Man is born to trouble as surely as the sparks fly upward.--Eliphaz (to Job) ca A Long Time Ago
Our days on earth are like grass; like wildflowers, we bloom and die. The wind blows, and we are gone—as though we had never been here. -- King David ca 1000BC
Life is suffering.--Siddhartha Guatama, the Buddha ca 530BC
But learn that to die is a debt we must all pay. --Euripides ca 430 BC
Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.--Socrates ca 410BC
That is why I tell you not to worry about everyday life—whether you have enough food to eat or enough clothes to wear. For life is more than food, and your body more than clothing.--Jesus ca 30AD
God’s purpose for my life was that I have a passion for God’s glory and that I have a passion for my joy in that glory, and that these two are one passion.--Jonathan Edwards 18th Century
A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.--Charles Darwin 19th Century
Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.--Einstein 20th century
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
A Poor Life This
Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
W. H. Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
W. H. Davies
Friday, December 9, 2011
Death By Small Doses
To follow yesterday's post of Ode To Life by Pablo Neruda, here is another poem by the same name. I've been told that it is also Neruda, but after scouring a dozen of his books I can find no trace of it. I don't know if it is his or not. Internet sites credit it to Neruda, but where is the paper version of it?
Regardless of who wrote it, it is an intriguing poem. The two are very different in many ways, but both sound clear and ringing warnings, and each are woven throughout with hope and possiblility.
Ode To Life
Slowly dies he who becomes a slave to habit,
repeating the same journey every day,
he who doesn’t change his march, he who doesn’t risk
and change the color of his clothes, he who doesn’t speak to him whom he doesn’t know.
Slowly dies he who makes of the television his guru,
Slowly he who avoids a passion dies, he who prefers
black on white and dots on "i"s rather than a gnawing of emotions
exactly those that make the eyes shine,
those that make the heart beat
before error and feeling.
Slowly dies he who doesn’t overturn the table,
he who is unhappy in his work,
he who doesn’t risk certainty for uncertainty
to follow a dream,
he who doesn’t permit himself at least one time in his life
to flee sensible counsel.
Slowly dies he who doesn’t travel, he who doesn’t read,
he who doesn’t listen to music,
he who doesn’t find grace in himself.
Slowly he who destroys his own love dies,
he who doesn’t allow himself to be helped.
Slowly he who passes his days lamenting
about his own misfortune or the incessant rain dies.
Slowly dies he who abandons a project
before beginning it,
he who doesn’t ask questions about topics he doesn’t know,
he who doesn’t answer when he is asked something that he knows.
Let’s avoid death by small doses,
remembering always that being alive
requires a much larger effort
than the simple act of breathing.
Only burning patience will bring
within reach a splendid happiness.
Regardless of who wrote it, it is an intriguing poem. The two are very different in many ways, but both sound clear and ringing warnings, and each are woven throughout with hope and possiblility.
Ode To Life
Slowly dies he who becomes a slave to habit,
repeating the same journey every day,
he who doesn’t change his march, he who doesn’t risk
and change the color of his clothes, he who doesn’t speak to him whom he doesn’t know.
Slowly dies he who makes of the television his guru,
Slowly he who avoids a passion dies, he who prefers
black on white and dots on "i"s rather than a gnawing of emotions
exactly those that make the eyes shine,
those that make the heart beat
before error and feeling.
Slowly dies he who doesn’t overturn the table,
he who is unhappy in his work,
he who doesn’t risk certainty for uncertainty
to follow a dream,
he who doesn’t permit himself at least one time in his life
to flee sensible counsel.
Slowly dies he who doesn’t travel, he who doesn’t read,
he who doesn’t listen to music,
he who doesn’t find grace in himself.
Slowly he who destroys his own love dies,
he who doesn’t allow himself to be helped.
Slowly he who passes his days lamenting
about his own misfortune or the incessant rain dies.
Slowly dies he who abandons a project
before beginning it,
he who doesn’t ask questions about topics he doesn’t know,
he who doesn’t answer when he is asked something that he knows.
Let’s avoid death by small doses,
remembering always that being alive
requires a much larger effort
than the simple act of breathing.
Only burning patience will bring
within reach a splendid happiness.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
His Mistaken Solitude
Today I walked around mulling over this question of life: What is it? Why do I sometimes feel very much alive and sometimes I feel hardly alive? Do the dead still feel, to themselves, as if they lived? And as I mused I noticed a bumper sticker that read simply: "Smile. You're Alive!" And so I smiled. Because I'm alive. And I can.
Then I came home and looked up the following poem by Pablo Neruda. While this is called Ode To Life, Neruda also wrote another poem that is much more well known and has the same title. I'll post it tomorrow.
Ode to life
The entire night
armed with a hatchet,
has broken me with grief,
but sleep
like dark water washed away
the bloody stones.
Today again I am alive.
Again, life
I lift you up,
upon my shoulders.
Oh life,
clear cup,
suddenly
you fill up with
dirty water,
lifeless wine,
agony, losses, and
overhanging spider webs,
and many believe
you will guard
this nightmarish tint forever.
That is not true.
A lingering night passes,
just one minute passes
and everything changes.
Life's cup
fills up
with transparent brilliance.
The wide quest
awaits us.
Doves are born in a solitary burst.
Light reigns again over the earth.
Life, the poor
poets
believed you to be bitter.
They did not rise from bed
with you
and face the winds of the world.
They received beatings
without searching for you.
They tunneled
a black hole
and continued their journeys,
submerged
in mourning,
drowning in a well of loneliness.
That is not true, life.
You are
beautiful
like my beloved;
between your breasts,
the perfume of spearmint sings.
Life,
you are
a complete instrument,,
happiness, sounds
of storm, tenderness
of mellow oil.
Life,
you are like a vineyard:
you treasure and dole out light-and share
in the fruits of transformation.
Whoever disowns you
should wait
a minute, a night,
a short or long year,
to emerge
from his mistaken solitude,
to search and fight, to join
hands with other hands.
Do not adopt, do not praise
misfortune,
Reject it, giving it the form
of a wall,
like the stonecutter with the stone.
Take scissors to misfortune,
and make
a pair of trousers.
Life
waits for us-
all of us
who cherish
the wild perfume of the sea,
and the celebration of spearmint
nestled between its breasts.
.
Then I came home and looked up the following poem by Pablo Neruda. While this is called Ode To Life, Neruda also wrote another poem that is much more well known and has the same title. I'll post it tomorrow.
Ode to life
The entire night
armed with a hatchet,
has broken me with grief,
but sleep
like dark water washed away
the bloody stones.
Today again I am alive.
Again, life
I lift you up,
upon my shoulders.
Oh life,
clear cup,
suddenly
you fill up with
dirty water,
lifeless wine,
agony, losses, and
overhanging spider webs,
and many believe
you will guard
this nightmarish tint forever.
That is not true.
A lingering night passes,
just one minute passes
and everything changes.
Life's cup
fills up
with transparent brilliance.
The wide quest
awaits us.
Doves are born in a solitary burst.
Light reigns again over the earth.
Life, the poor
poets
believed you to be bitter.
They did not rise from bed
with you
and face the winds of the world.
They received beatings
without searching for you.
They tunneled
a black hole
and continued their journeys,
submerged
in mourning,
drowning in a well of loneliness.
That is not true, life.
You are
beautiful
like my beloved;
between your breasts,
the perfume of spearmint sings.
Life,
you are
a complete instrument,,
happiness, sounds
of storm, tenderness
of mellow oil.
Life,
you are like a vineyard:
you treasure and dole out light-and share
in the fruits of transformation.
Whoever disowns you
should wait
a minute, a night,
a short or long year,
to emerge
from his mistaken solitude,
to search and fight, to join
hands with other hands.
Do not adopt, do not praise
misfortune,
Reject it, giving it the form
of a wall,
like the stonecutter with the stone.
Take scissors to misfortune,
and make
a pair of trousers.
Life
waits for us-
all of us
who cherish
the wild perfume of the sea,
and the celebration of spearmint
nestled between its breasts.
.
Monday, December 5, 2011
We Die In Earnest
What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.
What really is our life? Is it, as Sir Walter Raleigh said, just a "short comedy"? Or should we complain with MacBeth that:
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Having come, along with dozens of other big name philosophers, to the conclusion that life has no significance beyond itself (Life, and everything else for them was what they called "absurd.") Camus declared:
"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy."
He's right. Job's wife recognized this also, and told him that in the face of what seemed to her to be cosmic injustice the only answer was to "Curse God and die." She meant, I think, suicide.
What we think our life is makes a bit of a difference in how we live it. Raleigh at the top of this post really wasn't talking half as much about his doctrine of what LIFE really is as he was poking fun at all of us for the half-hearted way in which we live it. But the two are related. And, as he reminds us, however we live and whatever we think it means, we die in earnest. If Camus and his fellows chose to kill themselves because that is what their philosophical ponderings drove them to, then their deaths would have been absolutely in earnest. They would have been fraught with all the angst and religious and political meaning that Camus et al denied really existed. Their deaths would have disproved the very basis and reason for them. But no matter. They would have been in earnest!
Now, I'd like to present a challenge to anyone who cares to take it up.
Over the course of this month, contemplate life: its meaning, the way it is done, how/why it ends, etc., etc., etc.. Then write a short (or not short) poem about what life is. Any form. Any approach. Any ideas. Anything.
Email them to me at my email address that is on the left hand side of my profile page. If you can't find that, my email is simply my name, with no dots or spaces, at hotmail dot com. I too will try to come up with something. Then, in the first day or two of next year I'll post your submissions.
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.
What really is our life? Is it, as Sir Walter Raleigh said, just a "short comedy"? Or should we complain with MacBeth that:
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Having come, along with dozens of other big name philosophers, to the conclusion that life has no significance beyond itself (Life, and everything else for them was what they called "absurd.") Camus declared:
"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy."
He's right. Job's wife recognized this also, and told him that in the face of what seemed to her to be cosmic injustice the only answer was to "Curse God and die." She meant, I think, suicide.
What we think our life is makes a bit of a difference in how we live it. Raleigh at the top of this post really wasn't talking half as much about his doctrine of what LIFE really is as he was poking fun at all of us for the half-hearted way in which we live it. But the two are related. And, as he reminds us, however we live and whatever we think it means, we die in earnest. If Camus and his fellows chose to kill themselves because that is what their philosophical ponderings drove them to, then their deaths would have been absolutely in earnest. They would have been fraught with all the angst and religious and political meaning that Camus et al denied really existed. Their deaths would have disproved the very basis and reason for them. But no matter. They would have been in earnest!
Now, I'd like to present a challenge to anyone who cares to take it up.
Over the course of this month, contemplate life: its meaning, the way it is done, how/why it ends, etc., etc., etc.. Then write a short (or not short) poem about what life is. Any form. Any approach. Any ideas. Anything.
Email them to me at my email address that is on the left hand side of my profile page. If you can't find that, my email is simply my name, with no dots or spaces, at hotmail dot com. I too will try to come up with something. Then, in the first day or two of next year I'll post your submissions.
So Remembering
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Sheltered From Winds That Beat On Thee
Amy Carmichael: no soft slippers on her feet, no dainty parisian meals to be toyed with and coyly pushed around her plate, no doting hubby protecting her from the scars of the world. In her mission in India she faced the harsh realities of sin in our world, of destroyed lives, of meager rations and little hope for improvement. She willingly sought that life as a young woman, raised in a world of plenty, and more than plenty. Why? For others? Yes. For the girls whom she rescued? Yes! But there seems to be much more to it than that, as this poem and many of her others hint at.
FLAME OF GOD
From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,
From fearing when I should aspire,
From faltering when I should climb higher
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee.
From subtle love of softening things,
From easy choices, weakenings,
(Not thus are spirits fortified,
Not this way went the Crucified)
From all that dims Thy Calvary
O Lamb of God, deliver me.
Give me the love that leads the way,
The faith that nothing can dismay
The hope no disappointments tire,
The passion that will burn like fire;
Let me not sink to be a clod;
Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.
How can I become more like Amy Carmichael?
FLAME OF GOD
From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,
From fearing when I should aspire,
From faltering when I should climb higher
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee.
From subtle love of softening things,
From easy choices, weakenings,
(Not thus are spirits fortified,
Not this way went the Crucified)
From all that dims Thy Calvary
O Lamb of God, deliver me.
Give me the love that leads the way,
The faith that nothing can dismay
The hope no disappointments tire,
The passion that will burn like fire;
Let me not sink to be a clod;
Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.
How can I become more like Amy Carmichael?
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