Musings

The sound of split wood clacking as it lands on the wood pile. The sun is now much gentler than at mid summer. The warm fresh air that somehow hints that the end of its turn is nigh and cool will soon follow. The sense that flora and fauna are turning towards a quiet rest after fulfilling summer's obligations. The peace, broken only by the clacking wood pieces and their echoing back from the woods. The thought of cozy evenings inside by the fire. Today was the first day of wood stacking for the season and it feels good.

I ran across this poem recently and wanted to share it . . .

If

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you

     Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

     But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

     Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated don't give way to hating,

     And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

     If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

     And treat those two impostors just the same:

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

     Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

     And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

     And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

     And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

     To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

     Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

     Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

     If all men count with you, but none too much:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

     With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

     And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

Many years ago, a dear friend back in Greenpoint, Brooklyn gave me the following typed out on a piece of hand crafted paper for my birthday. I think it, too, is worth sharing . . .

from Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino

The inferno of the living is not something

that will be; it is what is already here,

the inferno where we live every day,

that we form by being together.

There are two ways to escape suffering it.

The first is easy for many:

accept the inferno and become such a part

of it that you can no longer see it.

The second is risky and demands constant

vigilance and apprehension:

seek and learn to recognize who and what,

in the midst of the inferno, are not inferno,

then make them endure, give them space.