A shadow of my future self
Somehow, WordPress saw fit to change the publication date for my post titled “At Seventy” from January 9 to January 5, which prevented it from appearing in the Reader. Those who use the Reader can find the orginal post here.
My apologies for the duplication, but I didn’t want the post to disappear.
A shadow of my future self
Over the years, I’ve come to enjoy the wisdom and dry wit of May Sarton, a woman whose books — particularly Journal of a Solitude, The House by the Sea, and Writings on Writing — have joined my collection of literary touchstones: volumes I find myself reading and re-reading multiple times.
And yet, another of her highly-praised books remained on my shelf for years, unopened and unread. It seemed appropriate to save it for a particular and quite special occasion. From time to time, I found myself thinking:
One day, I ‘ll be seventy. Then, I’ll see what May has to say about the experience in her book with the tantalizing title: “At Seventy.”
When the much-anticipated birthday came, I celebrated with a trip to the Tallgrass Prairie bottomlands, where I took my first, shadowy selfie.
Then, in the late afternoon, with bees buzzing about in the late gaura and goldenrod, and the Burlington Northern rumbling both south and north, I opened Sarton’s book. Continue reading
This much is certain: choosing to forego modern ways of connecting to the world has consequences. Over the course of three weeks, with no television, radio, newspapers, or social media to keep me informed, I became blissfully unaware of a good bit: the start of baseball’s World Series; the long-term forecast; the latest roiling of the political waters; the inevitable celebrity scandals.
Not only did I begin forgetting the date, with sunrise and sunset serving as my only markers for the days, the realization that it soon would be time to reset the clocks came as a bit of a shock. Continue reading
Sky Over Clouds Over Arkansas Prairie
Willow the Wisp — such a wisp of a girl —
once whispered to clouds that she longed for some curls.
The clouds came together, and on one bright night
they curled ’round her head — what a beautiful sight!
Ground fog; mountain-hugging clouds; tendrils of darkness enveloping the sunlight — all have given rise to Will-o-the-wisp legends beloved of those who dwell far, far away from the city’s constant light.
When Steve Schwartzman wrote about “Will-o-the-Wisp” on his etymology blog, “Spanish-English Word Connections”, I not only enjoyed the history, I transformed Will into Willow, and composed my little verse. With Halloween approaching, pumpkins piling up, and leaves beginning to show a bit of color, it seems that even the sky wants to share in the autumn fun.
Comments always are welcome. Because I’m traveling, it may take a bit of time for me to respond.
Everyone has their quirks. Mine include sensing a rising, inexorable excitement when interstate highway signs signal a choice between Dallas and Little Rock, or point the way to Tucumcari, or suggest, at the Louisiana-Texas border, that El Paso lies only 873 miles to the west. It makes me want to get rolling. Continue reading