Wednesday

THE PATH I FOLLOW


[Photo Source: Wednesday, 22 Dec 2010, My photo, my camera, Lincoln, California. dht]

Barriers, Signposts, Clouds
Our pathways are fraught with barriers that hinder our progress, signposts that fool us with misdirection, and muddled thoughts that cloud our footsteps.
[Dorothy Hazel Tarr]



THE PATH I FOLLOW

Over the hill and around the bend lies the path I did not take.  Circumstance, chance, and choice were the guideposts and sources of misdirection to the path I did follow.

So many of Life's experiences and memories are dependent upon the path taken.  What at one time seems of primary interest and concern, can take on a completely different significance later in Life.

The ROAD OF LIFE can be full of great hardship, grief, loss, health issues and financial difficulties for anyone -- No matter which Path is taken.  No matter the choices.  No matter the fates.

What matters the Path?  What matters the Road?  For -- The destination is the same no matter the route -- death!  Life, after all then, is about the Journey!

[Dorothy Hazel Tarr]



RELATED THEMES:


Robert Lee Frost (born 26 Mar 1874 San Francisco, CA – death 29 Jan 1963 age Boston, Massachusetts, 89) was an American poet.  He died in Boston, on January 29, 1963, of complications from prostate surgery and is buried at the Old Bennington Cemetery in Bennington, Vermont.  His epitaph quotes a line from one of his poems: "I had a lover's quarrel with the world."  He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech.  His work frequently employed settings from rural life in New England in the early twentieth century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes.  One of the most popular and critically respected American poets of his generation, Frost was honored frequently during his lifetime, receiving four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry of original verse by an American author — 1924: "New Hampshire: A Poem with Notes and Grace Notes; 1931: "Collected Poems"; 1937: "A Further Range"; and 1943: "A Witness Tree".

In 1915, Robert Frost bought a farm in Franconia, New Hampshire, where he launched a career of writing, teaching, and lecturing.  This family homestead served as the Frosts' summer home until 1938.  It is maintained today as The Frost Place, a museum and poetry conference site.  During the years 1916–20, 1923–24, and 1927–1938, Frost taught English at Amherst College in Massachusetts, notably encouraging his students to account for the myriad sounds and intonations of the spoken English language in their writing.  The main library of Amherst College was named after him.  He called his colloquial approach to language "the sound of sense."  [NOTE: Amherst College in Massachusetts played an important role in the lives of Emily Elizabeth Dickinson and her immediate family.  I mention Emily, for she is my DNA Cousin and we are both direct descendants of the same great grandfather ENSIGN Moses Payne Esquire (1581-1643).] 

Robert Frost's Personal life

Robert Frost's personal life was plagued with grief and loss.  In 1885 when Frost was 11, his father died of tuberculosis, leaving the family with just eight dollars.  Frost's mother died of cancer in 1900.  In 1920, Frost had to commit his younger sister Jeanie to a mental hospital, where she died nine years later.  Mental illness apparently ran in Frost's family, as both he and his mother suffered from depression, and his daughter Irma was committed to a mental hospital in 1947.  Frost's wife, Elinor, also experienced bouts of depression.

Elinor and Robert Frost had six children: son Elliot (1896–1904, died of cholera); daughter Lesley Frost Ballantine (1899–1983); son Carol (1902–1940, committed suicide); daughter Irma (1903–1967); daughter Marjorie (1905–1934, died as a result of puerperal fever after childbirth); and daughter Elinor Bettina (died just three days after her birth in 1907).  Only Lesley and Irma outlived their father.  Frost's wife, who had heart problems throughout her life, developed breast cancer in 1937, and died of heart failure in 1938.


The Road Not Taken
(A poem by Robert Frost, published in 1916 in the collection Mountain Interval.)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
 


SOURCE LINKS
 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road_Not_Taken
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road_Not_Taken_(poem)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pulitzer_Prize_for_Poetry
http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/frost/section7.rhtml
 

Audio and Youtube link below:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15717
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=goc3f77bcXk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZzUm0wqhE7E


About Robert Frost below:
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/192
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Frost


Friday

JUST AS YOU SEE

[Photo source: GOOGLE online images]



(18 May 2012 – Does it ever seem that time is just a stage for us to act out our Lives—where the costumes and adornments cloak one's Journey on a Path that seems to stretch beyond tomorrow?  Stories of old tell the tale of faith and myth to sooth the soul and pacify the mind.  The Journey begins with a breath and ends with an exhausting sigh.  dht)



There are some days, where the whimsy in one just needs to shine.  Nothing in the ordinary will do!  The fanciful mood takes flight and soars – wanting only the adornment of time, space, and place.

What moment out of time doth suit my purpose?
What realm will hearken to my Heart's Desire?
What venue will serve my circumstance?

The play is about to begin – the house is full to overflowing.  The script has been rehearsed.  The director calls the actors to action.  Life after all is just a play – with the characters each hosting their part.

When is the play to end ? When the story is told.  When the curtain comes down.  When the audience vacates their places.  When the players have done with their roles.

The purpose in mind is Just As You See.  There is nothing more.  The play is done.  The actors gone.  The audience withdrawn to their next venue.

Life is Just As You See.  There is nothing more.  All else is fancy and myth.

[Dorothy Hazel Tarr]



Related themes:


"All the world's a stage" is the phrase that begins a monologue from William Shakespeare's As You Like It, spoken by the melancholy Lord Jaques, a Lord attending the banished Duke.  It is one of Shakespeare's most frequently quoted passages.  The idea that "all the world's a stage" was already clichéd when Shakespeare wrote As You Like It.  Therefore, Jaques is intended to sound at least a little pretentious here.  Jaques (pronounced "jay-keys" or "jay-kweez") is the resident sourpuss in the Forest of Arden, home to political exiles, banished lovers, and simple shepherds.  Jacques' speech compares the world to a stage and life to a play, and catalogues the seven stages of a man's life, sometimes referred to as the seven ages of man: infant, school-boy, lover, soldier, justice, pantaloon, and second childhood, "sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything" {"sans" meaning without}.  

WIKIPEDIA on William Shakespeare (baptised 26 April 1564; died 23 April 1616) was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist.




"As You Like It", Act Two, Scene 7, Lines 139-166, by William Shakespeare



All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.  At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.  And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow.  Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth.  And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.  The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.  Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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