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Not Quite the Weekend

It’s Friday, but unfortunately, it’s not quite the end of my work week. I have to work at the museum tomorrow. Thankfully, we’re no longer regularly open on Saturdays, so I usually only have to work one or two Saturdays a year for special events. Tomorrow just happens to be one of them.

There really isn’t much more to say today. I had a migraine last night and ended up going to bed early. I’m still feeling some mild effects from it this morning, but thankfully, I’m feeling far better than I was last night. Hopefully, those lingering effects will fade as the day goes on.

I did have a really lovely dream last night, though. I woke up in the middle of it and really wished it had continued when I fell back asleep. Maybe it did, but if so, I don’t remember it. I do remember enough to know that it was a very nice dream—and that the man in it was pretty wonderful. Too bad he wasn’t real.

So, this is going to be a short post because I really can’t think of anything else to write. Sometimes, there just isn’t much to say—and that’s okay.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Pic of the Day

Topsy-Turvy Week

I’ve felt a bit topsy-turvy this week. I was off on Tuesday because I’m working on Saturday, so that threw things off right from the start. Yesterday, I went in late because I had an event that kept me at work later than usual. Today should be a relatively normal day, except for a few meetings. Thankfully, there’s nothing on my schedule for tomorrow, and Saturday should be an easy day.

I’ll be at the museum by myself on Saturday, so I should be able to get a lot of work done without too many interruptions. We aren’t normally open on Saturdays anymore. We used to be open every Saturday when students were on campus, but with a smaller staff now, we generally only open on Saturdays for special events.

Needless to say, my internal calendar has been completely off this week. All day yesterday, I had trouble remembering that it was Wednesday. It felt like Tuesday, and whenever I thought about things I needed to do on Thursday, it never quite registered that Thursday was the next day. Now it’s Thursday, and today doesn’t feel like Thursday either.

Do you ever have one of those weeks when everything just feels completely off? You know what day it is, but somehow it never quite feels like that day.

At least tomorrow is Friday—or so the calendar tells me. Maybe by next week, my brain and the calendar will be back on speaking terms.

Pic of the Day

I Should Have Written It Down

Last night, I thought of something to write about today. At the time, I thought, That would make a good blog post. This morning, however, I have absolutely no idea what it was.

I should have written it down.

Back when I was working on my dissertation, I kept a pad of paper and a pen next to my bed. It always took me forever to fall asleep, and while I was lying there waiting for sleep to come, my mind would wander through all sorts of things. Quite often, those thoughts turned to my dissertation. I learned pretty quickly that if inspiration struck and I didn’t write it down, there was a very good chance it would be gone by morning.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that writing things down is about the only reliable way to make sure I remember them. If there’s something I need to do but can’t do at that moment, I write it down. If there’s something I need to tell someone the next time I talk to them, I should write it down. If I have questions for my doctor and an appointment coming up, I make a list because otherwise I’ll inevitably walk out of the appointment and suddenly remember the question I meant to ask.

I learned a long time ago that when inspiration strikes, write it down. Apparently, I just occasionally forget to follow my own advice.

Whatever brilliant—or perhaps completely mundane—idea I had last night is gone this morning. Maybe it will come back to me later today. Maybe it won’t.

Either way, I should have written it down.

Pic of the Day

The Human Seasons

The Human Seasons 

By John Keats

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring’s honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

About the Poem 

Today is the first full day of autumn, and there is something appropriate about marking the change of seasons with John Keats’s “The Human Seasons.” Keats begins with the familiar cycle of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, but quickly turns from the natural world to ourselves: “There are four seasons in the mind of man.”

Spring belongs to youth, discovery, and possibility. Keats calls it our “lusty Spring,” when the world seems filled with beauty and we eagerly take it all in. Everything is new, or at least has the possibility of being new. There are people to meet, places to go, things to learn, and experiences still waiting for us.

Summer brings a different kind of pleasure. We begin to savor what spring gave us. Keats describes someone lingering over the “honied cud of youthful thought,” ruminating on dreams, memories, hopes, and experiences. If spring is about discovering beauty, summer is about appreciating it. There is still ambition and desire, but there is also the pleasure of knowing enough about life to recognize just how precious some of its moments are.

Then comes autumn.

Keats’s autumn is quieter. The wings that once carried us eagerly toward everything the world offered are folded close. There is a growing contentment simply to observe. We no longer have to chase every beautiful thing that passes before us. Some things can simply be allowed to pass “unheeded as a threshold brook.”

I think there is something wonderfully peaceful about that image.

We often talk about aging as if it were primarily a process of losing things: youth, beauty, strength, opportunities, time. Keats suggests another possibility. Perhaps we also gain something—the ability to be still. We become more selective about what deserves our attention and energy. We learn that not every opportunity must be pursued, not every argument must be won, and not every beautiful thing must be possessed to be appreciated.

And eventually there is winter. Keats does not romanticize it. He calls it a season of “pale misfeature.” Yet he also recognizes that winter belongs to us just as surely as spring does. Without it, we would “forego” our mortal nature.

That final thought gives the poem much of its power. We cannot choose only the seasons we like. A life made entirely of spring would hardly be a human life at all. We experience beginnings and endings, desire and contentment, joy and sorrow, growth and decline. Each belongs to the same cycle.

Perhaps we do not move through these seasons only once, either. Even later in life, there can be unexpected springs—a new friendship, a new love, a new interest, a new adventure. There can be summers when we savor happiness, autumns when we turn inward, and winters when life seems cold and barren. Sometimes all four seem to exist within us at once.

The seasons remind us that nothing remains exactly as it is. That can be frightening when things are good, but comforting when they are not. Winter does not erase the spring that came before it, and autumn does not make summer meaningless. Each season becomes part of the whole.

Maybe that is one of the gifts of autumn. As the days shorten and the leaves begin to change, the world reminds us that change can possess its own kind of beauty. We do not always have to mourn what has passed or fear what comes next. Sometimes we can simply fold our wings close, watch the mist drift by, and appreciate the season we are in.

“The Human Seasons” is a sonnet written by John Keats in 1818. Rather than describing the literal progression of the seasons, Keats uses spring, summer, autumn, and winter as metaphors for changing states of the human mind and stages of human existence.

Spring represents youthful vitality, imagination, desire, and openness to beauty. Summer is a time of contemplation, when the mind savors and reflects upon the experiences and dreams of youth. Autumn brings quietness and contentment, a willingness to withdraw somewhat from the constant pursuit of experience. Winter represents decline and mortality, the unavoidable final season that makes the cycle distinctly human.

Keats compresses an entire lifetime into fourteen lines. Yet the poem is not simply about growing old. Its opening speaks of “seasons in the mind of man,” suggesting psychological and emotional cycles as much as chronological stages. Human beings continually experience periods of awakening, fulfillment, contemplation, and loss.

The poem also reflects Keats’s enduring fascination with beauty, transience, and mortality—the knowledge that beauty is precious partly because neither beauty nor those who perceive it can last forever.

About the Poet

John Keats was born in London on October 31, 1795, and became one of the major poets of the second generation of English Romanticism. Although he originally trained in medicine, Keats abandoned a medical career to devote himself to poetry.

His poetic career was remarkably brief. Much of the work for which he is remembered was written during only a few extraordinarily productive years. His best-known poems include “Ode to a Nightingale,” “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” “To Autumn,” “La Belle Dame sans Merci,” and the sonnet “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art.”

Beauty, imagination, nature, love, transience, and mortality recur throughout Keats’s poetry. Those subjects became particularly poignant in light of his own short life. After developing tuberculosis, Keats traveled to Italy in hopes that the warmer climate would improve his health. He died in Rome on February 23, 1821, at only twenty-five years old.

Keats never reached the autumn or winter of life that he imagined in “The Human Seasons.” Yet perhaps that makes the poem even more affecting. A young poet, still very much within his own spring, could already imagine the entire cycle of human existence and recognize that mortality is not separate from life but an essential part of what gives life—and each of its seasons—meaning.

Pic of the Day

Monday Again

It’s Monday again, and I feel like I’m not firing on all cylinders this morning. I have absolutely no inspiration and, quite frankly, I’d just like to go back to sleep. If I didn’t have a class and a meeting today, I’d seriously consider calling in sick and crawling back into bed.

Maybe I’ll feel more human after I take a shower, get dressed, and have some coffee. Sometimes just going through the morning routine is enough to wake up the body and convince the brain to follow along. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for today.

For now, though, Monday has definitely arrived before I was ready for it. Here’s hoping the day improves once I get moving. Have a great Monday, everyone!