Kiwi-family
{Rachael, the Mama of the family}
- Time of past OR future Camino
- walking every day for the rest of my life
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Thankyou for sharing, it reminded me of Emily Dickinson “Hope” is the thing with feathersBut the poem I particularly want to share today is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's one which acknowledges sadness but ends with hope.
At this time there are calls to be positive (valid), calls to be lighthearted (also valid)...and I would like to suggest that for some this is a time to be disappointed. Many of us will have more moments to mull over poetry (amongst other endeavours) in the following months.
I keep a book which I have called Lament and I collect things in there that aid in the season of disappointment.
One poem is Thomas Hood's "The Song of the Shirt"
One verse in particular reminds me how fortunate I have been to be able to walk many times in Spain, around the globe, and indeed every day at home. I have never had to choose between feeding my children and taking an hour of recreation.
O! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
But the poem I particularly want to share today is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's one which acknowledges sadness but ends with hope. It is good to remember disappointment neither defines us, nor lasts forever.
The Rainy Day
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
I looked up Estela, and it could also be a ripple, as in the wake of the boat/ship. Then it made sense. Thanks for posting it at this time. We can do with a bit of poetry, and or simple philosophical attitudes at this time.Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.
Wanderer, your footprints are
the path, and nothing else;
wanderer, there is no path,
the path is made by walking.
Walking makes the path,
and on glancing back
one sees the path
that can never be trod again.
Wanderer, there is no path—
Just a wake in the sea.
Antonio Machado 1875 - 1939
Thanks for posting it at this time. We can do with a bit of poetry, and or simple philosophical attitudes at this time.
Wonderful!!
Just imagine taking them to the monastery at Sobrado.
I love this. Thank youI discovered The Gloaming in 2018 and that song Samhradh Samhradh accompanied me on many early morning walks that turned out to be 3 caminos back to back in France, Spain, Portugal and Brazil and never got tired of listening to it. You could say it was my spiritual song that spoke to my being, raised my vibrational level and moved my soul. The other was The Pilgrims Song by the soulful singing bard, Irla O' Lionaird and the maestro Martin Hayes
The country spoke like a temple,
Do labhair an tír mar theampall,
The river walk was bumpy,
Bhí siúl na habhann boimpéiseach,
He bowed to the knee of the valleys,
Do chrom go glúin na gleannta,
The cross was true on limbs.
Bhí fíor na croise ar ghéaga.
To hear the gospel of wind,
Le soiscéal gaoithe d'éisteas,
There was holiness on the land,
Bhí naofacht ar an dtalamh,
Here lived my first shepherd,
Anseo do mhair mo chéadshearc,
Oh the direction didn't take long.
Oh níor ghabhas an treo le fada.
Life was a fairy tale
Chonac saol mar scéal fiannaíochta
A long time ago, in the morning,
Fadó, fadó, ar maidin,
Which shaped the magic rod
A mhúnlaigh an tslat draíochta
A child has it in his hand.
A bhíonn 'na láimh ag leanbh.
The show rose,
D'aiséirigh 'na taisléine,
Light on her cheeks,
Is solas ar a leacain,
It is me who turned to me
Is do thionlaic mé go gléineach
On a pilgrimage to my soul.
Ar oilithreacht fám anam.
Here my first shepherd lived
Anseo do mhair mo chéadshearc
Oh the direction didn't take long.
Oh níor ghabhas an treo le fada.
There is a dream, I know it,
Tá aisling ann, is eol dom í,
Boiling in the womb of my imagination,
Ag fiuchadh i mbroinn mo shamhlaíochta,
A bright bodyless flame like wind,
Lasair gheal gan chorp mar ghaoith,
When begging for a suitable body.
Agus corp oiriúnach á impí aici.
I am not sure if this is the best place, but here is something I got in an email today, and think it is worth sharing:At this time there are calls to be positive (valid), calls to be lighthearted (also valid)...and I would like to suggest that for some this is a time to be disappointed. Many of us will have more moments to mull over poetry (amongst other endeavours) in the following months.
I keep a book which I have called Lament and I collect things in there that aid in the season of disappointment.
One poem is Thomas Hood's "The Song of the Shirt"
One verse in particular reminds me how fortunate I have been to be able to walk many times in Spain, around the globe, and indeed every day at home. I have never had to choose between feeding my children and taking an hour of recreation.
O! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
But the poem I particularly want to share today is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's one which acknowledges sadness but ends with hope. It is good to remember disappointment neither defines us, nor lasts forever.
The Rainy Day
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
I am not sure if this is the best place, but here is something I got in an email today, and think it is worth sharing:
Brother Richard Hendrick, a Capuchin Franciscan living in Ireland, has penned a touching poem about coronavirus.
Brother Richard shared his poem "Lockdown" in a Facebook post on Friday, March 13. His original post has received more than19k positive reactions and has been shared more than 34k times.
Lockdown by Brother Richard:
Yes there is fear.
Yes there is isolation.
Yes there is panic buying.
Yes there is sickness.
Yes there is even death.
But,
They say that in Wuhan after so many years of noise
You can hear the birds again.
They say that after just a few weeks of quiet
The sky is no longer thick with fumes
But blue and grey and clear.
They say that in the streets of Assisi
People are singing to each other
across the empty squares,
keeping their windows open
so that those who are alone
may hear the sounds of family around them.
They say that a hotel in the West of Ireland
Is offering free meals and delivery to the housebound.
Today a young woman I know
is busy spreading fliers with her number
through the neighbourhood
so that the elders may have someone to call on.
Today Churches, Synagogues, Mosques and Temples
are preparing to welcome
and shelter the homeless, the sick, the weary
All over the world people are slowing down and reflecting
All over the world people are looking at their neighbours in a new way
All over the world people are waking up to a new reality
To how big we really are.
To how little control we really have.
To what really matters.
To Love.
So we pray and we remember that
Yes there is fear.
But there does not have to be hate.
Yes there is isolation.
But there does not have to be loneliness.
Yes there is panic buying.
But there does not have to be meanness.
Yes there is sickness.
But there does not have to be disease of the soul
Yes there is even death.
But there can always be a rebirth of love.
Wake to the choices you make as to how to live now.
Today, breathe.
Listen, behind the factory noises of your panic
The birds are singing again
The sky is clearing,
Spring is coming,
And we are always encompassed by Love.
Open the windows of your soul
And though you may not be able
to touch across the empty square, Sing
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