Some evenings, however admirably you try to make them into evenings for charting the perspectives of eight different writers on race in Huckleberry Finn, inevitably become evenings instead for listening to classical guitar, drinking green tea, and reading poetry by pink lamplight. Perhaps you ought to be severe and insistent about the chart, but severity falls to the wayside and you soothe yourself with having at least read the eight writers.
One hand full of rest is better than two fists full of labor and striving after wind.*
And how, without wings, can any striving come near the wind? And what would one do with wind, supposing one could catch it? It takes more than two hands to hold it, and I have only two.
Cease striving and know — **
The children’s choir sang a setting of Psalm 46; I taught them. But I am not still. I know, but I am not still.
Oh! till Thou givest that sense beyond,
To show Thee that Thou art, and near,
Let patience with her chastening wand
Dispel the doubt and dry the tear;
And lead me child-like by the hand
If still in darkness not in fear.
Speak! whisper to my watching heart
One word — as when a mother speaks
Soft, when she sees her infant start,
Till dimpled joy steals o’er its cheeks.
Then, to behold Thee as Thou art,
I’ll wait till morn eternal breaks.***
***Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Nondum”