Say Not.....

Somehow I have managed to ignore my writing for this endless springtime.  It's not a "oh-I-should-have" kind of thing; it was more that I was staying in fallow ground. 

This has been a time of changes and endurance.  My car and refrigerator problems lasted rather longer than I could have anticipated, and it was only a few weeks ago that both were resolved through the help of a family member and of friends who spent both money and time willingly and generously.  For my part, I could only pray and wait.  I was, quite honestly, too afraid to hope for better days.  Good stuff can seem uncommonly  frightening sometimes.

I have learned new things out of sheer necessity--like how to candy citrus peel and how to make quite good oven-baked homemade corn chips. 

Should I share my most recent recipes with you?  Alas, I am not sure I should.  You may thank those people who have pirated from my blog in the past.  They are, incidentally, part of the reason for my recent reluctance to write.  Life has stolen quite enough from me already, and so it seems even more unfair for internet thieves to take what little remains.  (Yes, I DO check my blog traffic so I have noticed what has happened--it was an unpleasant surprise to find my work elsewhere.)  The things that I have left are my thoughts, my creativity, my words.  It would be nice if those could be credited when shared.

Should I come back and continue writing?  Well, I have enjoyed it so I likely will since there are those who read and listen and who are honest.

In the meantime, this is what was on my mind this morning:  a short poem by the Victorian English writer Arthur Hugh Clough who knew rather a good deal about dealing with adversity and endurance, about what it means to question and to believe anyway.

Say not the struggle nought availeth,

The labor and the wounds are can,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;

It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field.

 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking

Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back through creeks and inlets making,

Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

 

And not by Eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light,

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,

But, westward, look, the land is bright.

Life is good.  Still.  Always.
It is all in how we see it.  Sometimes that seeing is an effort of will and an act of faith.