Better Late

        
        Better late
        Fall love
        And blackberries
        Lie just beyond the thorns;
        Ripe and sweet, however late the
        Harvest.

-                                                              --Jim Olson

           

When we turn over the soil of our lives often enough, we begin to see it for what it is. We can feel the uneven texture of life, smell the moistness of years of tears, feel the quickening of  good times, and see the rocks and clods that constitute the minutes and hours of the limited time we have left.  

It took me years and years of painful plowing to hit upon just a few realities; simple truths, that I should have seen earlier, but didn’t.  I’m a slow learn when it comes to gut issues, and  I feel a valid affinity to Sisyphus, who kept rolling the rock up the hill, only to have it come crashing down again and again.  

We all face times that try us, and the truth is that unless one has the benefit of unleashed insight,  subtleties can be lost or ignored as life progresses, leaving us with the feeling that all we've done is get up early, go to work, come home, feed the children and go to bed.  Humdrumness, boredom, lethargy and a narrow mind all contribute a blanket of melancholia.  Before we know it, years have passed, and too often we answer the inquiry, “How are you?” with, “Oh, okay I guess.”  It is the “I guess” that is the monster.   

Better late.  Better late to learn the joy of a marriage of 50 years.  Better late the lump in the throat at the sight of grandsons sleeping in my parents' four poster bed.  Precious and poignant are the memories of friends and acquaintances; they come unbidden into our view -- a turn of phrase, a small insight, a hand of friendship.  I turn to speak to my mother and she is not there, or is she?   Is she in some way resurrected by my needful thought?  Just beyond the thorns, life blooms large.  Better late to feel the earthiness and joy of life and love.  Better late, than never.

***  I chanced upon this poem by Jim Olson who is not a professional poet.  He is simply a thoughtful human whose mind goes deeply into that well of inspiration.  Thank you Jim for my favorite poem.