Thoughts about Time

The turning of the year from summer to autumn always turns my thoughts to time and what it does in my life, and to my experiences.  Especially as I grow older, I feel the press of time's inexorable cadence.  I have struggled with time a long time! As this verse written in March 1978 attests.

The Days

 Unyielding soldiers, the days march on.
Sometimes, when life is fortunate,
 (or I more skilled?)  I call these soldiers kind,
 and happily I step with mostly fitted stride,
blessed with calmness and a certain sense of pride.

   But other days their tempo tears my mind,

and in their crushing rushing I am trapped behind,
imprisoned in time's bruising double-bind.
My strategy must now be redesigned.

Surprisingly I sometimes find

shelter from attack of future fears and past regrets

by such sturdy soldiers firm in line;

their timely shields can kindly interpose

to guard my precious now.

 

So even though the march is swift,
I have found a benefit.

Plans

Today I’ll dust my flute and play

A wondrous tune, and far away

A lark will know its meaning.

I’ll sing, and listeners far and near

Will marvel at the sound they hear.

 

(But first I’ll finish cleaning.) 

Today I’ll take a piece of clay

And make a form that lives to say

That beauty is unending;

I’ll paint a picture that, when shown,

Art connoisseurs will fight to own,

 

(When I’ve done the mending.)

Today I’ll let the tide of me

Swell forth the things inside of me,

At least by afternoon.

I’ll do the things I ache to do;

I’ll find the time they take to do.

 

Well, not today,

But soon.

~Annie Komorny

 

 

 

 

Some times

are better than other times

and sometimes

I can’t tell them apart.

A part of me is

always wondering

which time it really is

or was

or will be

instead of enjoying the time

that is.

It is

not always what I enjoy

but I do it anyway
almost all the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are the suddenly-found tintypes mentioned in the poem below.

 

 

 

My grandfather at age 4 maybe.

He was born Nov 1882,

130 years ago this month. 

And below, taken a couple of years later

with sister Bessie, born 18 Feb 1884.

 

 

           Bessie Lee, his sister, with whom I share a

middle name and a birthday.  We never met,

but I was told I by my grandfather

that I reminded him of her.

I, too, was sober

and painfully shy.

 

 

 

Sallie Ann Kilpatrick married

Hosea James Nicholes

when she was regarded

as an old maid--she was

about 30 years old.

They had two children

before her death

from consumption

in Jan 1892.

  

Sorting

 

The third day of digging

through a card board liquor box

crammed with layers of letters, clippings, children’s scribbles,

college grade reports, diplomas, poems, pictures, and other miscellaneous stuff

that mostly defies any explanation….

including empty envelopes, paint chip brochures,

sheets of blank notebook paper,

ugly Christmas cards from people I cannot even place,

and then amid the mess

 

four tintypes of my father’s father when he was a child,

and Sally Ann his mother who died when he was eight,

and his solemn little sister Bess in her white birthday dress. 

I thought it almost worth

the backache bending by this mousey box of long-ago debris for hours,

looking at the stuff I’ve saved,

just to find those four small metal sheets engraved.

Glad I was a coward and hadn’t tossed the whole thing

without laborious looking, sorting, marveling—

first wondering how I managed hauling it with me over 50 some

odd years,

through twenty (some odd) moves,

and secondly,

wondering why I did.  

Some things are easy now to toss,

having forgotten entirely what the item meant to me;

but a few startling things that made me smile, made me sigh,

drew me back in time to old, old roads

I had not thought about for years. 

A few things to make me wonder who that former self really was.

What were her joys about?  Her tears?

Then two more photos, not so old!

 

Totally surprising me with eyes I’ve fallen into willingly

when part of me was fifteen,

and part of me felt ageless still.  

 

I wouldn’t dare do that anymore,

but I’m not sorry I did it then. 

I can almost remember what that was like,

and almost wish I had the eyes to see again.

 

What does it signify that finally, at seventyfive, I can dig

through layers of leaves from all those seasons of my past,

and actually part with most of them?

Is it because they now are faded to a same dull brown? 

Ah, but did I not find some still with golden glow,

Layered tight amid the clutter crammed inside that card board box? 

And as you may have guessed, for awhile

I safely place these few into a new and smaller case,

which I shall not sort again,

until I have forgotten even these

and can no longer smile.

 

(Written October 10, 2007)

 

 

 

 Light on leaves is good; light shining through leaves is grand.

 

October Walk

What could be nicer than a Sabbath stroll beside our nearby stream, under God's trees, with happy grandchildren? It feels like an extension of worship to be face-to-face with the beauties of Autumn. Each bush and tree seems heaven highlighted as we gaze upon their changing colors and myriad forms. No wonder our efforts to be creative are so satisfying, when we realize how creative the Creator is!  He surely must
have enjoyed the process as well as the results of creation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This looks suspicously like Virginia Creeper! That ubiquitous vine that just appears in all sorts of places. In the fall, it cannot remain inconspicuous!  

 

I love the sound and the sight of running water! Would it grow monotonous

if I heard it all the time?  Do we miss seeing beauty when it is all around us?

Here we are, standing on the outside, looking in on someone's pleasant patio garden.

I can enjoy it without any of the care!

 

Virginia Creeper in all its glory........all the fall colors, plus navy blue berries.

Best of all is having grandchildren to share this journey into beauty.

And so I have been renewed by this walk by the water.

May I take the time to daily notice and stand in awe

of God's good and glorious creation. And may I

create good things in my life and circle of influence.

25 September 2012

 

 

God's World

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart, -- Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, -- let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

 

When I was young (this will surprise my grandchildren who have never known a young me!) I fell in love with autumn. I think it first began when I started school--fall brought the exciting adventure of entering a whole new, unknown world. The big yellow bus lumbered me from my very sheltered farm life into town to an entirely new place, to many new faces, to sudden confrontation with a different life.  I soon loved being a student; I discovered I could do what the teacher required; I enjoyed learning to read and write and the satisfaction of achievement. 

So Autumn became associated with good stuff. And it was beautiful. After a long hot Texas summer, it was invigorating to experience the changes that came in September in temperature and color and that essential ambiance that defies description. 

When I was 14 and falling in love with other things, I came across this poem that called my name and it has been a favorite ever since. This morning when I took the photo from my deck, it came to mind again. The beginning of Autumn happens so subtly and yet so suddenly that it always lifts my soul: that slight degree of different slant of sunlight, that hint of crispness in the early morning air, that certain silent knowing of coming change.  It always happens in August while it is still hot summer; a harbinger that turns our hearts forward to this favorite season that gives me personal permission to re-engage in good changes, myself. 

 

* * *     * * *     * * *

 

In September 1970 I went to visit my sister Sharon in Colorado Springs for a couple of days for a rare and much-needed break.  Upon returning, everything was different-- Poem #72  Sept 1970

 

Beginning of New Things

I went away once for three dear days~

it was the middle of September~

and when I returned to resume my wonted ways,

things weren't exactly as I remembered;

I saw strange flowers on the usual stalks,

and my feet didn't fit the familiar walks.

 

I looked down and studied the same brown ground
in kind of a new light and I wondered
"Has this hole changed?" I even got around
to wondering if my feet were swollen
from all that traipsing about on other roads,
but when I measured, the dimensions were the same.

 

Then mostly by chance ~ it certainly wasn't by habit~
I looked up and up and stood still smiling,
quite startled by the shimmering sky,
by bright bunches of gold in the trees,
and most of all by the dance of my mind
that suddenly, strongly, defied old decrees.

* * *       * * *      * * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *     * * *     * * *

 

OK, going back even further, to my 59th poem written Nov 1965 in Rocky Ford, Colorado:

November 16th

 

The slanting sun this autumn afternoon

in orange-red warmth so strangely weakly rayed

(how has it happened that it moved this soon,

when yesterday it had not thusly strayed?)

This curious sun, today more distant orbed,

is sending now a message shining sung;

but here whirl I upon clod earth, disturbed,

just missing those rich notes I know are flung.

Who moved away?  the sun?  the earth?  or me?

If only I could comprehend this sun,

I should be pulsed with strength, set free,

and with impunity could stop or run.

 

To only half-perceive is bitterness;

to be half-free, half-full, is emptiness.

 

* * *     * * *     * * *

 ...let fall no burning leaf!

 

I would hate to live in a place without the seasonal beauties of Autumn.  The changing colors of trees!  

They are just so magic for me. 

I am grateful for all the seasons, but what can I say? Autumn is my favorite!

 

 

* * *     * * *     * * *

 

 

 

This is a photo of my grandfather Dennis Thomas Stayton, on his mother's lap when he was about 18 months old.  He was born January 27, 1864 in Indiana, the son of David and Mary Morris Stayton, and their 13th child. Can you imagine how many diapers she washed by hand over the years?

  David Stayton, born 6 Dec 1821 in Delaware, the son of Robert Stayton and Elizabeth Holloway who died when he was just over six years of age. When he was about 14, the family settled in Fulton Co. IN where he married Mary Morris in 1842. They had 18 children; my grandfather, born in 1864 being the youngest of the 11 who lived past infancy. The Stayton family were Dunkards and did not believe in fighting; David went north to avoid being conscripted during the Civil War.

Here is David Stayton and wife Mary Morris in their later years. It looks like she has lost her teeth by this time; why is his hair still dark? She died 8 Feb 1897 and he died 8 Jan 1899, both in Marshall Co. Indiana.

2012-09 Day Trip