I just had to share Jocelyn’s latest post with you; I may be biased but I think it’s really beautiful art. If you have 10-15 minutes, it’s well worth a read.
The Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!-
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returneth,
Was not spoken of the soul.
I found this poem lying discarded upon a table inside a small home just off the railroad tracks running through a quaint but often overlooked small town in Oklahoma. That home once belonged to my grandmother. It’s where I spent lazy summer days and marveled at my grandmother’s ability to cook, and subsequently burn, every Southern dish to perfection. Now, it’s an empty shell of what it once was, but its serves as “home” for Dan and I as we clumsily and hesitantly decide how to proceed with our lives. The open poetry book, with is cover missing and pages ragged and torn, may not have been simply discarded, but instead perfectly placed.
I’m often a talker, not always doer; a big dreamer, not always executer. I’m comfortable in the life I lead but have a hard time accepting things for what they are. I often think there is more. In fact, I know there is more. But, not necessarily for me. It’s the adventurer, the risk-taker, the opportunist, the strong, the successful that seem to pounce upon their target with impeccable timing. They reach beyond what’s comfortable to take hold of their dreams, and unshaken, they refuse to let go.