Celebrating birthdays is fun. Growing older is not. Along with the privilege of aging comes reassessment of everything. Is my body of work good enough? Have I made a difference? Made peace with being more of a follower than a leader and more of a matcher than a giver? If not, am I doing anything to change? These self-indulgent questions arise and often fester.
But sometimes there's a wake up call of the very best sort. Like today. I drove my husband to the station to catch a train at 5:28am in order to start work at 6:30am. At this time of year, it's light at 5:15am and lovely, with birds practicing for their dawn chorus. I waited till the train pulled out, then drove home to get more sleep. But as I passed the Tarrytown lakes, I saw beautiful fog smothering the water and pulled over to have a look.
The scene was Instagram-worthy—and made even better when a white heron flew across my field of vision and landed, also surveying the scene, to the left of my view. I I thought of the phrase, ". . . then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose" and told myself to snap out of my self-indulgence.
The phrase is from Keats. The entire poem is below, copied from the site of The Poetry Foundation.
www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173743
Ode on Melancholy
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
