Sometimes before going to sleep I take out my sketch pad and do a drawing. The sheep and their wool have been on my mind so they found their way into my drawing.
I’ve also been reading the first edition of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass from 1855, to Jon before going to sleep. Last night we finished it, but I have the complete version, with is much longer and will begin reading that tonight.
Whitman’s writing, though very much of its time, is also timeless. I let the words wash over me, not grasping them all intellectually, but feeling them in a part of myself that connects me to something greater.
Whitman is both mystic and self-promoter. He self published and wrote reviews for his book, believing that his words were important enough to be heard. He did what he had to to get them out into the world.
Jon didn’t take to Walt at first, questioning what he meant, what he was saying. Sometimes I could help, but other times I just said ” I don’t know”. Yet every night when I asked Jon if he wanted to hear more, he said he did.
Now he wants more as much as I do.
I read a few pages each night, until my voice gets hoarse, or my eyes droop. It has to be good to hear these words everyday I think. To nurture the mind and the soul.
From Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
“I have heard what the talkers were talking. . . .the talk of the
beginning and the end.
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. ”
When I was in high school, the final American Literature project was to write our own “Song of Myself”. My family moved before the assignment was due. Although not too happy about moving, I was profoundly grateful that I did not have to write a poem about myself at age 16. Thanks for the memory!
Oh saved by the move Pat! One good part of it anyway. It does seem a daunting assignment especially at 16!