Nothing Gold Can Stay

By Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

I have never been one to care much for change.  I love small changes, tiny twists in the road that allow for surprises, renewal, and a feeling of "newness."  Yet, large changes have always made me feel a bit sad.  But reading through this poem again tonight, I think of the story of Midas and his golden touch.  Maybe it is not so bad that the gold cannot stay.  Maybe it is the knowing that it is fleeting that allows one to appreciate it all the more.  And since change is inevitable - the only true stablility in life - just maybe learning to appreciate life's fluidity is learning to appreciate life. 

Journeying in the Now

    Often I will ask my students to write about "one moment in time that made a difference in your life."  Only to realize that I don't really take the time to live for the moment in mine.  Would I have difficulty writing this memoir?  So keeping in mind that patience is still a virtue and waiting is often best for the "moment,"  I have decided to slow down, breathe (deeply), appreciate the right now.  Sometimes I am so busy dealing with the "just happened" or contemplating the "what's to come" that I miss the "happening now." 

    
    So, as I began my 9.5 hour drive the other day, I decided to put myself to the test.  Gotta start somewhere.  This drive goes on forever and ever and ever and ever and ever.  I have always dreaded the going and the coming.  So instead of thinking about how far I'd gone or how far I had to go, I contemplated the present.  Right now I am here.  This is what is around me.  I will never be in this exact place again at this exact moment.  I am here (wherever here might be).  And I must admit it was quite eye-opening.  The anxiety slipped away and the moment slid into view. Amazingly,  I discover I am not dreading the long trip back.  That I do not feel so irritable or uptight. Liberating!

   And it begins - right now, in this moment - my journey on the road becomes a metaphor for my journey through life. God will navigate and I will drive, striving along the road to appreicate the moment, wherever it may find me.

A Connection

It's been awhile, but finally one of the "daily poems" stands out.  By attaching it to a poem by Dickenson, Espaillat seems to enhance the universal truth expressed.  This theme, feeling, emotion touches all - defies the ages.

“Find Work”

By Rhina P. Espaillat b. 1932

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl—

Life's little duties do—precisely

As the very least

Were infinite—to me—

—Emily Dickinson, #443 

My mother’s mother, widowed very young
of her first love, and of that love’s first fruit,
moved through her father’s farm, her country tongue
and country heart anaesthetized and mute
with labor. So her kind was taught to do—
“Find work,” she would reply to every grief—
and her one dictum, whether false or true,
tolled heavy with her passionate belief.
Widowed again, with children, in her prime,
she spoke so little it was hard to bear
so much composure, such a truce with time
spent in the lifelong practice of despair.
But I recall her floors, scrubbed white as bone,
her dishes, and how painfully they shone.

Source: Poetry (February 1999).
My source

"Lost" in a Crowd

 This morning's sermon centered around the story of Zacchaeus.  C. Spencer presented the idea that in order to see Christ, Zacchaeus had to make the decision to move out of the crowd (in this case by climbing a tree).  I began to wonder how often we miss Christ or lose our view of him because we are blinded by the crowd.  The idea of one's being lost in a crowd begins to take on a whole new meaning.  Our being blinded by the crowd (or the company we keep) is no excuse.  We need to look to Christ daily, and when something, someone, or some action blocks our view, find the closest tree and climb!

Pranking with Jello and Flamingos

Last night I opened the door to this:

And this:

Apparently there was a prank pulled on THE OFFICE where someone chilled a stapler in jello.  The girls decided to try this with my "singing bowl" after they snatched it.  Didn't quite come out as they planned, but it sure was funny.  But they weren't done yet....

The next morning I awoke to this:

And:

Think there were about 23 in all throughout my front yard.  We had a bit of rain (very unusual for our area), and it appeared my yard sprouted pink flamingos.  But it made for a fun morning, especially after spotting this:



Didn't turn pic upright before posting - oh well, a symbol for life at the moment:  a little sideways.

Yet Another

Yet another poem by Dean Young.  Stumbled upon him through a poetry site and have been quite impressed.  Hope I'm not breaking any copyright laws by sharing these poems.  So always linking back to my source Poetry.Org. Ash Ode
by Dean Young
When I saw you ahead I ran two blocks shouting your name then realizing it wasn’t you but some alarmed pretender, I went on running, shouting now into the sky, continuing your fame and luster. Since I've been incinerated, I've oft returned to this thought, that all things loved are pursued and never caught, even as you slept beside me you were flying off. At least what's never had can’t be lost, the sieve of self stuck with just some larger chunks, jawbone, wedding ring, a single repeated dream, a lullaby in every elegy, descriptions of the sea written in the desert, your broken umbrella, me claiming I could fix it.

Bronzed

As I receive several poems of the day from this site.  I hope to share the ones that  stand out.  

BY DEAN YOUNG

That dusty bubble gum, once ubiquitous as starlings,   

is no more, my love. Whistling dinosaurs now populate   

only animation studios, the furious actions of angels   

causing their breasts to flop out in mannerist   

frescos flake away as sleet holds us in its teeth.   

And the bus-station's old urinals go under   

the grindstone and the youthful spelunkers   

graduate into the wrinkle-causing sun. The sea   

seemingly a constant to the naked eye is one   

long goodbye, perpetually the tide recedes,   

beaches dotted with debris. Unto each is given   

a finite number of addresses, ditties to dart   

the heart to its moments of sorrow and swoon.   

The sword's hilt glints, the daffodils bow down,   

all is temporary as a perfect haircut, a kitten   

in the lap, yet sitting here with you, my darling,   

waiting for a tuna melt and side of slaw   

seems all eternity I'll ever need   

and all eternity needs of me.