Nature’s first green is gold.
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
but only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Before it goes out like a lamb, it’s time to talk about the month of March. Looking back in history we’ll remember this month, in 2020, as the time when the Coronavirus grew exponentially in the U.S.A. Not that we weren’t forewarned, by the explosion taking place in Europe, preceded by China, and Iran, etc., etc.. in previous weeks. Covid-19’s here to stay for a long time; forty five days until we see a peak, eighteen months before life goes back to normal, if it ever does. In the long haul a positive outcome to this situation can be found within ourselves; find ways to beat it psychologically, remain optimistic, and use it to be more creative and productive in our personal lives. Take up painting, the piano, reading novels, writing as much as we can. How can we reach out, and help others, and bring them into our lives? What special talents do we have that we can share? There are certainly people living in a more precarious habitat, in which I’m living. Selfishly I hope I don’t catch the virus, or be a carrier and less selfishly, pass it on to someone else. So, where do we go from here? The answer seems to be nowhere, nothing versus something, and now being never. What is true is we are all vulnerable. No-one is exempt.
Back to March. What do we know about this third month of the calendar year, which during Roman Times was the first, and not the third of the year? A month named after the god of war, called Mars. Special days in particular yearn to be celebrated. Such as St. Patrick’s day, on the 17th, especially by the Irish, but even if you haven’t an ounce of Irish in your blood, you’re always welcome to partake in Irish generosity.
On the 15th of March, back in Roman Times, an old woman warned Julius Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March.” Against his wife’s best wishes Caesar ignored the oracle and ventured out into the Roman forum only to be assassinated, and find moments before he fell to his death that his best friend had betrayed him; thus the famous quote “Et tu Brutus?” The circumstance is a reminder to follow the wisdom of Shakespeare spoken in one of his plays “Love all, trust a few, and do wrong to no-one.” And, in the wake of the Corona19, to listen to the oracle; Stay home, protect yourselves, and others.
Since I am a curious person, who seeks novelty in all things possible to brush away the the sins of idleness, and boredom, I have a trivia fact for March. Does anyone know what September, October, November and December stand for? I found this out the other day through a post by the Farmer’s Almanac. The meaning of the prefixes of these months in latin follow suit with March being the first month of the year, for Sept means seven, Octo, eight, Nove, nine, and Dece, ten. So whatever happened to January and February? There is an answer, but at this moment, I can only say; “I do not know it.” Just like there are answers surrounding the mysteries of the Coronavirus, but for now uncertainty reigns, and only time will tell.
People don’t always see things in the same light. Reactions will differ, from something to nothing at all. Even in seeing a blade of grass. The same blade of grass in a sea of millions of other blades, an observer might ask: why are you looking at that blade of grass? -singular, like yourself. – And if you choose to answer them they still may not understand. You simply have to move on.
En un barrio de Santiago, Chile, que conozco bien, la madrugada amanece un poco antes de levantar el sol. El nogal enfrente, muriendo de la sequedad de esta zona es símbolo del cambio de clima y de la escasez de agua. Todos los árboles del jardín están perdiendo hojas y fruta. Pero a pesar de lo negativo que ocurre, en esta foto, una belleza y soledad tremendas se capturan en el cielo colorado, salpicado de nubes grises, y la silueta de las montañas en el fondo, llama la atención a uno de lo bueno que significa sentir el latido del corazón.
Been going to Chile, for a long time. Believe it or not, I hold a sort of love hate relationship with this country. A place I hold near and dear, for many reasons, but truthfully I remain affected by the injustices I’ve seen, the stratification of society, and the patience of the ‘have nots.’ Having the advantage of growing up in a wealthy country vastly opens my eyes to the inconveniences one encounters. It may consist of the simple matter of the quality of the tooth paste or the dish soap, which just doesn’t seem to lather up. It may be the broken down condition of appliances, and just plain lower quality and inefficiency, the absence of, for which we take for granted in the U.S. But to make up for these annoying and frustrating details, there is something in the everyday, working class people, and the value they have for life that makes all the rest unimportant. I hope these few pictures here will convey the layers of dissent, sadness, solitude, love, and giving that I encountered by simply walking down the streets of a town like Talca.
September is gone. October, begun. The first day of each month is like beginning anew. Turning a new leaf, strumming a new song. I read a poem, by a poet named Wordsworth, today. Quite outdated, but not really. The lines in one of his poems rang a bell, for me. He wrote,
Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
… I gazed and gazed, and to myself
I said, ‘Our thoughts at least are ours.
Wordsworth, from “Poems on the Naming of Places”
‘The confusion of my heart, alive to all, forgetting all. “Our thoughts at least are ours”,’ describe the freedom I feel outdoors, and it dawned on me, why it is that I love rivers, streams, lakes, and the sound of water, so. In places like these, I meditate, without even knowing, and feel at peace. Out there, I am not alone.
Facade of an old shed, difficult found on the curve in the road. Worn and weathered, it stood out on this foggy day, in February, 2019.Old Red Barn. New England in March 2019.A triangle shape, in the tree. Geometric shapes intermingle with the snow covered hemlock. March snow. Or maybe it was February.A tangled mess of prickly brambles, on the roadside. These overgrowths are usually a dark purple color, and make me think of the arteries inside the body. They are ominous, and not to be approached with your hands, or any other part of your body.
Autumn leaves dappled in warm afternoon sunlight. Fall, 2018.
Run, whenever, and as fast as you can.
We’re all in a hurry, and want to get things done. Completing tasks that lead to an accomplishment, is a challenge in itself. So many parts go into a final project. One detail of that project might be a source of inspiration. We may be able to envision the final product, but getting there is key. This young man, climbing the hill of the ‘Philosopher’s Way’ will be enlightened when he reaches the top, as his lungs fill with air, and the crisp autumn surroundings envelop his form. He comes from the Ancient People, like all of us. If we’d only come to realize…
July 2018 – 5 months ago this photo was taken in the town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. It prompted me to conjure some memories of my visit to this village. Stockbridge is an upscale community, and former residence of Norman Rockwell. Nearby, one can go and see this famous artist/illustrator’s home, studio and the museum featuring his art work. Stockbridge is also a convenient place to stay if you are coming from out of town and want to go to a concert at Tanglewood, an expansive park where artists of many genres go to perform. Concertgoers bring their blankets, chairs, and picnics to enjoy the musical sounds, under the evening sky. At Tanglewood, there is a small museum into which I ventured inside, and learned some interesting historical trivia. For one, there was a small red house on this property owned by a wealthy New England family, whose name slips my mind, however, inside this house lived the writer Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne was a native of Salem, Massachusetts, and author of “The Scarlet Letter”, “House of Seven Gables”, and numerous short stories. He is an author that interests me for his stories and his links to Puritan thought and heritage. It is no wonder one of his books is entitled “Tanglewood Tales”, a collection of stories based on Greek mythology, composed for children. And so goes the memory – a single photograph that produced a few bits of essential information stored in the confines of my brain. Call it an exercise, a jungle gym of mind play, or what you will. Had I not pushed myself to write, all of this would have been left to dissipate into thin air, like used up space crafts orbiting in the hemisphere.