The Table Turned

Lately, I've been busy. Most recently, our basement flooded, and so we've been ripping out carpet, taking down wallpaper, etc. Plus, we've had tons of end-of-the-school-year stuff, dance recitals, actual paid work, etc.

To recharge from the stress of the day, I've been reading poetry at night, and I've discovered that I love Wordsworth. This has come as pleasant surprise. The last time I read any of his stuff must have been a score (a literal score) of years ago. At the time, I just couldn't get into him. In fact, with the exception of Byron, I couldn't bear any poetry from the late 1600's to the 1800's.

Tastes change, though, and I'm really digging Wordsworth now. The following poem, in particular, is one that speaks to me. Apparently, it was a great favorite with Quakers, too, though that tidbit has no bearing on anything.

The Table Turned
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
 Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
 Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

 Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

 And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
 He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

William Wordsworth


I thought about offering commentary, but it seemed too close to "meddling intellect misshap[ing] the beauteous forms of things." Instead, I'll just let you enjoy it on your own and glean from it what you will.

The Life of a Leaf

In high school, one of my teachers observed that most people she knew were either leaves floating idly along the river of life or motorboats with speed, direction, and purpose. I used to think that was a motorboat, but I was wrong. I'm a leaf.

Tonight, my kids and I were going through some photo albums, and a realization hit me. Most of my life, so many of my favorite memories are just products of chance. Jobs that I've taken, places I've visited, people I've met... They've all been strange, random twists of fate.

I recall that I had a plan once long ago, but it was derailed, and I never bothered to make a new one. Since Baby #3 was born, I don't think I've ever been able to stick to a plan that extended later than dinnertime.

My husband -- I met him through a bizarre chance of fate. He didn't even live in the same city, but his mother and I worked at the same school. He was there to visit her, and I bumped into them in the teacher's lounge because I was changing to go running. That may sound pretty normal, but I never run. Never. Ever. Not for fires, not for shoe sales, not for anything... I was on a train in Paris once when we got a bomb threat. Sirens were blaring; the gendarme were whizzing through the cars to evacuate us. I didn't even break into a trot. What in the world possessed me to go running that day, that one day of the year that I would meet him? Any other day, I would've hopped into my car parked near my classroom and missed him altogether. As I recall, I didn't even like him at the moment, but here we are, nearly two decades later.

Those oft-quoted lines from Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" come to mind:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Most people infer that the road less traveled is the superior one, but I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I think that's just an elegant way to say "I've made a hu-u-u-u-u-ge mistake."

My father has wisely stated, "A lot of things could've been, but I don't bother thinking about them because there's no point." Sadly, I lack his placid temperament, and I often wonder what life might have been if I'd stuck to a definite plan. Easier? More focused? More profitable? For sure, I'd be doing something more productive than posting blog entries between bouts of ring-around-the-rosies.

On the other hand, if I'd been more goal-oriented, I'd have missed out on some of the best memories I have, like karaoke-singing on the Champs Elysees and "The Lebanese Detective" (that's another post maybe). Heck, two of my children were complete surprises, and I can't imagine life without them.  These memories, these people that have come in and out of my life -- a motorboat would've missed them, but they really are the details that make all the difference.

Keeping Things Whole

Growing up, my family sometimes seemed like a pack of gypsies picking up and moving every year or so. That's why the following poem by has been a favorite of mine through the years.  It speaks to me at a primal level.

I actually had the good fortune to hear Mark Strand recite it. I realize that most people would probably put a poetry reading on their Top 10 List of Dreary Activities along with writing thank you notes and counting beans. However, at the time, I was an English Lit major in a whole room of other literary nerds. Mr. Strand was practically a rock-star. In a different setting, we would've been waving Bics.

I was most impressed by the way he read this work -- it was the way I have always felt it.  There was nothing in his voice to suggest self-pity, remorse, regret, dissatisfaction, or anger. Instead, he read simply, calmly. Sort of in an "it is what it is" kind of way.

Originally, I had thought to dissect this poem in my post, but I've had a change of mind. I'd rather let you interpret it for yourself. Hopefully, you'll enjoy it (or at least find something interesting in it), too.

Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

-- Mark Strand

A field near my house that I'd like to move through one day

She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep

I love snow. Specifically, I love snowfalls. I love the way snowflakes frost my eyelashes. I love how everything seems cleaner, quieter, fresher, softer, more inviting. Even the air seems tastier during a snowfall.

This winter, though, has been... I don't want to use the word tedious, but it has been a little. With a new baby, it's more difficult to enjoy snowball fights and sledding and making snow angels. As much as I love the baby, I just want to go outside!!! To quote my oldest child, "I really like winter, but even I've reached that point."

This longing for spring has brought to mind a poem by Robert Graves. It's not really about spring; it's simply where the random jumps in my brain stopped. However, I thought the imagery was great, and it would be a good read near Valentine's Day.

She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half words whispered low;
As earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts forth grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

-- Robert Graves