Two girls who look like dogs.
Sitting on the other side of the glass door
With expressions that may be yearning
Or, perhaps, may simply be stares.
They come in when I open the door,
One heading straight for the water dish
And the other to the easy chair next to mine,
To curl up, place her chin on the arm
And slowly ease back into sleep.
Do their chests fill with love, as mine does,
When we share a room together,
Or are they just waiting for me to feed them?
We feed each other what we need.
That works for me.
I wrote this song 33 1/3 years ago – two chords and a phrase – on a morning when I felt just the way it says – and writing the first verses opened up the final answers that flowed out in the climax.
It did not take long to write. That day I fully understood the concept that songs, poems, stories, are all just out there waiting to be discovered, waiting for someone willing to be a vessel for the words and music, because I don’t know another explanation for how this song got written. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and at the same time it expressed something deep inside me. Continue reading “Uncle Warren’s Attic: Wanting to Live Forever”
When weariness overtakes you
And your fuse is short,
When the slap of reality hurts
So bad you want to lash back,
When the loss is so deep
You can’t see straight,
When you’re tempted to quit
And go running away forever,
That’s what love is;
That’s why it’s called love.
Life is about enduring to the sunset,
attempting to thrive until the sunset –
because the night is dark
and you’ll need light, and food, and shelter
to make it to the sunrise.
No one is guaranteed a sunset.
But probably, you’ll be there when the sun goes down.
Your days are probably numbered in the tens of thousands.
So make this day worthwhile
so you can rest tonight and think,
“That was a good day,”
so a week from now you can rest and think,
“That was a good week,”
And “That was a good month,”
And “That was a good year.”
All in all, it’s a good life.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
The wind roars up from the bottom of the hill behind our house
– or is that the bay shouting out its lungs?
water crashing into white caps of fury, or
a beast roaring at the heart of the world,
bouncing off itself joyfully to scream “Life! Live! Love!”
Be angry or be alive.
Laugh or cry.
The choices present themselves every day.
It’s lighter on the soul.
The hound ran.
She ran because she was happy to be free, beyond the fence, beyond the limits.
She ran across the field through the clover, through the tall grass waving as she brushed by, her mouth open in what looked like a delighted smile, happy just to be alive and exploring and seeing what is out there beyond the fence, beyond the limits.
She ran like she did when she was a puppy in this field, a bounce in her step that wasn’t there behind the fence. The enclosed yard did not contain quite enough space for her to unleash her full speed, her full joy, the fullness of her being and potential.
The fence kept her safe, no doubt – from predators and from getting lost in the woods beyond the field. But beyond the fence lay freedom and joy and all the speed she could muster.
There were fewer limits there, and there she could be all the dog she was.