I'm taking a break this afternoon from my Greek studies. It's a slightly windy, cool, yet still t-shirt weather, overcast cloudy day. Time for a cup of Good Earth Lemongrass tea!
Today's quote is not one I have ever seen before. It sparked curiosity and research. I will share the quote and what I have learned.
The quote: "I make the most of all that comes, And the least of all that goes." ~Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
Naturally, I wanted to learn who this Sara Teasdale was! So, I searched and learned that she was born in St. Louis, Missouri and was known as a poet, an accomplished poet who had written quite a bit and who had won a Pulitzer Prize and other prizes for her writings. She wrote of love, beauty, and death. She married, but it seems she didn't marry her first love, as there were several suitors* prior to her accepting the proposal of Ernst Filsinger, a successful businessman. They married in 1914 and she divorced him in 1929. Her life ended in 1933 when she committed suicide by an overdose. *One of her suitors had been Vachel Lindsay, another American poet. He struggled with life and finances and took his life in 1931by drinking a bottle of lye. (
http://www.vachellindsayhome.org/#!__biog4)
Another quote by Sara Teasdale that I found while searching: "You will recognize your own path when you come upon it because you will suddenly have all the energy and imagination you will ever need."
Both of these quotes that I have posted today do not reflect the Sara that gave in to depression after her bout of pneumonia and possibly fatigue of dealing with life's struggles. In both these quotes I see a hopeful Sara, someone living into life with the most she has to offer, accepting life's ebbs and flows and sharing with others how to recognize their path after finding her own.
As we are in the season of Advent, I will share a poem I found about the Christ Child. It is called, "The Carpenter's Son".
The Carpenter's Son (published in
Rivers to the Sea)
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| | The summer dawn came over-soon,
The earth was like hot iron at noon
In Nazareth;
There fell no rain to ease the heat,
And dusk drew on with tired feet
And stifled breath.
The shop was low and hot and square,
And fresh-cut wood made sharp the air,
While all day long
The saw went tearing thru the oak
That moaned as tho' the tree's heart broke
Beneath its wrong.
The narrow street was full of cries,
Of bickering and snarling lies
In many keys--
The tongues of Egypt and of Rome
And lands beyond the shifting foam
Of windy seas.
Sometimes a ruler riding fast
Scattered the dark crowds as he passed,
And drove them close
In doorways, drawing broken breath
Lest they be trampled to their death
Where the dust rose.
There in the gathering night and noise
A group of Galilean boys
Crowding to see
Gray Joseph toiling with his son,
Saw Jesus, when the task was done,
Turn wearily.
He passed them by with hurried tread
Silently, nor raised his head,
He who looked up
Drinking all beauty from his birth
Out of the heaven and the earth
As from a cup.
And Mary, who was growing old,
Knew that the pottage would be cold
When he returned;
He hungered only for the night,
And westward, bending sharp and bright,
The thin moon burned.
He reached the open western gate
Where whining halt and leper wait,
And came at last
To the blue desert, where the deep
Great seas of twilight lay asleep,
Windless and vast.
With shining eyes the stars awoke,
The dew lay heavy on his cloak,
The world was dim;
And in the stillness he could hear
His secret thoughts draw very near
And call to him.
Faint voices lifted shrill with pain
And multitudinous as rain;
From all the lands
And all the villages thereof
Men crying for the gift of love
With outstretched hands.
Voices that called with ceaseless crying,
The broken and the blind, the dying,
And those grown dumb
Beneath oppression, and he heard
Upon their lips a single word,
"Come!"
Their cries engulfed him like the night,
The moon put out her placid light
And black and low
Nearer the heavy thunder drew,
Hushing the voices . . . yet he knew
That he would go.
A quick-spun thread of lightning burns,
And for a flash the day returns--
He only hears
Joseph, an old man bent and white
Toiling alone from morn till night
Thru all the years.
Swift clouds make all the heavens blind,
A storm is running on the wind--
He only sees
How Mary will stretch out her hands
Sobbing, who never understands
Voices like these. |
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Some links:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/sara-teasdale
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/658
http://www.poemhunter.com/sara-teasdale/biography/
http://stlouiswalkoffame.org/inductees/sara-teasdale.html
Wherever you find yourself on your journey, I hope you will make the most of all that comes your way. May you have energy and imagination on your journey and may you connect with the Carpenter's Son in someway this Advent Season.
~Debra
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