It's been a week best forgotten and remembered.
Out at our food production site, we are slowly but inevitably finishing up the construction and are days away from electrifying the site. As I mentioned to a friend, it will be nice to start following up on my thus-far neglected marketing side of the job; I keep having to remind my partners in the cooperative that we can and should celebrate the completion of the site, but keep in mind that the greater struggles are still in front of us with regards to actually selling our products in order to sustainably purchase the raw crops from our farmers.
On the home front, things haven't been so good. I won't delve into it now, but I've been brought face-to-face with a number of deep fears and emotions twice this week, and in lieu of distractions, have spent more time than usual in introspection. It's not my strong suit; consequently, I stick to the old Midwestern standby of burying hurts with physical labor. Hauling bricks, moving 50kg bags of rice, sweeping, digging, hoofing from place-to-place through the sand, raking, etc. Anything to take the sharp edge off anticipation or worse, regrets.
I guess I'm aging a bit, though, and maybe in a positive way. I used to turn hurt almost entirely inwards (it's not healthy, by the way). The appreciation I have now is that a problem shared is a problem halved; I've received warmth from friends abroad and within Senanga, confirming my underlying belief in humanity being, for the most part, basically good.
Well, all for right now. I'm taking the day to harvest seeds, work in the garden, clean up my accumulated junk, etc. A big meal of curried fish and fresh vegetable stir-fry over Mongu rice; read a couple of articles tonight; a long night's sleep. Recharge the batteries, if you will, and maybe a long bike ride for May Day.
A bit of homage to my best friend back home, who always is there for me. Thanks, G.
The Woodpile
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther--and we shall see."
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
to put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--
Teh white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it I could see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
and the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
what held it, though, on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
and leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
-Robert Frost
I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther--and we shall see."
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
to put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--
Teh white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it I could see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
and the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
what held it, though, on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
and leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
-Robert Frost
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