I’ve come a long way

“I’ve come a long way

I’ve travelled many miles

But it was all in the Spirit

Not walking on the road

I’ve come a long way I’ve travelled many miles

But it was all worth it.

I won’t do it again.

I’ve come a long way

To myself.

I’ve come a long way.”

These are some of the lyrics from a song I wrote and sang many many years ago, when I was more involved in the arty farty world of singing, songwriting, performance and so-on. It was part of a group of songs I labelled Healing Songs which I sang at most events.

The iniquitous or nefarious deeds of mankind at some time affect us all, and it is usually sufficient to remember that Nature and the Cosmos is so arranged that such people will get their comeuppance. And they do! However in the process of being true to ourselves, we can sure take a beating. And that requires healing.

Nature heals; Truth heals; Love heals.

Art too can heal, or at least soothe the psyche paving the way for deeper cleansing, (i.e. repair of wounded tissues and scratches) via music, dance, paintings, film etc.

Also Time. Time does not heal, it merely affords the opportunity for the process, if we can be patient. If we can grasp the moment at which such healing is being afforded.

We must be vigilant because though “Art Is Long”, “Time Is Fleeting”.

A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow has been a favourite of mine since my young days. It has also been at times a sort of guide or uplifter’ . I have quoted it and parts of it often, even here in this blog, because to me it contains some Truths we as mortals “travelling o’er life’s solemn main” should always remember and reflect upon.

Here below is the poem as copied from the Poetry Foundation website. With it I wish you a good day.

A Psalm of Life

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.)

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

   Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

   And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

   And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

   Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

   Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

   Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

   And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

   Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

   In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

   Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

   Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,— act in the living Present!

   Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

   We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

   Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

   With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

   Learn to labor and to wait.

Travel well.




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