Tag Archives: rest

For Troy Stover, My Friend in Words, and Vera, My Girl


Adapted Lyrics from “The Stolen Child” as sung by the Waterboys

Songwriters: Simon Fowler, Dan Sealy, Mike McNamara, W. B. Yeats

(To comply with Fair Use, please allow me a teaching moment: it is brilliant when one can take a classic–whether words or melody–and adapt it to modern use. Hence, the following example.

This particular piece also serves a therapeutic purpose for the wounded spirit in need of escape, rest and refreshing. It describes that process so poetically.)

Come away, human child, to the water.

Come away, human child, to the water and the wild

With a fairy, hand-in-hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where dips the rocky highland of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats. There we’ve hid our fairy vats

Full of berries and of the reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, human child, to the water.

Come away, human child, to the water and the wild

With a fairy, hand-in-hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses the dim gray sands with light,

Far off by furthest Rosses, we foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances, mingling hands and mingling glances,

Till the moon has taken flight; to and fro we leap

And chase the frothy bubbles, while the world is full of troubles

And is anxious in its sleep.

There, the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glen-Car.

In pools among the rushes, where scarce could bathe a star,

We seek for slumbering trout and whisper in their ears.

We give them unquiet dreams.

Leaning softly out from ferns, that drop their tears

Over the young streams.

Away with us, he’s going, the solemn-eyed.

He’ll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hillside;

Or the kettle on the hob, singing peace into his breast;

Or see the brown mice bob around and around the oatmeal chest.

For he comes, the human child, to the water.

He comes, the human child, to the water and the wild

With a fairy, hand-in-hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

On Horseback


The place I find center is on horseback. It’s where I do my best non-writing writing. It’s where I can clear my head and think.  It’s where I go to get away for a while.

Recently the pace of life has been overbearing. It’s growing season. We’ve had an exceptional amount of rain. My garden and yard are reverting to jungle. I can’t keep the weeds at bay. Insects are reproducing and foraging faster than my non-toxic pesticides can deplete them — especially given that each shower washes away the protective shield.

The hay fields go uncut because there is no weather window in which to work. I need four days of sunshine in a row. That’s not happening. My hay customers want hay. I can’t make any to sell them.

For six weeks, I have not ridden. There’s too much work to do.

Yesterday the weather was perfect. A cold front blew in and cleared the air of humidity. I worked outside till I ached. At lunch time, I planned  the afternoon’s labor as I chewed. Then the phone rang. It was my riding partner.

My riding partner  got a new job. For three days straight, she went to work in the afternoon and worked until 1 A.M. re-setting the floor of a large department store. Yesterday, after going to bed at 2 A.M., she had returned to work at 5 A.M. and would be getting off work after lunch. She wanted to know if I wanted to go riding.

Both of us, played out from our labors, sought sanctuary and renewal. Both of us knew where to find relief. On horseback.

As a creative person, you must have a source for recharging, a place or activity to draw from the wellspring and refresh.

Use it.

Otherwise, your batteries may be drained so thoroughly that they die.