I’m continuing on my quest to ditch things in my life that are meaningless and only take up time and space. A couple months ago I got rid of all my Facebook games and the other online game I was spending all my time on. I don’t miss them whatsoever.
After a talk with Kent this afternoon, I decided to limit my stockpile of library books, get rid of some other habitual timewasters (like internet comics and blogs that don’t really reflect me), and I have a list of a backlog of tasks I’ve been needing to get done for an embarrassing amount of time that I’m hoping will become a more deliberate priority.
One of the things I want to make a priority is spending time with Kent every day. We’ve been more like ships passing in the night, living in the same house but on our own schedule. So tonight, after we put the laundry away, we went for a walk outside.
We’ve been supposed to get rain, but, except for earlier this morning, it’s been sunny and warm. Tonight the wind is blowing and I think we may get more rain tonight. I love walking out on a windy night (day too, but night is more fun). I feel like the only person in a wilder world, and that somehow, I’ve walked out my door and won’t be able to find my way back.
It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.
And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.
It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
“Will ye not come home brother? ye have been long away,
It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the may;
And bright is the sun brother, and warm is the rain,–
Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?
“The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
“Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,”
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.
It’s the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes’ song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.