Like Dorothy, I sometimes feel like I have traveled halfway around the world only to come...home. Granted, I have not yet realized what "home" is, but I begin to suspect that whatever it is takes some sitting still and just living to attain it.
There is not much to report. I made a bid to get funding to get a Masters in Clinical Counseling. It was unsuccessful, but in considering the attempt I learned some useful things about me, and the world, and now, I am simply waiting. Waiting, living, and mastering the art of daily life.
As a first post in two years, this one is a poor start, but as an apology for my brevity, I will leave you with one of my favorite Hopkins poems.
Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.
Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.
We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
And where is he who more and more distils
Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills
His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.
No comments:
Post a Comment