As I sit here this morning considering the challenges and opportunities of the day, I can’t help apologizing for the lost words from the past couple of days. My well intentioned resolution to put down at least five hundred words a day went sadly by the highway and onto the stray path. Remembering what the writer said, “You can never go home again,” resonates in my mind as the words fade from the pages of Wendell Berry’s Recollected Essays: 1965-1980. Now, I find myself lost in the back country of Kentucky in the year 1797 where the writings of a Methodist minister have drawn me into the land lost to civilization and progress. “They knew but little…” (Rev. Jacob Young) And so I add this from my own understanding; “For theirs and other men’s conveyance they sought to the destruction of the land in the name of progress.”
There is something tragic about losing time, yet realizing how life flows on like a river offers some consolation in knowing it is near impossible to fill every moment with meaning. Sometimes it is just better to be out and about rather than focusing on perspective and sentiment. This is where I find myself at odds this morning. The fog outside on the north end of town and the sleepy eyes of boys will soon take me away from this space, so I carry on in earnest. Capturing the true essence of the moment may have to wait for later as I save this last morsel of inspiration…
In keeping with the train of thought from yesterday, I hate to borrow yet another passage, but I feel a kinship with Wendell Berry that cannot be overlooked.
And I say to myself: here is your road
without beginning or end, appearing out of the earth and ending in it, bearing
no load but the hawk’s kill, and the leaves
building earth on it, something more
to be borne. Tracks fill with earth
and return to absence. The road was worn
by men bearing earth along it. They have come
to endlessness. In their passing
they could not stay in, trees have risen
and stand still. It is leading to the dark,
to mornings where you are not. Here
is your road, beginningless and endless as God.
-Wendell Berry-
Now, from my own recollections, I add these revisions of sentiment from the path of years gone by.
River Cathedral
Trickling water
Greenish brown stream
Fallen timbers
Along a sloping scheme.
Canopy of spring
Enshrouds the scene
Bird song calls
Off earthen walls;
River cathedral.
Silence speaks
My soul peaks
While mosquitoes swarm
In spiritual form;
Innocence that sleeps.
Visitors weep
While orphans dream
beside the river so serene
A prayerful intention
Left in stone,
But never alone;
These guardian angels.
-D.A. Wittler 2007-
Yuletide Legacy
On a cold December night
As the stars shine bright
Windowed faces of log houses
Flicker in candle light.
Warm quaint spaces
Crackling fire places
Kettles cooling beside once busy hearths
Shadowed now in evening shade.
In a time long forgot
People settle in their cots
While snow drifts gather
Ever higher along a man-made river.
Paths between cleared fields
Scarred by wagon wheel trenches
Now covered in utter white perfection
Stretch a lonely mile in starlight.
Forest branches creaking restless
Weight of ice and arctic breezes
Bring dormant trees to life
In clues of seasons past.
Doe and yearling forage
For a meal made scarce
Steaming breath releasing
A drink of water from a thin veiled stream.
Everywhere, darkness lingers
Stilled by a shining celestial body
Gleaming high above in an eastern sky
While immigrant farmers dream a yuletide scene.
A story told since youth
Son of God born a humble birth
In a land of palm fronds and sand
A king of heaven on earth.
Simple men tending their flocks
Wise men stirring from their dreams
Flee to a simple manger in Bethlehem
To see a Savior who would be king.
Now, looking back upon tradition
Christians telling in succession
This same story passing generations
As our founding is self evident
Remains for us a destiny
An American yuletide legacy.
-D.A. Wittler- revised 12/08
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