Where Faith, Food and Life Converge

Monday Mondays 6.22.15

Monday Mondays 6.22.15

I receive A-Poem-A-Day delivered to my email inbox, well, every day.  I’ve been getting them for years, because as a homeschooler, it’s always good to have a little culture in school, and also because it seems not many people read poetry much any more.  I don’t always read all of the poems (ones about bugs or deep sadness just don’t do it for me) but sometimes I see a little more beauty in the day because of the daily poem I read, or make a connection to the past based on the poem.  Today’s poem was interesting to me, because even a hundred years ago, someone was bemoaning the fact that there wasn’t as much time to relax as in days past.

A hundred years and we’re still wishing we had more time in the day.

Which can be a good thing… or a bad thing.  Sure, we cram so many activities into our daily routines that we don’t stop to smell the roses. (Bad thing.)

On the other hand (good thing), I think this is uniquely part of the larger American story.  Somewhere in our DNA is this need to strive to do more, be more, think more, create more.  It’s served us well as a nation, so while we might all want a little more time off, it’s truly kind of great that we are a nation of do-ers, rather than watchers. So next time you’re feeling a little overwhelmed by your to-do list, remember that you’ve been blessed to live in this great land, where you can accomplish what you set out to do.  Now…. go kick some butt this week!  Be great, because you ARE great!

Leisure

Amy Lowell, 18741925

Leisure, thou goddess of a bygone age,
When hours were long and days sufficed to hold
Wide-eyed delights and pleasures uncontrolled
By shortening moments, when no gaunt presage
Of undone duties, modern heritage,
Haunted our happy minds; must thou withhold
Thy presence from this over-busy world,
And bearing silence with thee disengage
Our twined fortunes? Deeps of unhewn woods
Alone can cherish thee, alone possess
Thy quiet, teeming vigor. This our crime:
Not to have worshipped, marred by alien moods
That sole condition of all loveliness,
The dreaming lapse of slow, unmeasured time.

 

 

 

 



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