Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying,
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
-Dylan Thomas - an excerpt from "Fern Hill"
I have always loved that poem, and for some reason that final verse has stayed with me since college. I have oft quoted this poem, sometimes writing it on random chalkboards (remember those?) in my twenties.
As fall enters the air, I have finally resumed running. This week, after a 3 month hiatus due to moving chaos and plain laziness, have logged 3 runs plus an hour walk. Hoping to keep it up at least 3-4 times a week from here on. Wouldn't that be great? I did manage to keep going for 2 years (not in one go) running, ha ha, post baby #3. In spring of this year I began again when baby #4 was er- a year old (was it really that long? Yes).
Feels now like I'm running towards fern hill, with the crisp, fresh, salty and somewhat smoky (no I'm not describing chips, I promise... live in a congested yet near-the-beach city) breeze flowing around me as I fly (okay, plod) along.
Inside my hopes I dreamt of you in the flame of a candle honey is natural...
-excerpt from a poem I wrote in high school. I shall really have to find it for you and share it soon.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Morning All the Time
Morning All the Time
There is time. There is no time. Never enough time. Then there are times. Times, as when waking with a newborn, a baby, a toddler, a child, there is a vibrancy invisible, a presence of space, an air of expectation, a sea of possibility. The light breaking with the day. That is some time. Never returning to what was. Never knowing what will be. Then as the day draws on, the energy fades, the light becomes ordinary, a forgetfulness ensues. Sometimes I wish it could be morning all the time.
There is time. There is no time. Never enough time. Then there are times. Times, as when waking with a newborn, a baby, a toddler, a child, there is a vibrancy invisible, a presence of space, an air of expectation, a sea of possibility. The light breaking with the day. That is some time. Never returning to what was. Never knowing what will be. Then as the day draws on, the energy fades, the light becomes ordinary, a forgetfulness ensues. Sometimes I wish it could be morning all the time.
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