remembered blue

July 14, 2010
sunrise:  5:27

There is a poem by Rachel Field that I always find wistfully sad. It refers to her altered perspective on the the lovely sights of her precious Sutton Island. The island had always been her muse, her inspiration, the site of some of her deepest connections to joy in this world. But one summer she noticed that the “rapture” with which she drank in the place as a young person was no longer with her.

Remembered Blue

These rocky cliffs my childhood knew

Where frail and fragmentary blue

Of harebells swung to salty air

On stems as delicate as hair,

Could so evoke a half-grown heart

To rapture, that I flush and start,

Shaken before the memory,

Till these bright shapes which now I see,

And touch, yet seem of lesser hue
Than those lost bells’ remembered blue.

It is a sad poem of loss, in a way, and I understand the feeling. But although I share the feeling of change, it isn’t necessarily so sad to me.

I was out on the lake this morning. I took a small kayak up the lake and around a little island where we used to have picnics and camp outs. The sounds of the birds, the lapping of water against the bottom of the boat, the rhythm of paddling and dripping water, are all calming and beautiful to me. I look at the twisted trunks and tufts of needles on white pines, the brown lake bottom with sand and mussel shells and rounded underwater stones, and the large granite rocks at the shore, perfect for sitting on to eat a sandwich or think a thought. It makes me realize that this place is the foundation of many of the things I love most in life – stones, pines, lakes.

But when I search for the magic that I felt as a child and a young woman – that rush of excitement, that romantic thrill of stunning emotional depth, it’s not there most of the time. There are glimmers, and they are happy memories, but I don’t grieve over them. In some ways it is a lot nicer to appreciate all of this without the overwhelming rapture.

It was that level of high intensity that also made me terrified of the dark woods and all of the creaks and thumps in the night. The world is a more manageable and comfortable place seen through lens of greater age and experience.

Still. I don’t like to forget. So it’s nice to be in a place where I can delve into my past, my distant self, my youthful imagination and vibrancy. I may not FEEL with quite so much passion, but I think I may feel with a much greater depth.

Happy Bastille Day!