I think this has to be my all time favorite poem...

The Road Goes Ever OnBy JRR Tolkein

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still 'round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

I  love this poem because it is all about pilgrimage, or quest, I think.  And, as you travel with the writer, you see the stages of pilgrimage--the eager beginning, the dudgeonly middle, and the end when you rest a bit, then beckon others to join you.  Lastly, it alludes to the eternal pilgrimage that all of us are on, and the final end that all of us must grapple with.

As I prepare for my own pilgrimage, it seems appropriate that I am reading the beginning of the Lord of the Rings Trilogy aloud so that my dogs have something with my voice to listen to while I'm gone.  I seem to take something new out of these books every time that I read them.  And, as an added bonus, I was re-introduced to this poem a few chapters ago.

Ultreia, everyone, Ultreia, until we all take those hidden paths.

Ruth

Poetry fluff

At my core, I'm a gooey, saccharine, hopeless romantic--I often try to hide it, though (and I'm probably not very good at it--I'm a terrible liar). I am attracted to guys who are rational, linear, analytic thinkers, and, at least in my experience, being a hopeless romantic tends to turn that kind of guy off.  I'm not sure if it is because they perceive romance and sentiment as neediness or if they just see it as unnecessary, but it usually means that I dial my romantic side back when I'm in a relationship.  I'm not ashamed of the fact that there is still a little girl inside of me that wants to be a princess swept off of her feet by a knight in shining armor. I've just grown realistic enough to know that most knights have tarnished and dented armor.  Besides, I am not the kind of girl that needs saving.  As much as I like the idea of a knight in shining armor, I think my parents instilled their daughter with just a little too much of their mid-western independence and ingenuity for me to be a passive princess, and my temperament is just a little too feisty to be resignedly patient.

This is one of the windows on the same floor as my office. Kind of looks like something you might see in a fairy-tale castle, doesn't it?

That being said, the sentiment of the following song appeals to my romantic side, and it captures the wistful hope that many single women have, just as it points to what it means to being open to whatever God has for us.

The longer I'm single, the more I suspect that I will remain so, and I'm good with that--life might not be how I envisioned it when I was in high school and college, but I have a blessed life: A wonderful job, an awesome parish, affectionate fur babies (err, pets), and tons of nieces and nephews to spoil.  It doesn't keep me from dreaming sometimes, though.  And, that is where this particular poem came from.  It is corny, but like the above song, shows a wistful hope for what may or may not happen.

The Dreams of this Hopeless Romantic

To be kissed senseless while held in a dip

To receive flowers for no reason at all

To be serenaded on some moonlit night

These are the dreams of this hopeless romantic

To be asked to pray at the end of each date

To be surprised with an impromptu lunch

To take classes together for ballroom dance

These are the dreams of this hopeless romantic

That he'll hold my hand during everyday moments

That he'll read me poetry for bedtime stories

That he'll cherish me all of our days

These are the dreams of this hopeless romantic

That he'll communicate with just a look

That he'll be deliberately pursue our courtship

That he'll place Christ at the center

These are the dreams of this hopeless romantic

That I'll want to bear his children

That I can help him get to heaven

That I will love him all my days

These are the prayers of this hopeless romantic

_____________________________________________________

When I was younger, I would often separate out my gooey romanticism from my practicality--the older I get, the more I wonder if there is a way to reconcile these two disparate parts of my personality.  Is there such a thing as a practical romantic? If so, that is what I'd like to become.

Saying Goodbye to the Philosopher

I think that I have made a personal record...After 3 months of dating, my relationship with the philosopher has ended.  This is actually the shortest that I have ever dated anyone, with 6 months being the shortest before this.  I think that the amazing thing is that I'm largely ok with this development, in part because I had an inkling that this might happen a couple of weeks ago, and in part because the Lord has given me a lot of peace leading up to this.  I'm still processing it, but I'm at a really good place in my life--I have a job that I love, a parish that is downright awesome, and a new town to learn about and explore.

One of the flowers blooming around campus at my new job.  I look forward to the fall colors.  I also look forward to the spring when more plants will be blooming!

God used the Philosopher to get me out of my comfort zone back home and bring me to here to a better job and and an awesome parish.  I can only be thankful for that.  I don't regret the move, and honestly, I don't regret my behavior during our relationship.  I conducted myself to the best of my ability in a Godly fashion, not without struggle, but with integrity.  I hope that he can say the same.

So, my job for the next few months will be putting down roots where I am, and following where ever the Lord may lead...Right before I came here, I started a new journal, and decided that I needed to make my theme to be "Putting down roots."  I actually had the perfect journal to use for that theme, as well.

My current Journal.

I had already started doing so before the break-up, but now it starts in earnest.  I now have an hour scheduled for weekly Adoration at my parish, and will begin teaching CCD classes this coming Wednesday...I'm co-teaching the 6th grade boys, so please pray for me!!!  I hope to go dancing tonight at the local country-western hot-spot, and am finding my way around pretty well.  I also plan to go for a bike ride just for the fun of it this afternoon--something I haven't done since I was a kid exploring my neighborhood!  Just as I did before I started dating, I plan to enjoy being single--spend time with friends, exercise, work, and grow.  Yes, it can be lonely, but I'm learning that, when you take it to Christ, that loneliness becomes solitude--it is all a matter of perspective.  

This is my favorite Superbowl commercial ever--it seems to best illustrate the following poem!

Tilting at Windmills

Loss of sleep feeds my melancholy

A voracious monster who

Sucks at my marrow with abandon

The unknown will be known

And he is poised for another feast

His utensils gleam, napkin beneath the chin

This outcome might bring sorrow

A slow drip of nectar or a 

Great 10 course dinner--I know not which

One thing is certain: Melancholy's glut

Will be his downfall.

Like an illusion, he transforms

Prayer and gratitude diminish him

And the monster morphs--

Shadows dissipated, he is a pesky mosquito

Defeated with a timely swat.

(sorry this isn't a sonnet--hopefully next week!)

No Sonnet today, but...

So, I've dropped the ball this week and didn't write a sonnet.  However, I did write some other poetry, so I will share one with you in lieu of the sonnet for Sonnet Saturday.

I might have some big news in the near future, so I'm kind of waiting until I get confirmation before writing a regular blog post. :-)

The Blank Page

It has possibilities
And curiosity wells
Within me, for it never
Ends as I begin.

Emotions peter out with
Writing, replaced by gentler
Iterations: clarified
Like heat works butter

A catalyst, self-renewed
With a flip or a scribble,
So long as the notebook remains:
She calls me, "Create!"

Such siren songs require my
Undivided attention
And compels me with love's strength--
A dreamer's playground.

Transformed and Transforming, I
seek what is no more, what was.
Possible, now verity
Not blank--Works of art!

Sonnet Saturday (#3)-- Forgiveness

So, because of travelling for work and just life in general, I didn't write a sonnet for last week, but I did for this week, so here it is.  Once I have the Elizabethan Sonnet down, I think I want to try some of the other sonnet forms.  One step at a time, though!

Forgiveness (Sonnet #3)

Egg shells, apple cores, coffee grinds, and more

In a heap, smelling vaguely like old socks.

Time to turn this pile gardeners adore:

Discards and trash morphed into seeds' toy box.

Not everything belongs in this treasure.

No matter the size, rocks will not crumble

Through heat, bacteria, and time's measure:

Nature's intransigence makes one humble.

They go elsewhere to confine, to create--

A seat, a bridge, or simple stepping stone.

They may not foster growth, but fascinate

The eye, the heart, the vista when not thrown.

Like compost, we forgive to readjust

And nourish the soil that grows mutual trust.

We had bins like this for compost near the greenhouses for my Horticulture class in High School. Too bad I have a black thumb of death!

Sonnet Saturday (sonnet #2)

I'm really liking working within the framework of a Sonnet, so I'm going to try to write a sonnet a week for a while, and will post them on Saturdays.  It just seemed appropriate. :-)

There is a story behind this particular sonnet, and it all began with a discussion about the lenten reflection by Father Barron on Rose windows.  As we were talking about it, both my sister and I were talking about how God seems to be in the process of rearranging us and our priorities.  As I reflected on it that night as I was trying to sleep, the last line of the poem came to me, and I just had to finish it out.

The Rose Window (Sonnet #2)

He searches the debris with studied care

A little red here, that small shard of blue

And snatches each fraction with Love's bright flare.

Others He passes, darkened hues untrue.

Shattered, I survey the scattered ruins

Even as He picks through colored scraps.

My pride seeks full redress in illusion,

Not aware jilted flaws will cause relapse.

He smiles at my folly, still searching through

The fragments of my plans, hopes, wishes, dreams.

His hands never waver--His stance shifts the view--

And points to the specimen he redeems.

The partial rose window hold me en masse:

We shall be God's masterpiece in stained glass.

One of the main Rose windows in the Cathedral in Leon, Spain.

My First attempt at a Sonnet

The Bard's great sonnets have intrigued me since I was introduced to them in my high school English class, but I was never brave enough to attempt one...until now.  That being said, I'm not sure what to title this, and I'm sure it could use some work.  If you have any suggestions for a title or better word choice, I'm all ears.

Love lost, like Winter's bitter waxing fruit
Chills the heart, breathing frost to all corners.
Its rind shatters, a pernicious sharp brute
With edges pricking quick-fingered mourners.

Ev'ry waxing must wane in tired coats
Of fallen leaves and musty mothball bins.
The detritus swept within handheld totes
And carted out with empty Christmas tins.

What compost may transform such toxic shards:
Brittle Bastions to healthy fertile soil?
Which words of wisdom grip sleeping bards and
Mend long fallow tracts with frivolous toil?

Like all perennials, the fronds of hope
Unfurl to absorb, revamp, heal and cope.

Some of the beautiful flowers to be seen on campus

Possibilities

One of my pictures from the Camino. I called this the Pom Pom tree because it has little green balls that look like pom-poms.

I smile
Just to myself
As I think about
The path before me.

Right now
The dappled ground
Soaks the bright sunshine
Beneath leafy boughs

The warmth
Bathes my heart in
Anticipation
For treks yet to come.

The chill
May mark my time:
The metronome in
Rain, snow, leaves and dust.

And yet,
I am immersed
In wonder, in awe
At right now, at Grace.

For Grace
Has lead me to
Stumble upon this
Path in giddy shock.

It leads...
I know not where.
Only God knows and
He's not telling me.

4:30 PM on Friday

Tick, tock, tick, tock
The time passes in
Grains of sand and
Emails: "you have won!"
"Can you help me?"
"20% off!"
All of them beckon
Me to read, to ponder
To attend.

My mind is elsewhere,
Dreaming of long walks
With my dog, a good book
And homemade popcorn.
No alarm clocks, No
Deadlines, No urgency
For two languorous days.

I love what I do,
But this day has reached
That pivot point:
Too much time to do nothing
Not enough time to begin
Something new.
I'll get to it
After the weekend.


(After giving up poetry for various reasons during my marriage, I am finally finding my voice again.  Expect to see poems here from time to time. If you like them, feel free to share, as long as you attribute them to me.)

Finding My Poetry

I found her in the back corner:
Hidden behind the leftover
Rolls of Christmas paper
The extra curtain rods
And my long quilting ruler

I'd begun packing--
Sorting through the detritus
That naturally grows
Pile after careless pile
With every orbit of the sun.

This is why I love Lent:
An excuse to sift and discard
To slough off the mountains
That creep into my heart and my home
From thoughtless placement through disuse.

So, each year, I give, I store,
And I find anew:
Gems hidden with casual malice
In the corners, under piles
And forgotten

What is that box?
The dust billows in
Silent testimony to her
Years of sentry duty
Never moving, never moved

Never relieved of the
Weighty duty
To which she
Joyously volunteered.
She measured time grain

By tortuous grain
Beside tomes of heartfelt musings
Old movie stubs and
Flowers pressed between
Webster's words.

I dust her off
In gentle reverence
And catch up on changes,
Events, and the unending
Rhythm of daily life.

She smiles in amusement:
The slow trickle of time
Has not escaped her.
Though rusticated, she remains
My muse.