. . . Good Morning!
Welcome to The Coffee Shop, just for you early risers
on Monday mornings. This is an Open Thread forum,
so if you have an off-topic opinion burning a hole in
your brainpan, feel free to add a comment.
To be yourself in a world that is constantly
. . . trying to make you something else
. . . . is the greatest accomplishment.
. . . . . . – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Only once in your life, I truly believe, you find someone who can completely turn
your world around. You tell them things that you’ve never shared with another
soul and they absorb everything you say and actually want to hear more. You
share hopes for the future, dreams that will never come true, goals that were
never achieved and the many disappointments life has thrown at you. When
something wonderful happens, you can’t wait to tell them about it, knowing
they will share in your excitement. They are not embarrassed to cry with you
when you are hurting or laugh with you when you make a fool of yourself.
– Bob Marley
Today is my husband’s birthday. He usually gets a little melancholy at this time of year, feeling the passage of time more keenly. This year is harder than most because we have been “sheltering in place” since the first of March, and we have no sense of when it will be safe to venture out again without masks, gloves, and our eyes constantly measuring if our distance to others is enough for everyone’s safety.
The great Irish poet William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was also born on a 13th – but in June, so I’m stretching here for the connection, because this poem can carry a person far away from small rooms and a tiny yard. For a mind’s eye picnic by the lake, or some phantom fishing – or just to sit on the shore and breathe the soft air.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.