About Perfect Whole

Thanks for stopping by.  Why not subscribe? Enter your email address in the box to the right (and a little bit down) to receive Perfect Whole essays in your inbox. Be sure to check your email or spam folder to confirm the subscription. About Julie:   Julie Goldberg (Ed.M., MA, MLIS) has lived a life entirely too entangled with books. She is a school librarian, former English teacher, compulsive reader, occasional jazz singer and aspiring novelist. You can follow her on Twitter @juliegoldberg, email her at perfectwhole@gmail.com, and follow Perfect Whole on Facebook. About Perfect Whole: Perfect Whole is updated with a new essay on the first and fifteenth of every month, whether it needs it or not. ***As of January 15, 2013, Perfect Whole will no longer be updated on a regular schedule, while I complete my first novel. It will be updated from time to time, and may return to a regular schedule in the future.*** The title of the blog comes from a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson entitled “Each and All.” Each and All Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee, from the hill-top looking down; And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton tolling the bell at noon, Dreams not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor’s creed has lent: All are needed by each one, Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home in his nest at even;— He sings the song, but it pleases not now; For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear; they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me; I wiped away the weeds and foam, And fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid As ‘mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty’s best attire Was woven still by the snow-white quire; At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage,— The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, “I covet Truth; Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat,— I leave it behind with the games of youth.” As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet’s breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground; Above me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird;— Beauty through my senses stole, I yielded myself to the perfect whole.