Stolen Memories

Thinking of home. Old writings:

The Child who went Forth

There was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

The motion of the sea became a part of this child,
And the waves, and the gentle evening lap against the hull,
And the crisp salted morning air, and the howling of the wind.
And the musty cushions, and the hard iced tea, and the giant ship,
And the precious stowaway holds.
And the trips ashore to the steady coasts where the great pine trees grew and the squirrels and the dear weaved through and through.
And the cool salty taste, and the sand and the sun – all became a part of their son.

His parents dear,
The father and mother who had been his childhood,
They who had been there with him every moment along the way
They who had given him the greatest gift of all; the gift of life.
They became a part of him.

The mother gentle and caring,
She who always knew what was best when he was sick.
The Compresses and wraps,
The homeopathy and anthroposophy.
The persistent prodding for diligence and holding his life together
The father strong and manly
His strong and rough but loving hands,
The hands that could fashion houses boats and bridges,
Log houses that reached to the sky
And Stan Rogers who blared behind it all
They became a part of him.

The world of the small, gazing up at that of the big
The foreign letters and unfair teachers
This world or that? Reality or fiction, the land of imagination
The sand and the mud, the injustices of the land,
The underhanded words that weren’t supposed to hurt,
And the furious fists quick to repay that false pang.
The wars and battles which raged day in and out, the individual invincible, the glory, the pride.
The stealthy depth charges probing deep within the mind,
Clubs and forts and nations and honour and valour.
Colour and warmth. Wooden worlds, artsy books and showcasing hallways.
They all became a part of him

The sticks and stones, the bow and the drill, the tenderly made fire,
The smoke and the bark, the earth, the trees, and the sun.
The life trusting team, climbing high upon the giants ladder,
Shaking atop the pampers pole, the leap for faith and pride
The warmly smoldering coals wrapped round by companionship
The unwavering passionate and raging disputes
The field and the hall, the concrete and the grass, the fence and the forest, the broom and the clay,
The Roman Empire, it all became a part of him.

The dirty cracked tiles that faded way…
Grand halls of youth and passion they faded into
The world that began to bend round into one small globe
The land in which youth moved that world each day
The world in which problems were to be tackled and solved
The independent mind within the unity of the team
Manhood and its glory, the world of the big looking with care upon that of the small
The world that needed to be sustained, and we who could sustain it
The wandering search for truth and understanding, spiritual adventures
The worlds of physics and math, calculus and chemistry, English and the history of a pleading world.
And the communities of the ocean, of the dojo, of the stage, of the youth, and of the classrooms
These all became a part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day. *
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* Italics
by Walt Whitman.

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