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| Robert Frost |
I took a long siesta this afternoon. I slept for close to 3 hours. Rookie mistake. Make sure to set an alarm when you’re napping. It was unusually warm and partly sunny on this 9th day of Advent so I wanted to get in some outdoor work. That didn’t happen, not to the extent I hoped it would. I’ll believe it was worth it until I’m outside in the freezing rain and cold sweeping out storage units. But I digress.
We’ve hit on some heavy subjects the past few days and I need a break. This is going to be a laconic meditation (am I allowed to call my own post laconic?). I’m going to share that Robert Frost poem I’ve been meaning to get to. It’s called “The Wood-Pile.” Here's a reading of it I rather like. Here's the text:
“The Wood-Pile” by Robert Frost
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.'
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather—
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
C. S. Lewis has a lot to say in The Screwtape Letters about the horror of the "Same Old Thing" and the demand for absolute novelty as contrasted with the steady rhythm of God. Stephen West, host of Philosophize This, describes life and moral identity in the 21st century as a "70 year neurotic dance from hashtag to hashtag trying to bring about a better world." Ha. #BringBackOurGirls #Kony2012 #StopGamergate #YesAllWomen #OscarsSoWhite #BoycottClippers #CancelColbert and on and on and on. Stop. Slow down. Rest.
We’ve hit on some heavy subjects the past few days and I need a break. This is going to be a laconic meditation (am I allowed to call my own post laconic?). I’m going to share that Robert Frost poem I’ve been meaning to get to. It’s called “The Wood-Pile.” Here's a reading of it I rather like. Here's the text:
“The Wood-Pile” by Robert Frost
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.'
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather—
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
C. S. Lewis has a lot to say in The Screwtape Letters about the horror of the "Same Old Thing" and the demand for absolute novelty as contrasted with the steady rhythm of God. Stephen West, host of Philosophize This, describes life and moral identity in the 21st century as a "70 year neurotic dance from hashtag to hashtag trying to bring about a better world." Ha. #BringBackOurGirls #Kony2012 #StopGamergate #YesAllWomen #OscarsSoWhite #BoycottClippers #CancelColbert and on and on and on. Stop. Slow down. Rest.
I see Advent in this poem. I see Christmas in this poem. My hope is that we worship a God who doesn’t live in turning to fresh tasks, but sees his old projects through to the end, even the bitter end, if necessary. If the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is indeed the God who reigns over all the earth and came to the planet as a man to sort out this mess, then I’d say we’re in good hands. In that case, we aren’t the wood-pile; we haven’t been made and abandoned to creeping death and slow decay. If the stories are true, then God is the feller who came back for the labor of his ax.
If that’s not your cup of tea, or if you’re a coffee drinker, then you might take away from this poem the sacredness of slowly, deliberately, wholeheartedly completing old tasks and chores and projects. Respect the labor of your hands, respect the time you’ve been given, do what needs to be done, mindfully, and then rest. Just make sure to set an alarm.
***
A note: If you have some thoughts to add or some interpretation to offer about this poem, please let me know. I’d love to hear from you.
Another note: Frost knew how to take a walk. Those first few lines (I'm paraphrasing), "Maybe I'll turn back, maybe I'll keep walking, I don't really know. I'll walk a little more until I figure it out." That's the spirit. That's the art of sauntering.
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