We are resolved into the supreme air, We are made one with what we touch and see, With our heart’s blood each crimson sun is fair, With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change.
With beat of systole and of diastole One grand great life throbs through earth’s giant heart, And mighty waves of single Being roll From nerve-less germ to man, for we are part Of every rock and bird and beast and hill, One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill. . . .
Not we alone hath passions hymeneal, The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth At daybreak know a pleasure not less real Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good. . . .
Is the light vanished from our golden sun, Or is this daedal-fashioned earth less fair, That we are nature’s heritors, and one With every pulse of life that beats the air? Rather new suns across the sky shall pass, New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass.
And we two lovers shall not sit afar, Critics of nature, but the joyous sea Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be Part of the mighty universal whole, And through all Aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!
We shall be notes in that great Symphony Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres, And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die, The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!
Boy, these last few months have not been easy ones. 2016 turned out to be so much work. Just nonstop responsibilities.
I am really struggling to keep up with my responsibilities as a parent and guide my children towards their own successful lives. My daughters' issues are really affecting me. I literally find that I do not have the physical or emotional space to have anything like my own life. I am constantly putting my own needs aside in favor of meeting the needs of others. It has been exhausting.
Friends would give the advice of not to do it. But it's not that simple. I cannot not do it or what needs to get done will not get done. Suffering will ensue.
Sometimes we are so busy with our own lives that we don't take the time to stop and notice the others all around us. Or sometimes, we are so wrapped up with responsibilities that maybe we simply cannot pause to interact.
But, still, that doesn't mean that we shouldn't care. I continue to care about other people, even if I don't always make the time to be mindful of their lives, or even kind as they go through their days.
Still, I hope I can always remember that in my heart, I care deeply about the well being of all those in this world. I hope that others around me, both near and far, are having the best possible days. That sharing is possible. That caring is eternal.
Even when I do feel unable to smile, or to chit chat, or to ask, with true sincerity and warmth, "Are you okay today?"
This sounds just like heaven right now. A simple getaway. All about writing. Interesting, literary people and food, wine, and creativity in France. Hummmmm...
The next retreat is this autumn. I am sorely tempted!
For the record, after my last little burst of complaint, I continued to buckle down and I did indeed slog through. That proposal is done and submitted. Well on its way to bringing funding, I believe. And onward I go!
Sometimes writing is really a slog. Since most of
life is a slog these days, writing feels extra –sloggy. Sort of soggy and
waterlogged like tromping through a swamp with thick mud adhering to the shoes
and sucking the feet down with each slow step forward. Sloggy, sloggy, boggy,
Gotta write something, and fast, because I’ve got
other stuff to do. None of it fun either. None of it terrible but none of it
fun. All about deadlines and worst cases and preparing to handle things even
harder than now. When now is actually plenty hard enough, thank you.
The creativity in my brain feels like it has shrunk
down into a little dried pea, rattling around in a pot emptied by worries and
scoured black by cares. Just a little dried speck, trying to juice up and give
me enough words to competently just describe a simple program. I’m mean, I’m
not even looking for REAL creativity, I’m not even trying to write something
fun and made up, where characters become people, people that other people
actually care about for years or even decades after their creation, in the way
that fans are still attending conventions to argue passionately about Buffy and
her ilk almost two decades later. No, I’m just trying to straightforward,
vanilla pudding describe something. Maybe persuade slightly. Something I should
have mastered at age 15. And I am stuck, stuck, stu…