Influences

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The following poem by Walt Whitman (1819-1892), from Leaves of Grass  is one of my favorites, and it illustrates how everything we see and do influences who we are and who we become. The language is old-fashioned, but the message is timeless.

There was a Child went Forth

THERE was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all became part of him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that pass’d on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass’d—and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls—and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went.
His own parents,
He that had father’d him, and she that had conceiv’d him in her womb, and birth’d him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave him afterward every day—they became part of him.
The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table;
The mother with mild words—clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust;
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture—the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay’d—the sense of what is real—the thought if, after all, it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time—the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets—if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves—the huge crossing at the ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset—the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by itself—the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.

A Warm Place

Photo Courtesy of splitshire.com

An evening of sweet contentment at the end of a busy week...a golden place outside of time where worries and concerns melt away, and friends are truly happy in each others company. Sometimes we try too hard to create these special moments. The magical times in life that we always remember often come when we least expect them. The following passage is a remembrance of a warm, happy get together with a group of seemingly random friends almost 100 years ago, on a rainy night in California....

Roses and Rain

     Last night we sat in the quiet room--a few friends together--and heard the wind rattling the palm leaves outside in the garden, like some ghostly senorita clicking a pair of invisible castanets in tune to some haunting rhythm.

     The fire burned on the hearth, a fire of eucalyptus logs, with now and then a branch of aromatic leaves, flaming suddenly into leaping life and filling the room with their pungent and somehow exotic perfume.

     We put out the bright lights from the center of the room, and let the shadows fall from the little gleaming lamps that are like fire-flies, flitting in the dusk like so many swiftly passing thoughts and pleasant memories.

     There we were, the young couple so dead in love with each other, and so full of the joy of living. Sweet Sixteen, a little terrified at her vague glimpse of life—Twenty-one, virile and modest and somehow eagerly hopeful.

     The Home Woman, the Woman of the World, the Artist, the Genius, the Singer and the Priest. A strange company, strangely mixed, and yet there we sat in the quiet little room—together, like passengers on a raft picked up from the wild sea and held together by some strange accident of fate.

     We talked, not of politics, not of war or of diplomacy—not even of the high cost of living, or of the effect of the vote upon women.

     We talked of books and poetry, and of music, and one told a quaint little story of a wounded pigeon, and the rescue of it, and the fire burned and the wind sang, and gradually the stress of the world and the anxiety and restless, uneasy ambition of it fell from us like an outworn cloak. And there we were, like little children, talking together in the twilight of some great primeval forest.

     And one sang—a simple song of love and memory and tears.

     “Roses and rain” and the Artist smiled, and the Woman of the World sighed, and there were tears in the eyes of the Home Woman.

     The Genius it was who sang—and the Singer sat by the fire and listened.

     The Young Wife’s hand stole to the hand of her Husband, and the Priest sat like one in a deep reverie. Was he thinking of the roses that bloomed in the dooryard of his home across the sea, and the fragrance of them in the sweet June rain?

     And we didn’t care who was elected or who was defeated, and somewhere, far down in the city below, the (news) boys were calling “extra, extra, extra!”—all about something or other very important, which concerned us not in the very least.

     And the Singer was generous, and poured out for us like a libation on the altar of friendship his voice of molten silver—French songs he sang full of the quick and glancing grace of a fountain leaping in the moonlight. German lieder, simple and brooding, like the lullabies a mother sings to her child. Italian, too, he sang, and the room glowed with the fire and the passion of the melting music of Italy.

     “Eileen Allana”—how he sang it—the simple old ballad, and how we drank every lilting note of it, like thirsty travelers in a dry and arid desert.

     And so the quiet evening spent itself, and at the end she sang again, the woman with the strange dark eyes—“Roses and Rain”—and we were one with the sunshine and the dew and knew again the sweet and rapturous pang of youth and moonlight and the mystery of the stars.

     “Roses and Rain”—the wind in the palm trees, the fire on the hearth, dear faces in the soft dimness of the quiet room. What is there sweeter, what more beautiful, what more to be gained in life than these?

 --from Roses and Rain by Annie Laurie (1920)

Illustration from Godey's Lady's Magazine, January 1880

Reading Together

Reading Couple (1877) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919)  www.wikiart.org

Reading Aloud

A very pleasant habit for home life is that of reading aloud some pleasant book in the evenings, and if the selection of the book is wise it certainly makes the home circle very attractive, and lightens the drudgery of the mother, who often sits after tea with her basket of stockings to be darned and who has a dreary time if each member of the family, who does not go out, takes his or her paper or book, as I have often seen, and subsides into their own interesting reading, leaving her to her own meditations. A book read aloud at home gets a charm, apart from itself sometimes; its very name will conjure up in our memories scenes in the far past— the pleasant family circle, then, perhaps, unbroken, the cheerful fireside, and frequently, too, the comments upon what is being read which add to the interest, and give a newer insight. The same association applies to a piece of work which is in operation while any book is being read.

--Ladies Fancy Work,  Edited by Jenny June, 1886

Mrs. Cassatt Reading to Her Grandchildren (1880) by Mary Cassatt (1824-1926)   www.wikiart.org

Times change, technology changes, but people don't change very much. In the 19th century, people often became isolated in their own reading or needlework, instead of interacting with each other. Today, we have more distractions--television, computers, tablets, smartphones, gaming systems. Couples, families, and groups of friends spend much of their time in the same room, but at a distance. Often people will find themselves sitting across the table from each other texting messages instead of talking. While quiet time alone is still important, and keeping up with social media has become essential in our world, it's important not to forget to share special times with the people in our lives, and to be present in the moment. Reading aloud together is a different way to experience a book, and is enjoyable for adults, as well as children. It can spark conversation, and give new perspectives and ideas. Reading aloud also creates vivid memories--not just of the story that is being read, but of a cozy, pleasant, unique place and time, and of the people who were present there, in that moment, with us.

Theodore Gerard (1824-1895)

 

A Thought For the New Year

Yesterday--TODAY--Tomorrow

Photo by Yoni Kaplan-Nadal

There are two days in every week about which we should not worry--two days which should be kept free from any fear and apprehension. One of these days is Yesterday, with its mistakes and cares, its aches and pains, its faults and blunders. Yesterday has passed forever beyond our control. All the money in the world cannot bring back Yesterday. We cannot undo a single act we performed; we cannot erase a single word we said; we cannot rectify a single mistake. Yesterday has passed forever beyond recall. Let it go.

The other day we should not worry about is Tomorrow, with its possible adversities, its burdens, its large promise and poor performance. Tomorrow also is beyond our immediate control. Tomorrow's sun will rise either in splendor or behind a mass of clouds--but it will rise. And until it does, we have no stake in tomorrow, because it is as yet unborn.

That leaves us but one day--Today! And man can fight the battles of just one day.

Yesterday and Tomorrow are futile worries. Let us, therefore, resolve to journey no more than one day at a time.

 --Robert J. Burdette (1844-1914)