Sunday, June 30, 2013

Stopping By Woods

Did we succeed in learning how to be happy ourselves by walking the dog, making jewelry, learning to fish, restoring wood -- doing something that we do only because we love doing it?   Joan Chittister "The Gift of Years"

I taught a class this morning and we discussed a difficult but important question:  What do you do purely for fun?  It may have a point to it, like singing or reading, or an end product like fishing or needlepoint, but that's not the goal.  The goal is simply to have fun and be happy.

Lots of sharing ensued.  I didn't give an example but I could have.  A few weeks ago, when I was rereading my Robert Frost poems, I decided to memorize "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."  For no reason whatsoever.

First, I had to memorize the title because some folks call it "Stopping By Woods at Night." Then I had to re-learn the first line because most of us think it's "Whose woods are these..".But it's actually "Whose woods these are..."

It hasn't been easy because it gets harder and harder to memorize as we age.  When I saw the great British actress Maggie Smith on "60 Minutes" a while back I was amazed that she can still remember reams of dialogue.

But I did it.  And I enjoyed myself in the process.  Why is this important?  Following are a couple more quotes from Joan Chittister's wonderful book "The Gift of Years."

Life is now.  Only now.  But who of us has ever much stopped to notice it?  We did what we did in all those other years because those were the tasks of life then.  But the task of life now is, simply, life. 

In the end, it becomes so clear:  success is a much simpler thing than they ever told us.  It has to do with having the basics, with learning to be happy, with getting in touch with our spiritual selves, with living a balanced life, doing no harm, doing nothing but good.  The only test of the good life here is happiness. 


Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
to watch his woods fill up with snow. 

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year. 

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake. 
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 

***