My Novels

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Lost, now found, serene

Ladies & Gents,
Next Saturday will mark the 3rd anniversary of my DH's death. This coming week will be a time of remembrance, and each day I plan to update this blog with special memories. For those who are new to my blog, or those returning time and time again (please KNOW I appreciate regular readers, thank you!) you'll learn some of the things that made my husband special, endearing, well-loved in the community, and an all-around good, decent man.

Please return tomorrow for the first of this series.

For now, let me post a poem that has special meaning for this time in my life. As readers know, I've been fretting and worrying over my medical insurance (Cobra) and what will happen when/if I lose it. I do have one possibility, a good one, for our state health insurance (available for those in a high risk pool) and without pre-existing clauses. It is not as expensive as Cobra, but has higher deductibles. However, I have come to the conclusion that WHATEVER happens is meant to be.

How much of our lives is spent in useless worrying about events we have no control over? Yes, I'm a sensible, reasonable realist in real life, a chronic worrier, but with the death of my husband, I've finally realized that though we should do what we can to plan for the future, there are some things that cannot be planned for, insured against, or fought.

Acceptance -- a word we should all practice in many facets of our lives in order to live TODAY fully.

Here's the poem:


Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind nor tide nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays--
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me,
Nor wind can drive my bark astray
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years,
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own, and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height,
Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own from me.

--John Burroughs

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