The Years The Locusts Have Taken. . . .



More Compensation. . .

In my last posting I wrote that in Life there is a balance.  Emerson called it compensation.  I have found this to be more than accurate.  For me it has been a personal matter of Life giving and I receiving.  And to receive,  I must be open to what is given.  My hand and eye coordination I see disappearing while my head still robustly desires to do.  Like the little engine that could.  Except it becomes both physically and mentally stressful.  No amount of eye drops get rid of the itching and no amount of ripping out makes the article acceptable.

I came across a poem in one of my steno books I keep for notes when I go back to read journal entries.  I looked up the entry for that date and found that I had accomplished nothing.  There was nothing I could put my hands on.   But there was this poem and no doubt if I went back through the files  there would be much done in simple maintenance.  And maintenance in our lives is a big plus.  For me it meant the yard and house and family commitments.  A neighbor saw me doing outside work back then and yelled to ask if I was for hire.  Mister,  I shouted, you could not afford me and neither can my husband!

So in this period now in my dotage, I still find though there are things taken away because cells die off and others sometimes no better,  take their place.  Sometimes better though.  Sometimes.  So besides learning how to print on fabric, much to my delight,  I also found a new interest in the color blue or the many blues.  I did a small wall quilt with it which you see here.  I love it and it brings to mind the Lady of the Blue Cloths whom I have written about.  It is a new love being born, and kind of like a bit of heaven handed to me.  I look at it and smile and wonder.  And I wonder a lot. Wonder with me, if you will.

The Years The Locusts Have Taken

There is nothing new to say.
All of life is a variation of a dream.
How often they resemble one another
and easy it is to lose myself in them.

They are a dinner of words;
a potpourri of feelings;
a smattering of knowledge
which I inhale and forget.

Old age is upon me.
I dredge the gulley for a word
and find I falter, stutter and
leave everyone perplexed,
unable to finish my thought.

I grasped with eagerness as I read,
‘and the Lord God said
I will restore to you the lost years
the locusts have taken.’
And I wept and said,

‘thank you.  I understand.’


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