2020 was a year for voices.
Not always ones we’ve wanted to hear …
But there were things that needed to be said …
Sometimes helpful … sometimes not.
If I thought 2020 was noisy … 2021 has us screaming … already!
I’ve decided not to.
Scream, that is …
There’s so much of nothing to say …
It is true bliss have moved back “home” … immersed in the country side I love so much. To have all of this nature to escape to.
Putting this post together made me think of a Sara Teasdale poem that was part of the curriculum I taught in Junior English. We followed it up by reading Ray Bradbury’s story of the same name. I just noticed that Bradbury set his story in the year 2026. I hope he is wrong … that both writers prove to have given us warnings that are heeded … not prophetic pictures that come true.
There Will Come Soft Rains (Wartime) – Sara Teasdale
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild-plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Okay … that’s a little deep for this blog … probably should have put it on Rashellbud, my thought and faith blog, but this glimpse of nature is one of the joys of where we live.
Do you have any advice from your corner of the world for taking on 2021?
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