the woods are lovely, dark and deep

Okay, back up to last Tuesday, the 22nd. Remember that load of snow that landed on the east coast? Well, one of my little ships was stranded in an airport, with no flights out until Christmas Eve. So, the resourceful little ship boarded a train and headed west. We, in turn, hopped in our trusty dark green Land Rover and headed east. It was a beautiful wintry road trip.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there's some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

gardening thoughts

Heavens to murgatroyd! I just finished the sweaty job of weeding
the front flower beds at Willow Manor. Gardening is a perfect time
for contemplation; in tune with Mother Earth, the scent of moist
soil and foliage. Don't you think a life of learning and creating are
much like gardening, always in a beautiful process of growth, death
and renewal?

My friend, Bill Stankus, blogged this week on some particular college
classes he had taken and subjects that interested him. We all wonder
at times what might have been, had we chosen a different college
major or career path. It's often difficult at age 18 to know yourself
well enough to choose an occupation for life. But, I'm curious to know
how many of us are actually still pursuing that original career we
embarked on, as idealistic young freshmen. This transformation of
learning and evolving as a person, in my opinion, should be a lifelong
process.

I was offended recently, when someone mentioned that I had "laid
aside" my college education to raise my children. I had the good
fortune of a liberal arts education, with a major in fine arts and a
minor in psychology. The wealth of knowledge I gained in school was
just the catalyst of a lifelong metamorphosis into the person I
am today. I'm proud to say, I certainly didn't lay aside, or hide my
mind and creativity on the proverbial dusty shelf, to enjoy the
benefits of raising my family. What a repugnant thought.

Could it be, like in Frost's poem, we "take the road less traveled by",
by observing and absorbing the experiences along the
path of life, regardless of the choice? Choice is inevitable, but you
never know what your choice will mean until you have lived it to its
fullest.



The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost, 1920

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

artwork: Spring in the Country, Grant Wood

December

Winter, Andrew Wyeth, 1946

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

.

I woke up to huge blowing snowflakes this first morning of

December! I adore this poem by Robert Frost. There are a lot

of interpretations as to the meaning behind it, but I just love its

basic simplicity. The last two lines are what really put the spin

on it, though.

The Scythers

The Scythers, N. C. Wyeth, 1908

I posted this beautiful Wyeth painting earlier, but it is one of my

very favorites and just had to show it again, before the summer is

over. You can feel the hot sun, the thirst of the workers and smell

the freshly cut field. I think it fits this poem by Robert Frost very

nicely.

Mowing

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,

And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.

What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;

Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,

Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound--

And that was why it whispered and did not speak.

It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,

Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:

Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak

To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,

Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers

(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.

The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows.

My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

~~~~~

It takes WT about three solid hours to cut our grass and that

is with a riding mower! And I'm all too happy to have him handle

it! I always get a good chuckle over Susan talking about dealing

with her mower, at 29 Blackstreet, fondly named "The Red

Beast". One thing I do enjoy about mowing, however, is the fresh

scent of newly cut grass! Pam posted on the subject of grass this

week and a poem by Walt Whitman which refers to grass as "the

handkerchief of the Lord". I love that.