March 28, 1975
“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar,
I love not man the less, but Nature more….”
The above must be credited to Lord Byron, but God gets full marks for the woods and the sky over me. Nushka and I are back at McIver, and the sense of unease experienced on our last trek has evaporated. I drove to McIver from the top road and parked in a blocked drive—end of a trail we once hiked extensively before tourism claimed the area. The valley fell away before us as we drove down the entrance road—fingers of timber, palms of grass and ribbons of silver water to mark the river. Mt. Hood dominated the horizon, cool and crisply white against the sky, a tongue of white cloud atop her peak for mystery.
The breeze is chilly, but the sun leans warm on my back. Many catkins are out and I hear an owl and a towhee. Spring seems slow this year somehow, though, looking down, I see salt and pepper abloom.
Dad sent me a check for $100!! Intended for the family at Easter. Will give the boys each $10 toward their skis and Paige toward car repair. The rest will probably go for bills.
Began the 1875 pattern afghan with a white horse in the middle and roses in the corners. Am quite hooked on it if you will forgive the play on words. Want to go full speed and get it done so I’m unencumbered when I begin the book.
Have been reading the Tolkien Trilogy aloud to Joey. (Read it to Paige several years ago) We are about to begin the last section of the first book—“The Ring Goes South,” so that is another demand on my time and eyes.
Well, shall press on into the hinterlands
We are now in the “swamp bowl”—Nush laps the clear shallow water in the dappled sunlight. There are hundreds of hellebores, their tapering veined leaves illuminated in a delightful pattern of green symmetry. The broad marsh grasses are cropped short, probably by deer or the farmer’s cows—or both.
A tender flowering woodland shrub is all a’leaf everywhere it grows. Blue gorse flowers blossom in secret drifts. I saw one delicate spray of lavender spring beauties. A song sparrow serenades me.
March 31, 1975
A gray Monday to end the month. Rain fell in the night and the road is still wet. Have progressed on the afghan and am a little more than half through with the center section background. Watched the second half of The Ten Commandments on TV last night and all through my dreams, Charlton Heston strode in his robe of Levis–!!
I wake each morning and say—only x number of days to go. Counting days until Friday and the weekend. I don’t really dislike working so much. It’s the rush in the morning and the things not done at home. The yard is going to demand time—the housework, of course, is eternal—then there are the letters, other studies, and perhaps time for a dream or two…. The empty shape of longing.
We live in such tumultuous times. Drugs everywhere and the world in turmoil. Will I ever understand the things that occur in this strange world of 1975? I have believed that though times change, people do not—but perhaps they do. And not always for the good.
Cambodia’s president flees and refugees clog the thoroughfares of South Viet Nam, and here the recession and inflation continue. Never before have I considered the resentment that must consume people in every age, when wars and governments have stolen and disrupted their lives. I sense it in myself at times though I have not been truly or lastly thwarted. But I suspect its ultimate arrival.
The questions and paradoxes of this generation appear to reject so much of our heritage, and in so doing, overturn a previously sought balance between progress and tradition. But how can one person or even two, affect a society teetering on a razor’s edge? Shouldn’t there should be a wedding between the old and the new, a union between the best of both and not the worst? Where is the wisdom or power to choose? Expediency seems to rule the day and Wisdom is an outcast that few seek or honor.

Published in: on February 3, 2019 at 9:52 am  Comments (6)  

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6 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. Sure seems like not much has changed in the world, right? You were correct in saying times change, but people don’t. It seems we are on a neverending cycle.

    • Sad, isn’t it? I think there’s a quote by some anonymous observer of human nature that says: ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’ Thanks for weighing in on the subject.

  2. I love reading this. Especially on a snowy day.

    • Thanks, Barb. It is snowy and cold. Remembering that long-ago March reminds me that daffodils and blue gorse flowers will return to the springtime woods and gardens!

  3. Am curious…do you still journal now?

  4. I left off journaling for a few years but have begun again, not always often but as a way of keeping track of a life that seems to be speeding toward an unknown but anticipated destination.

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