Over the weekend, I served as caretaker for my friend's Mom who has Alzheimer's Disease. She is 94 and can still basically take care of herself, but her memory fades in and out during the day. She seemed adamant about getting out of the house and let me know she did not want to "sit in the house all day"....
The 'California Soul' painting came from our car ride up and down the Pacific Coast Highway. The sky was so beautiful and the spring flowers of fuchsia and magenta are blooming all over. My sweet little friend pointed out all of the spring color, watched people, coveted some funky tights on a St. Patty's waitress, and turned to me as we looked at Huntington Beach to say,
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
My only response was, "That is beautiful! Who did you say that was?"
"LONGfellow" loud enough for me to hear. It really was precious.
Because when I looked it up, it turns out the poem was written "From the Heart of theYoung Man to the Psalmist". So ironic. She spoke to me with her years of life and experience and I am the young one. I felt that message in my heart. It is one of those moments that create a lasting impression that stands the test of time. There are a few memories I have like that and this one is new. It is engraved on my heart forever.
Materials:
Artist's Loft 90lb Watercolor Paper
Prang Black Watercolor
Materials:
Artist's Loft 90lb Watercolor Paper
Prang Black Watercolor
(full text)
A Psalm of Life
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN TOLD THE PSALMIST
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
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