I am content, I do not care

Once more, I have been lazy and allowed my blog to go completely dormant over the last month. Did you miss me? Perhaps you did, perhaps you didn’t — today, I am content not to care.

Now, now — don’t be offended. That sounds far more harsh than I actually mean it to. I’m just playing with words from a poem I’ve just discovered that is not only excellent, but will perhaps become my life’s mantra from this point, onward: Careless Content by John Byrom.

I must confess that, before this afternoon, I had no idea who John Byrom was, and would still be unaware of him now had I not been forced by considerable boredom to poke around my bookshelves looking for something to read. In scanning my shelves, my eye landed on an anthology I’d bought a few years ago (very cheaply, might I add) at a MESS book sale: The New Oxford Book of Eighteenth Century Verse (sounds exhilarating, does it not?). I dusted it off and flung it on my bed, “Why not?” I thought.

And so, while waiting on my supper to cook, I started to flip through. I found some hilarious poems, some boring ones, and some that were too terribly long and tried my patience. I also, however, found this one poem — Careless Content — that I have now read ten times over I love it so much. It’s funny how pieces of literature, art, or music find their way into your life just as you need them, and this one fell into my life at so perfect a time that I am once again a little weirded out by the rule of serendipity that seems to reign my life.

Of course, I couldn’t help but share. Here it is:

I am content, I do not care,
Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground, as I could see:
So, when away my caring went,
I counted cost, and was content.
With more of thanks, and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek, what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food in sour and sweet;
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gentle-humour’d hearts
I choose to chat where’er I come,
Whate’er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue to tell the troth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.
For chance or change, of peace or pain,
For Fortune’s favour, or her frown,
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,
I never dodge, nor up nor down;
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about, with equal trim.
I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of ev’ry tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,
I make no bustling, but abide:
For shining wealth, or scaring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.
Of Ups and Downs, of Ins and Outs,
Of “they’re i’ th’ wrong,” and “we’re i’ th’ right,”
I shun the rancours, and the routs;
And, wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.
With whom I feast I do not fawn,
Nor if the folks should flout me, faint;
If wonted welcome be withdrawn,
I cook no kind of a complaint,—
With none dispos’d to disagree;
But like them best, who best like me.
Not that I rate myself the rule
How all my betters should behave;
But fame shall find me no man’s fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave;
I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.
Fond of a true and trusty tie,
I never loose where’er I link;
Tho’, if a bus’ness budges by,
I talk thereon just as I think:
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.
If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,
And read or write, but without wrath:
For, should I burn or break my brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my pains?
I love my neighbour as myself,
Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, pow’r or pelf,
Come I to crouch, as I conceive;
Dame nature doubtless has design’d
A man the monarch of his mind.
Now taste and try this temper, sirs,
Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Or, if ye ween, for worldly stirs
That man does right to mar his rest,
Let me be deft and debonair:
I am content, I do not care.

It’s less about what you know and more about how you came to know it

Conversations and events over the last few weeks have me determined to finally write the entry I’d planned to write quite a while ago on the nature of what it is to be a good teacher. I use the word teacher in its broadest sense, allowing it to encompass what it means to pass on knowledge and wisdom of any sort, and in any situation. I also use it in the more conventional sense, which is to denote a teacher within a system of education, whether it be at the beginning levels as an Early Childhood Educator or within the halls of a university at the level of professor. There are fundamental truths about teaching that apply to every incarnation of the action itself, as well as the vocation.

Before I get started though, I should say that what follows are my observations, things I’ve learned from being both a student and a teacher, and things I’ve learned from the many, many people in my life who have made it their life’s purpose to teach, and teach well.

Continue reading

John Donne made me cry!

It’s all Michael Collins’ fault! It’s his fault, and that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it like the ludicrous sticky tack I found in my kitchen drawer that doesn’t work at all due to age, humidity, and its existence as ludicrous sticky tack. Which of course is to say that not only is that not my story, but that I couldn’t stick to it if I triedl. What I’m about to relate to you is only partially the doing of the delightful Michael Collins, and is really more due to my inability to resist love poetry that’s more than a few centuries old (that, and I am a giant nerd, in case anyone didn’t get that before now).

So, this evening I was left with little planned as a friend had to reschedule plans we’d made for another time. This was unfortunate, I thought, but it also left my night wide open to anything else that might come along. I’m a big fan of “anything else that might come along”, and so as I made supper I pondered the few things that I might most enjoy doing for the next few hours. While eating supper, I was chatting to another friend of mine who was in the thick of researching a paper on sonnets, and I noticed another one of Michael’s tweets about John Donne (he’s been reading a lot of Donne, evidently, and loving it), and at that point I decided to set about finding myself some sonnets, and perhaps some specifically written by Mr. Donne! “But wait!” I thought, “where would I best find these things?!”

Continue reading

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

Before I say anything else, I should say that I do not actually remember a time in my life when The Newfoundland and Labrador Folk Festival didn’t exist, nor a time when I didn’t want to go. The festival is now 34 years old, and though I’ve not been alive that long, I’ve attended (if I’m recalling correctly) 21 years out of the 25 I’ve been planted on this lovely island. It’s safe to say, I think, that this festival holds a pretty big part of my heart.

All that said, this is actually the first time I’ve written about it.

One wonders, I suppose, why I choose to write about it now.

This year’s festival, taking place in its usual spot (Bannerman Park), at its usual time (the first weekend in August), was actually quite unusual in many ways. Everything was a bit bigger this year, a bit more dramatic, and a bit more organized (well, to an extent). Scanning the seating situation on the field during the early part of the Sunday night session, I made a comment to my aunt (who is truly a festival veteran) that “this [was] the year that you couldn’t get away with being laissez-faire about the festival”. And it’s true — this year there was a big push on advance ticket sales both online and at the box office, and more than one session sold out completely, even though the standard boundaries had been widened to accommodate for a significant increase in attendance. On top of that, there were more tents, stages, and sessions; more security, volunteers, and staff; more food, beer, and more of all of the stuff that goes along with it. On one hand, this is all absolutely wonderful: the festival was a smashing success, and I’m sure they made a few truckloads more money than usual. The quality of talent this year was absolutely outstanding — I was blown away more times than I could have hoped. The teamwork on behalf of the organizers, volunteers and staff was (as always, but it’s worth mentioning) above and beyond. And yet, it wasn’t all as good as other years.

Well, why wouldn’t it be as good? Surely it was better than other years! Enh, not exactly.

This year’s festival was all about being more, and lost in that was the relaxed atmosphere of years gone by. I am hesitant to be critical of anything that means success for these folks, but I do wonder if there’s a “too big for your britches” phenomenon going on, here. I could almost feel the collision of the ideologies of the old guard of the festival, its founders and their goals with the new guard, its necessities and the pressures of being a small festival in a big world. I am willing to allow for some of this feeling coming from the pronounced awareness of these things that has come with my age and life experience; all the same, that it contributes to the feeling of anxiety I had throughout the weekend certainly says something about the shift that’s been happening over these last years toward being a true force of a festival.

The thing about this year’s festival that undoubtedly caused the most controversy and commotion was Friday night’s show and Hey Rosetta! having closed it out. A good part of why tickets for that particular session sold out was the formidable gravity of the young, hip, talented ensemble. While Hey Rosetta! are all of those things, I will unapologetically state my opinion that they are not Folk Festival material. Though the other acts that made up the Friday night line-up were clearly geared more toward a younger audience (Rose Cousins and Amelia Curran were definite draws as well), and Amelia Curran actually congratulated the festival committee on having such a rockin’ band close out the show, there were things that happened leading up to and during the Hey Rosetta! set that I am certain I’ve never seen or heard at the festival before.

Bravely, and perhaps brazenly, the organizers chose to sit A Crowd of Bold Sharemen immediately before Hey Rosetta!. By that time, of course, many of the younger members of the audience who’d bought tickets particularly to see Hey Rosetta! were gathering near the stage — standing, of course. During this time, I heard disrespectful comments yelled at the Sharemen, and a chorus of sitting audience members begin to chant, “Sit down! Sit down!” I happened to be sitting far enough back to see the band despite the standing contingent and as such was able to see it all happening. I’m aware that Jim Payne has quite the sets of pipes, but it seemed as if he was heaving his voice to the heavens with more conviction than usual that night. What I really wanted him to do was put down his foot and for Fergus O’Byrne to growl at everyone to stop being so foolish or he’d beat them clear into next week with his banjo. What actually happened after the Sharemen finished their set was a somewhat moot attempt by Anita Best and “the sight man” to push the standing crew back from the stage. About half way into the Hey Rosetta! set, I left — I hadn’t signed up for a rock concert, and I wasn’t up for one. Again, it’s not that Hey Rosetta! aren’t wickedly talented and awesome entertainers, I’m just not on board with an act that causes such a division in the audience (and ultimately, the first stage barrier I’d ever seen at the festival, too).

The HR! debacle included, this year’s festival should have been subtitled “Bringing out the Big Guns”. Between the entirety of Friday night, the reunions of Pat, Joe and Baxter and the Wonderful Grand Band, the return of several festival staples of yesteryear, and the theatrics that went on in the hosting of the main stage, I was dizzy by the end of the weekend. Normally, on Sunday night, the festival closes with a big bang and the audience is up on their feet, cheering for more. This Sunday night, after a bit of confusion over which bald guy with the glasses and a guitar is really Con O’Brien, and a sometime solid set from the newest incarnation of The Irish Descendants, it seemed as though everyone was too tired for an encore. Anita’s voice flailed through the Ode to Newfoundland, and everyone went home to bed. Uncharacteristically anti-climactic for this festival, the final night was pitch-perfect until about 10:30pm when it began losing steam quickly. To my mind, this might be attributed to the odd dichotomy of the laughably high-school fashion of The Navigator’s bassist and what can only be described as the rock’n’roll bodhran playing exhibited opposite him.

Now, now — have a sense of humour: people were tired. It was a sleepy night (that just made it funnier).

All humour aside, as I said earlier, there were a lot of wonderful things about this year’s go ’round, and I don’t mean to disparage that in any way. The afternoon sessions were grand, and I saw so many kids having fun over the course of the weekend that it really did make me wish I was 5 again. Most people attending were very respectful and kind (though this was also the first year I had someone tersely tell me to quiet down), and there is still a wonderful magic about the place on a starry night. I never worry about the quality of the performances (which get better every year), but what I do worry about is the loss of “the little festival that could”. I was leaning on a tree, watching people scurrying around to find places to put their chairs on Sunday night and I heard a man say to his friend as he walked by, “yeah, ya know, other festivals are so big, but this one’s so laid back. I love it”. Honest to goodness, I kid you not — it’s like he knew I was going to write this blog entry and he gave me the perfect punch line for it. He’s right — compared to other folk festivals, we’re really lucky to have one that still is both very amazing and yet very relaxed. In Newfoundland, it would be hard to have a festival that wasn’t those things really, seein’ who we are an’ all. This year though, I saw a glimpse of what could happen to the festival if someone doesn’t make it their job to really keep tabs on the amount of biggification going on, and let me tell you, it really scared me. I don’t want my children (when they come along, you know, sometime in that vast expanse we call the future) to ever remember a time when this festival didn’t exist for them, either.

We are connected to everything

Tonight, I find myself having a quiet night in with the kids (not mine — my cousin’s, but they’re closer to my heart than any others).

While having a blast blowing bubbles on the deck, the eldest of the two (she’s 7) comes up to me and says, “Hey Sara, did you know that I’m touching everything in the world?”

I reply, “That’s pretty amazing. How do you figure that?”

“Well, if I’m standing on the deck, the deck is touching the ground, and the ground touches everything else, then I must be touching everything!” she declared, proudly.

“Why, I believe you’re right!” I said, pretending I hadn’t known that to begin with.

“Yeah!” she said, smiling, and danced away to blow more bubbles.

In truth, her simple reminder that we do touch everything brought me a huge smile. This is why I find children to be positively enlightening company — they’ll brighten your day without ever knowing they’re doing it.

Yeah, what she said!

Completely agreeing with someone else’s opinion is a rare thing. I agree with poet Alice Fulton and what she recently said about poetry in an interview with The New Yorker’s Book Bench though.

Funny that I find so many things to love on The Book Bench.

Anyway, what Fulton says about poetry is right in line with how I see it, being a bit of a poet myself. And here it is, for all to see!

How do you define poetry? What distinguishes it from prose?

Poetry emphasizes music, rhythm, reticence, multiplicity. These qualities, present in prose to varying degrees, are intensified in poetry, framed and underscored by the poetic line. The language of poetry is more distilled and oblique than the language of prose, which tends to be purposeful. A newspaper, for instance, is written to convey information efficiently. We don’t linger over news stories, reveling in the language, mesmerized by the unsaid. A poem, on the other hand, invites readers to fill in the blanks. It lives in the space between words. Like a joke or a koan, a poem can’t be explained. It has meaning, but it doesn’t have a “message;” its stratas are too vast and complex to be neatly summarized. There are unspoken implications at every turn; you have to intuit it, “get it.” It’s recursive, an infinite regress.

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2010/07/our-poets-on-their-poetry-alice-fulton.html#ixzz0v7mIHsw1

And that, my friends, is what she said.

Because I haven’t been home all day

Because I haven’t been home all day, I have had no time to blog — scandal! I’ve been doing really well at posting once every day though, which was a goal I decided to revisit, and so I don’t intend to not post just because I don’t have something terribly insightful or lengthy to write. Nope, you won’t be getting thoughts on anything big today, but you will be getting small, short thoughts on some pretty random things, instead.

And so, in no particular order, here are some thoughts on this and that — just because:

1. Those Facebook Recommended Pages sure do know how to share some penetrating wisdom! Many people who like Music, also like Friends; many people who like Love also like Life — gee, no shit, Sherlock.

2. There sure are a lot of songs on my iPod that include the word “one” in their title.

3. Sitting in a room with someone else, saying very little and being productive is a lovely way to spend time.

4. I have learned that the less walking I do, the less mentally stable I am; it’s done wonders for my figure and for my mind.

5. I bloody well love Helen Mirren.

6. I also love Paul Bettany.

7. I once read a romance novel: just one, and just once.

8. Writing with pen and paper is extremely satisfying.

9. Holding a live sea-urchin in your hand is truly amazing.

10. I aim not to underestimate those around me because, if you’re watching, you might just see the best show of your life.

The date: July 27th, 2010

The time: many different times

The place: my mind

The purpose: fun

The verdict: Sara’s to tired to be blogging, but she still loves you, she swears!

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.