By Rabindranath Tagore
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chances. We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find that yet there is time.
Yet another day with nothing earthshattering to report. I had a lovely lunch at an absolutely wonderful Indian buffet with
Then I came home and had a long phone conversation with my college roommate who has just moved to Albany, which is too far (she'd been in New York City), but she is in a house right on a lake and it sounds wonderful and I am very happy for her. And then I ran into
Meanwhile my older son decided he did not want to stay for chess club at school today but rather to come home and get ready for the Turkey Trot, a mile-long Thanksgiving race which he is taking very seriously and competitively. So I picked him up, the kids did some serious exercising, then
Wrote my first
Georgie, the kitten rescued by
Did not read friends list at all and am too tired now, so will chat in the morning! Sorry and goodnight! ETA: Happy birthday