"Lines"
William Wordsworth is someone I have admired since I was fairly young. When I was eleven, I remember going through my mom's old poetry books and finding his "To A Butterfly" poem and I remember thinking it was just beautiful:
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
I think this poem was written so sweetly and simply and it has such a personal and beautiful message behind it. I find that in the poems I have read by Wordsworth, they often reflect something very nostalgic and reflective, and each time I read one, I find I get thrown into my own lake of memories. This week's anchor poem, "Lines" was no different.
When I read the lines about this wonderful valley Wordsworth used to gaze upon, a place that changed him as a boy, and a place that has symbolically changed over time, it made me think about my own place. For as long as I can remember, my family has had a recreational trailer in a beautiful summer camping resort just off Buckhorn Lake in Peterborough, and over many summers, I have spent days swimming in the cool waters, nights by the fireplace, adventures in the woods, and hours upon hours exploring the millions of stars. It is a place where the air smells good and it heals all wounds. I have spent a large portion of my life up there, and when there isn't really anything to do but think, I spent many hours doing exactly so. Thinking and growing and becoming who I am. And often, when times have slowed or things have come to a halt, I turn back to that place for inspiration. So when Wordsworth writes like: "when the fretful stir unprofitable, and the fever of the world, have hung upon the beatings of my heart-how oft, in spirit have I turned to thee," I know exactly what he means.
Similar to Wordsworth, my summer escape has also changed. It no longer holds the same meaning for me. All it remains now, is a nostalgic feeling or a place of memories. I think this has to do with the way the resort is physically changing, but I think more than anything, it has to do with me growing up. Last summer, while in Buckhorn, I wrote in my journal:
It doesn't feel like home anymore. This place, a place I once cherished for its natural beauty and tranquility has been dehumanized to an industrial pit. I look out at the lake, the glistening sunlight bouncing off the curves of the waves. It's not the same water I swam in as a child, it's not the site where my dad called me a fish. The trees I used to dance under are being chopped down, the hills I used to roll upon are being sanded. They all look very ordinary, nothing that might arouse or inspire one like they once did for me. The playground where I shared countless memories, infinite rides on the swings, silly moments and dancing to rock and roll music that emerged from the little blue cottage are all gone. A part of my history is gone. What happened to my childhood? I didn't want to let it go, at least not yet. I never imagined I would. Even the grass seems fake. Muddy corners illuminate the patches, and new generations of children are making it their own. They look at it through the same wondrous eyes that I once did, and all I want to do is leave.
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
I think this poem was written so sweetly and simply and it has such a personal and beautiful message behind it. I find that in the poems I have read by Wordsworth, they often reflect something very nostalgic and reflective, and each time I read one, I find I get thrown into my own lake of memories. This week's anchor poem, "Lines" was no different.
When I read the lines about this wonderful valley Wordsworth used to gaze upon, a place that changed him as a boy, and a place that has symbolically changed over time, it made me think about my own place. For as long as I can remember, my family has had a recreational trailer in a beautiful summer camping resort just off Buckhorn Lake in Peterborough, and over many summers, I have spent days swimming in the cool waters, nights by the fireplace, adventures in the woods, and hours upon hours exploring the millions of stars. It is a place where the air smells good and it heals all wounds. I have spent a large portion of my life up there, and when there isn't really anything to do but think, I spent many hours doing exactly so. Thinking and growing and becoming who I am. And often, when times have slowed or things have come to a halt, I turn back to that place for inspiration. So when Wordsworth writes like: "when the fretful stir unprofitable, and the fever of the world, have hung upon the beatings of my heart-how oft, in spirit have I turned to thee," I know exactly what he means.
Similar to Wordsworth, my summer escape has also changed. It no longer holds the same meaning for me. All it remains now, is a nostalgic feeling or a place of memories. I think this has to do with the way the resort is physically changing, but I think more than anything, it has to do with me growing up. Last summer, while in Buckhorn, I wrote in my journal:
It doesn't feel like home anymore. This place, a place I once cherished for its natural beauty and tranquility has been dehumanized to an industrial pit. I look out at the lake, the glistening sunlight bouncing off the curves of the waves. It's not the same water I swam in as a child, it's not the site where my dad called me a fish. The trees I used to dance under are being chopped down, the hills I used to roll upon are being sanded. They all look very ordinary, nothing that might arouse or inspire one like they once did for me. The playground where I shared countless memories, infinite rides on the swings, silly moments and dancing to rock and roll music that emerged from the little blue cottage are all gone. A part of my history is gone. What happened to my childhood? I didn't want to let it go, at least not yet. I never imagined I would. Even the grass seems fake. Muddy corners illuminate the patches, and new generations of children are making it their own. They look at it through the same wondrous eyes that I once did, and all I want to do is leave.