To be aware and mindful and present in the moment is difficult to carry off as the seconds of my life turn into minutes and then hours and then decades.
When I can collect a moment here or there and immerse myself in it as if sinking into a soothing bath after a long day, that is almost enough to make up for all of the moments I missed.
Almost enough.
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Stillness
Romantics, like Wordsworth believed
Nature could heal the wounds of living
in an industrial revolution. Dickinson
was less sanguine when she looked out
her bedroom window and saw her childhood
friends’ graves multiply from the influenza
epidemic. Edwin Muir destroyed his nagging
cough by sleeping on a glacier and preferred high buttes from which he could be still and enjoy
the vast splendor of Nature where even rocks
had spiritual meaning. Craggy Robert Frost
saw Nature in conflict with Man, and for him
life was a struggle for survival. To be still
as trains horn by and planes roar overhead
makes being open to Nature most difficult.
[Disposable Poem September 27, 2009]
Dr. Mike
Typo: John Muir, Not Edwin.
Sorry -- Dr, Mike
We forgive.
How could we not -- given the grand poems you keep posting?
I hope your leg is healing well, my friend.
Please keep posting.
H.K.
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