What lasts

Brief the time of having, brief the time of home,
Brief the time of family, brief the time of friends.
All the works of this world lose their worth.

So he said to himself, sitting apart in thought...*

I sat under the canopy of leaves, at the foot of the tree. The water, nearly still at the shore, sparkled out beyond the shallows where it was stirred by the breeze. We were hidden from sight by the low overhanging branches and shrubbery and the bank at our backs, the catbird and I, but we could both see clearly. The bird hopped above me from branch to branch, a sleek grey shadow with an intelligent eye.

I sat and thought, as I had in this particular place, since I was a little girl. And then I stopped thinking and just was, breathing with the slow air, the little waves, the rustling leaves. Later it came to me that I'd found this place nearly a half century before, and never brought any adults there, nor told anyone about it. All those years, so swiftly gone! Brief the time!

In the tangle of ivy and crown vetch and lilies-of-the-valley on the bank, where I lingered before going back to the house, I saw the arching stems and red caps of my grandmother's alpine strawberries, ready to be eaten. I put a few into my mouth, and picked some stems to take into the house. She had planted a half dozen or so, tossed carelessly onto the bank with a pailful of lily-of-the-valley roots and ivy cuttings, and here they were still, hardier than any of us, multiplying like Abraham's stars.

When we came to the lake, before the houses and road, and first dug deep into the earth on this bank, we found the remains of old firepits, and freshwater clamshells, bleached white as bones. Later, in the garden, my grandfather found two perfect Iroquois ax-heads, which I've always carried with me. Maybe someday I'll re-bury them, with their memories of looking out over the water and its gentle, erasing hand.

* Dale has just finished posting his beautiful translation of The Wanderer, an Old English poem from the 10th century, written, I'd like to think, by some distant ancestor of mine. These lines are from the last part of the poem.

Comments

[Jean]

Very moving. A sense of continuity with oneself when young is important, isn't it? Really, that is something held inside oneself, of course. But physical reminders have an impact.

[Bill]

A catbird: you're keeping good company there!

"Maybe someday I'll re-bury them." Agh! Don't do that!

[beth]

Hi Bill! Good to hear from you. Yes, the catbird seems to be my totem, I've been accompanied by them all my life. Someday I'll write something about that. As for the ax-heads, don't worry, I doubt I'll do it - but it's tempting.

[dale]

Oh! Just came to this. I've been out of touch. So glad the poem moved you. It's been a touchstone poem of mine, obviously, for many many years.

[Lucy]

I found this very lovely.

[Diane]

I Googled Jung Tower and found your blog. Your words are like a salve. Well done.