Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh and Poetry (July/Aug 2010)

'Gift' is a book I've read a few times and is fun to pick up after spending a summer on the beach. Lindbergh wrote this in 1955 after spending a solitary 2 weeks in a cottage by the beach. As a mother of 5 and wife of the famous aviator, she treasured her time alone with nothing but a few clothes, some books and her pen and paper. She writes about the overwhelming life of being a mom, and the 'trappings of modernity', which in the mid 50s included housework, being a good wife and mother.

One of the reasons why I enjoy re-reading this book, I think, is how much I envy and enjoy her ability to take those 2 weeks off, purely for herself, with no obligations or responsibilities. She writes: "The beach is not the place to work; to read, write or think. I should have remembered that from other years. Too warm, too damp, too soft for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit. One never learns. Hopefully, one carries down the faded straw bag, lumpy with books, clean paper, long over-due unanswered letters, freshly sharpened pencils, lists and good intentions. The books remain unread, the pencils break their points and the pads rest smooth and unblemished as the cloudless sky. No reading, no writing, no thoughts even - at least not at first."

She writes a lot about relationships and marriage, partnerships and of course, making time for oneself. A lot of this is dated but still worth a read. At only 130 pages it's a quick one.

And I LOVE getting my Poetry journal every few months. It's filled with wonderful writings from current poets. In the July/August issue one poem "The House of Time by Stephen Edgar really stuck with me. In the poem he sees the life he has lived as rooms in a house:

A moving book, in three dimensions he could wander through
At will, at any point, now, since, before,
To feel, to listen and to look -
A house, or suite
Of rooms around a circling corridor,
And waiting there, he knew,
Were all the peopled days he'd not repeat.

(his rememberance of a 'lost' lover was particularly moving)

He recognized at once the face
Of one who five years hence he would have bound
As closely to him as a Siamese twin.
How recklessly he would replace
That loving care.
Absorbed, now, in the dream of skin on skin,
He whispered the profound
And destined promises s she'd never share.

Love these poetry 'moments' I have every month with this publication.