Trusting the Past

This is the next in my series of poems to consider, to ponder, to examine inwardly and outwardly.  I originally posted the poem back in September.

It is particularly powerful to me right now, as our two boys have reached adulthood.  But if the tree is to be judged by it's fruit, then perhaps we didn't saddle them with too many albatrosses.

I first read this poem three years ago, yet I continue to think of it often.  I love how it changes our understanding of time... for the way it turns our wistful gaze into the future into a reflective assessment of our humanness, our incompleteness, our gullibility.  Yet, like the ancient mariner, we made the best decisions we could for that time and in that place.  We pray the past will serve us well.

Yes, old Frost, I chose the roads to take in the past.  For this journey called life is a map-less exploration of dark woods and meandering streams.  One must navigate by head and heart... and I tended to take the road less traveled, and that has certainly "made all the difference".

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Thanks, Robert Frost by David Ray

Do you have hope for the future?
someone asked Robert Frost, toward the end.
Yes, and even for the past, he replied,
that it will turn out to have been all right
for what it was, something we can accept,
mistakes made by the selves we had to be,
not able to be, perhaps, what we wished,
or what looking back half the time it seems
we could so easily have been, or ought...
The future, yes, and even for the past,
that it will become something we can bear.
And I too, and my children, so I hope,
will recall as not too heavy the tug
of those albatrosses I sadly placed
upon their tender necks. Hope for the past,
yes, old Frost, your words provide that courage,
and it brings strange peace that itself passes
into past, easier to bear because
you said it, rather casually, as snow
went on falling in Vermont years ago.

What is that?

Check out this short four minute video... it'll be worth it, I promise.
(Thanks, Nathan, for sharing.)

Click here to view the YouTube video

Time Takes It's Toll

Another poem for contemplation during my sabbatical... appropriate for November.  No explanation is required.  It is what it is.

(Don't worry.  No mid-life train wreck here... just acceptance.)

Losing Steps  by Stephen Dunn

     1

It's probably a Sunday morning
in a pickup game, and it's clear
you've begun to leave
fewer people behind.

Your fakes are as good as ever,
but when you move
you're like the Southern Pacific
the first time a car kept up with it,

your opponent at your hip,
with you all the way
to the rim. Five years earlier
he'd have been part of the air

that stayed behind you
in your ascendance.
On the sidelines they're saying,
He's lost a step.

     2

In a few more years
it's adult night in a gymnasium
streaked with the abrupt scuff marks
of high schoolers, and another step

leaves you like a wire
burned out in a radio.
You're playing defense,
someone jukes right, goes left,

and you're not fooled
but he's past you anyway,
dust in your eyes,
a few more points against you.

     3

Suddenly you're fifty;
if you know anything about steps
you're playing chess
with an old, complicated friend.

But you're walking to a schoolyard
where kids are playing full-court,
telling yourself
the value of experience, a worn down

basketball under your arm,
your legs hanging from your waist
like misplaced sloths in a county
known for its cheetahs and its sunsets.

"Retirement" Schedule

Typical weekly schedule while working with non-profits...

(It's nice that retirement affords these worthwhile options AND time to put up all the Halloween stuff.)

Monday - Friends of the Library Meeting
Tuesday - Moderate Socrates Cafe session (see earlier post)
Saturday - Setup for church fundraising auction ( Web Link)
Sunday -   Play for museum fundraiser auction ( Facebook Link)

The Dr. Buzzard Jr. Trio
(plus Clarence, the dog)