Thursday, May 21, 2015

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 moldering 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 moldering 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.

Henry W. Longfellow.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

The following piece is about how, among the many things we need in life, experience can be very valuable, but for some of us, it seems as if we never learn from it, and as time marches on we find ourselves unchanged by it.
We lack a sensitivity to draw from experience the elements that would make another person more sympathetic, compassionate, patient and wise. Instead of maturing, as the changes of life and time pass by, we lack the intuition or wisdom to draw from events the very things that build character. The following piece (which has to be read more than once) is about that very phenomenon. How experience is valuable but only if we have ---

"some breadth of ability and faculty to seize relations, and the depth of conscience to read life truly, and quickness of affection to sympathize with it more fully; and a cultivated reverence of mind to know its own ignorance and find the way to other's wisdom.
The materials and occasions of experience may often abound; and yet may remain without change and moral result, because they lack the living mind and molding love to elaborate and shape them. Some men there are whom no lapse of time seems to soften or expand; from whom whole floods of experience will flow off and leave them dry; who pass through events and remember them, and like to call back their outward image again, but are just the same as if the events had been different; who reproduce in age the very sentiments and prejudices they had looked up in youth, and gather nothing from the past but a mood disagreeable and un-genial to the present. They repeat the story of their early days, not as a poem, but as an almanac; they can give you the dates but not the meaning of the changes they have seen; and of the men they have admired they can tell no more than the register and the coffin-plate. To such natures, case-hardened against the elements, time and the seasons come in vain: winter and summer pass but not a crevice opens in the rock where a green thing can push its root. Lacking the susceptibility to appropriate what is given and work it up into the organism of the personal existence, they can only by an abuse of terms be said to have "experience" at all: they lack its diviner conditions, though supplied with its natural variations and changes; if they were to live life over again, they would do and be essentially the same." James Martineau.

Monday, May 18, 2015

I have an old book titled  "Golden thoughts of Mother, Home and Heaven". It was published in 1881 and is earmarked for my Granddaughter Destiny. When it was written they asked Fanny Crosby, blind from age two months: a prolific songwriter with over 9,000 hymns as well as hundreds of poems and best known for "Blessed Assurance”., Fanny was asked if she would write a poem expressly for this book, here it is ----

The light, the spell-word of the heart,
Our guiding star in weal or woe,
Our talisman --- our earthly chart ---
That sweetest name that earth can know.

We breathed it first with lisping tongue
When cradled in her arms we lay;
Fond memories round that name are hung
That will not, cannot pass away.

We breathed it then, we breathe it still,
More dear than sister, friend, or brother
The gentle power, the magic thrill,
Awakened at the name of mother.

Some of us are blessed to have fond memories and a deep abiding love for Mother; would that it were true for all......

Friday, May 15, 2015

  There's an old country song that says, "Some girls don't like guys like me, but some girls do!" It's true, I tell my teenage grandkids to take heart, not every girl, or guy, will be smitten by you. Some will think you're cute, some will not: some will like the way you swagger, some will think you're full of yourself: some can't stand anything about you: and others will like everything you do. Now, in this picture it is no mystery who is smitten.

Thursday, May 14, 2015

I ran across this piece by Washington Irving on the meditations we have at the bedside of someone we love and have been loved by, as they pass away. I hope some may have these kind of thoughts when I die.

  "The grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments, lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness, of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh, how thrilling, pressure of the hand; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection."  W. Irving.