Himself as a sacrifice for us as it is detailed in Isaiah 53. Pray that, like Philip, God will allow you to use this chapter today to "preach Jesus" to some needy soul.
As the ONE WHO WAS REJECTED BY HIS OWN – Isa. 53:3 (John 1:11; Luke 23:18)
As the ONE WHO REMAINED SILENT THOUGH FALSELY ACCUSED – Isa. 53:7 (Mark 15:3-5).
As the ONE WHO WAS BURIED WITH THE RICH – Isa. 53:9 (Matt. 27:57-60).
As the ONE WHO WAS CRUCIFIED WITH SINNERS – Isa. 53:12 (Mark 15:27-28).


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Maintenance update 02/07/2016Dear community, After three weeks of issues we moved our site to a new dedicated root server. We fixed a lot of bugs with this release. All downloads up to 1Gb filesize should be downloadable for everyone. Encountering any kind of issues? Make a post in the website/forum support. Regards, Stan
Paid Referral Links 02/11/2016Hello, From now on we will be disallowing any referral links on our site. This is not the place to earn money directly or indirectly. Anyone found sharing paid shortened links or referral links to earn money might lose his account. Reason for this: We are providing this service free of charge, putting our own free time in this and paying monthly fees on our own costs to keep this free service running. So why should anyone else make money from something they don't pay to use? So in short from now on we will be warning and banning users abusing or misusing referal links. Regards, Stan
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About t1a2l
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itchboy - are u logged to the website?
Hi, I just found out what crash the game. it is somthing with the rescue helicopter. if you give it an action while doing anthor action it will crash the game. I don't know why. but this is the only crash I get. great mod besides that!
Hi, did you just released 2.7.1? i see only the 2.8 beta and not the 2.7.1
Hi, for 1 - ok thanks. for 2- clear before, as I said only if I zoom ou completly I get the black map. for 3- I did the replacing before I started the game. the game crashed for no reason. can you tell from the log file why?
Hi, while using your mode in campaign I got 3 problems: 1. it took me straight to the mission although I been in the free play between the missions. 2. when zoomed out completely in map I see black screen only seeing HQ and mission area. 3. the game crashed in the middle of the mission (the one in the alphas). Great work besides that. log file: https://drive.google.com/open?id=0BxtVn82hv2oUbVRkRWtMZWp2aUk
CPH Airport mod 1.1 [1.0 Released]
t1a2l replied to bma's topic in European ModdingHi, couple of problems/suggestions: 1. Can't load saved game - after loading the bell and security levels not on the screen. game crash right after a call is generated. 2. When choosing a unit or vehicle, I don't see any image of it nor its name, so I can't distinguish between units or vehicles. 3. Is there any way to make the airport more alive? (planes come and go, people walking in the terminal, bus taking people to and from the airport) 4. No music at all, also no sounds of people or cars only emergency vehicle sounds. 5. When clicking "pack up" on vehicle menu the units get in without dressing up while in the station. That's all for now. Great mode besides that.
Game Error while editing number of slots
t1a2l replied to t1a2l's topic in Modding Related Supportany one?
Game Error while editing number of slots
t1a2l posted a topic in Modding Related SupportHi, While loading the game I get this error while trying to choose a vehicle that has ten slots in it: "!UIStaticBitmap::ChangeBitmap: failed to load 'mod:UI/Game/VehicleBrowser/slots_10.dds". I found out that in this path in the original game I have only slots_01.dds to slots_06.dds and no more. I think the files slots_07.dds to slots_10.dds are missing only from my game folder and therefore if someone could send me the missing files it will be great. Thanks anyway.
I will try thanks!
Scripting Question
t1a2l replied to t1a2l's topic in Modding Related Supportare you sure it is c and not c#? it dosent look like c.
Scripting Question
t1a2l posted a topic in Modding Related SupportHi, I am trying a little scripting and I wondered if i could take all the scripts files and combine then into one file? also can I use visual studio or eclipse as a script editor? can i save the project as a script file? Thanks anyway.
yes I did. once restarting it solves the problem.. but I dont want to restart every time.
no one has this problem?
Blurry Desktop after game crash
t1a2l posted a topic in Technical Related SupportHi, Sometimes while using one of the mods my game crash with no error. The problem is that my desktop becomes blurry and very whitish (bright like the sun) and currently only a restart solves the problem. Does anyone know how to solve this problem? Thanks anyway.


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Hi, my name is Lucas and I was born in Spain, 1983, during the time when cystic fibrosis (CF) was barely known in this country. One year before I was born my parents had just lost a son who had only lived a few months.
At this time no one knew the cause, but it was almost certain it was due to CF.
As a kid I was regularly sick with colds and the doctor's were unsure of the problem, so I had taken several treatments by pediatricians without knowing what they were actually doing. In 1989, everything had changed; I had visited a specialized unit in a hospital in Madrid, Spain, and I was finally diagnosed with CF, beginning my very first treatment.
After a few years my health was deteriorating. Unlike most the side effects, the damage was not in the respiratory system but in the digestive system, and it was getting worse.
As a result, some bleeding varicose veins appeared in my esophagus, which had to be burned with an endoscopy, but the damage still remained and my liver became completely useless - I needed a transplant.
My serious health condition plus being thin, made the surgical team think this surgery would be unsuccessful and very difficult to survive. Luckily, the doctor treating me kept insisting so the surgical team eventually came around, and I was finally on the waiting list for an organ.
I was on the list for less than a year when my parents finally received a call: a donor was available. It was from a child a little bit older than me with the same weight and height. His family decided to donate his organs and his liver saved my life, something which I will be eternally grateful for.
On September 14, 1993, at 9 years old, I was given a liver transplant. The surgery was successful and four days later, when I turned 10 years old, I was in intensive care: I had the best birthday gift anyone could ask for.
Everything was great but at 18 my pancreas suddenly stopped working and it caused me a pick in my glucose level of 940 mg/dl, which caused diabetes and a loss in my sight by 70%. I thought I would never see the world around me again.
But after everything that had happened so far I could not stop, so with lot of effort: One year later I fully recovered my vision again and got my driver's license.
Now 29 years old, I still struggle every day. My main healthy routine is sports; I take a strict medical treatment and physiotherapy, combined with natural remedies. I have had my transplanted for 19 years and my lung function its maintained margins from 77% to 83%.
I will still continue to fight until my last breath because I believe you have a job to do in this world and until you reach the end you have to keep trying.
You can follow Lucas on Twitter, on Youtube, on Facebook and, of course, on his blog!


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WASHINGTON — A Canadian team won the first GEICO High School Lacrosse Nationals, but it was impossible to avoid a little local flavor.
Hill Academy (Concord, Ontario) downed Georgetown Prep (Bethesda, Md.) 12-6 in Tuesday's championship, which was twice delayed by lightning delays of about an hour.
Hill was led by sophomore attacker and Georgetown commit Dylan Watson, the game's Most Valuable Player with four goals and both head coaches were former players at Georgetown University under former Georgetown coach Dave Urick. Hill coach Brodie Merrill was a two-time All-American at Georgetown in 2004 and 2005 and Georgetown Prep coach Scott Urick was a player for his father at Georgetown from 1997-2000 and even coached Merrill as an assistant there.
Merrill said that Watson responded to being moved up to the offense.
"Our starting lefty attacker broke his foot and couldn't be with us this week," Merrill said. "We started to get Dylan acclimated to the offense and it didn't take him long. He established some great chemistry. He hit the ground running with them. As difficult as it was to lose Riley Curtis, the game presents you with opportunities."
Junior midfielder Mike McCannell got Hill Academy (14-1) off to a good start, scoring two of the Pride's first three goals and No. 2-seeded Hill took a 5-2 lead in the first quarter.
Georgetown Prep (14-6) scored first on a Jackson Luck shot just 1:06 into the game off a pass by Gavin Lindsay. Hill Academy was missing its lead face-off man, Justin Inacio, and the Hoyas had the early edge in face-offs, but that faded in the third quarter when Hill took control. Even when the Pride didn't get the face-off, they quickly countered when they did take control on defense.
The, Hoyas, the No. 5 seed in the tournament, cut the lead to 5-3 off Luck's second goal with 7:51 to go in the first half….


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There are total 13 letters in Egregiousness, Starting with E and ending with S.
Total 581 words created by multiple letters combination of Egregiousness in English Dictionary.
Egregiousness is a scrabble word? Yes (15 Points)
Egregiousness has worth 15 Scrabble points. Each letter point as below.
Words that starting with Egregiousness
Words that containing Egregiousness
Words that ending with Egregiousness
Definition of the word Egregiousness, Meaning of Egregiousness word :
n. - The state of being egregious.


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Shared by DZ on Saturday night at my B-day party:
We have this notion in this country, not only of endless economic growth but of endless personal growth. I have a certain characterological antipathy to the notion of we're all getting better and better all the time. And it's so clearly belied by our experience. You may get better in certain ways for 10 years, but one day you wake up and although things are a little bit different, they're not a lot different. And I think if one can get more accustomed to that somewhat more tragic view of life, that people would think yeah, 'We don't actually need to have a bigger and bigger house, and a bigger and bigger car, and more and more things in the house.' That there might some way to think of the world in different terms, so it was more about being and less about growing.
Jonathan Franzen
I think, on entering my 30s, I'm at a place where I'm more concerned with removing obfuscation than self-improvement/growth. Trying to learn accept the self and the world just as they are, without too much judgment. Trying to rest in the fact that God has a place for me in this world independent of my striving and inclinations.