The Saints lost to the Cowboys last weekend. I knew it couldn’t continue forever. Still it stung. Perhaps it’s for the best. Now, we see that the Saints have feet of clay, after all. Still a model for us.
Today’s poem is here:
#563, c. 1862
I could not prove the Years had feet —
Yet confident they run
Am I, from symptoms that are past
And Series that are done —
I find my feet have further Goals —
I smile upon the Aims
That felt so ample — Yesterday —
Today’s — have vaster claims —
I do not doubt the self I was
Was competent to me —
But something awkward in the fit —
Proves that — outgrown — I see —
This poem arrived by random chance for the Winter Solstice. It’s the longest night of the year. Greatest spell of darkness before the smallest splinter of a move toward greater light. At first the change is a matter of a few minutes. Infinitesimal, but the shift is real and lasting. This night marks the most quiet turning point.
Here at the end of the year, Emily grows up and beyond even herself now. She graduated from family, society and church. That left only her self-created constraints to face, which she gently conquers. What a relief to know we don’t have to stick with the decisions that made sense last year. That when we notice something doesn’t fit the person we are now, we are allowed to choose differently. Every time, with each new step and new year, we have the power to choose the thing that better suits our larger self.
This poem seems a fitting close to my project and the year for that matter. I’ll be visiting with nephews over the next week. After that . . . not sure. Emily will be here, but as for me, we’ll have to see.
Have a cool Yule, y’all.