I’m sorry I have been slacking on this blog recently, it has been a crazy couple of weeks. Here are my excuses:
First- we went on vacation to New Mexico where I had very little access to the internet.
Second- mr. mraynes graduated and so now he is dr. mraynes.
Third- we had all sorts of family in town and my attention was diverted.
Fourth- the IT department blocked most of the internet so I can’t update or even read from
Fifth- I have had writer’s block.
Sixth- and anxiety.
Are those good enough? Am I forgiven? I promise that I have a couple of really great posts floating around in my mind, including a suprising weekly wacko. Just bear with me until I get my act together. Until then, here’s a poem that I love.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
(My father recited this poem at our wedding and I have loved it ever since. This has been a crazy week for me; I am in the process of hiring a new employee and I was asked to give a lecture about empowerment that I spent the week preparing for. I’m done with the interviews and the lecture went great so I can think about this blog again. I have a really great weekly wacko that I’ll try to get up tomorrow. Till then, here’s a little love.)
Give me hunger,
O you godes that sit and give
The World its orders.
Give me hunger, pain and want,
Shut me out with shame and failure
From your doors of gold and fame,
Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!
But leave me a little love,
A voice to speak to me in the day end,
A hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking the long loneliness.
In the dusk of day-shapes
Blurring the sunset,
One little wandering, western star
Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
Let me go to the window,
Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
And wait and know the coming
Of a little love.
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes
(Thanks to Caroline for bringing this fantastatic poem to my attention!)
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
~ The Gift Outright ~
The land was ours before we were the land’s.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people.
She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia.
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak.
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.
~ Robert Frost; 1874-1963 ~