Forgive me. I was an last post reminded me of this poem by William Wordsworth.. My
; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. ! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old blow his wreathèd horn.
I grew up in a small country town. I didn’t realize it at the time. To me, fields filled with goats or sheep or llamas or horses or cows simply meant “home.” No, no. I didn’t grow up on a farm. I haven’t the slightest idea how to milk a cow. But I was never happier than when spending an afternoon traipsing around a lake or walking beneath the moon and stars. Deer andwere a common site in my neighborhood. Bobcats and foxes and even mountain lions, too, if you awoke early enough.
. . . I stopped. My breath was coming in gasps, each breath pulling cool, crisp air into my lungs. I looked at the hill ahead. The tips of the trees at the top were now glistening, evidence that the sun would, indeed, rise another day. From my spot in the shadows, I could see steam rising from a small pond. Birds were beginning to stir; they twittered. A cool breeze rustled nearby grasses.And I thought, I couldn’t help but think, as I contemplated the busyness of the coming day, “Life isn’t supposed to be like this . . .”
- headphones (jesscy.com)
- roads (jesscy.com)
- finding a balance (jesscy.com)
- how to not die: the road to recovery (jesscy.com)
- The Works of William Wordsworth (spr07.wordpress.com)