Good morning everyone.
Good morning Bentfeather and Lair
Happy *Today* ! :-)
I was reading from Thoreau early this morning.
All that a man has to say or do that can possibly concern mankind, is in some shape or other to tell the story of his love, - to sing; if he is fortunate and keeps alive, he will be forever in love.
Journal
Do not speak for other men; speak for yourself.
Journal
It is vain to write of the seasons unless you have the seasons in you.
Journal
A journal is a record of experiences and growth, not a preserve of things well done and said.
Journal
A journal, is a book that shall contain a record of all your joy, your ectasy.
Journal
Is not the poet bound to write his own biography? Is there any other work for him but a good journal? We do not wish to know his imaginary hero, but how he, the actual hero, lived day to day.
Journal
I was speaking wih a customer only yesterday, about lives and how many people really really know about the other. So often the ones we see everyday, near and dear, do not know all the incidents that shaped our lives, the embarrassments, the criticisms, or the things that brought deep joy.
We spoke about all the books we have collected on the shelves. Does anyone really care? Will they end up in a garage sale, never read by those we care?
It is not accident nor coincidence that I pick up Thoreau this morning. I have not picked up one his books in over a year.
It is Life ~ Happening ~
Today I am to begin a different kind of journal. This one will be
` my song `
my melody
Thoreau
Journal;
Peaches are unquestionably a very beautiful fruit, but the gathering of them for the market is not nearly so interesting as the gathering of huckleberries for your own use.
How fitting to have every day in a vase of water on your table the wildflowers of the season which are just blossoming!
I know of no object more unsightly to a careless glance than an empty thistle-head, yet, if you examine it closely, it may remind you of the silk-lined cradle in which a prince was rocked.
The great green acorns in broad, shallow cups. How attractive these forms! No wonder they are limited on pumps, fence and bed posts.
How did these beautiful rainbow tints get into the shell of the fresh-water clam buried in the mud at the bottom of our dark river? Even the sea-bottom tells of the upper skies.
Nothing is so sure to make itself known as the truth, for what else waits to be known?
I would rather never taste chickens` meat nor hens` eggs than never to see a hawk sailing through the upper air again.
The hooting of the owl! That sound which my red predecessors heard here more than a thousand years ago. It rings far and wide, occupying the spaces rightfully,- grand, primeval, aboriginal sound.
The poet must continually be watching the moods of his mind, as the astronomer watches the aspects of heavens.
The poet is a man who lives at last by watching his moods. An old poet comes at last to watch his moods as narrowly as a cat does a mouse.
In company, that person who alone can understand you you cannot get out of your mind.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitutes.
Thoreau
Familiar Letters