I know that it doesn't make sense.
And that it is childish to hold up reminders of beauty with a raised hand, still sticky with glue and a smattering of sparkling dust.
But it is all that I know how to do.
To chase back the dark with my love.
I recently had another week of staying out at the bergerie with Lulu. She followed me diligently on our walks, muzzle to the ground, and began to understand that she had to let me be when I knelt into the grass to get closer to a bloom and that when I stopped moving to meditate, I was actually more than alive.
Still, I had a harder time being content with the space of time fluffed up around me like wings than in my previous visit, for I could (and can) hear the clock ticking, even amidst the mighty gusts of the Mistral that blew for three days straight. So I did what I always do, I looked harder. Perhaps that might seem like a willful distraction or a game of pretending but, as always, in distracting my gaze outwards, I came back, somewhat surreptitiously, to whom I currently find "me" to be.
Thoughts are as tricky as the wind though, aren't they? "These foolish things remind me of you." Best not to always give them so much attention as they kick up the fluff and swirl. How much more reliable then, the proof, this little offering, for today and onwards of what does make sense to me, when that is something that is so dearly needed. For beauty builds the shelter of home.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
- John Keats