The Lake Isle of Innisfree


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, and a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.


I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.


William Butler Yeats


[Sigh]. . .I’m never quite sure where I belong. . . between the rush of the city and the quiet of the country. . . songs of the sea roll in my thoughts and in my blood when I’m surrounded by concrete and a million other energies. . . and the pulse of the city moves my body and takes my attention when I’m surrounded by sweet smelling pines and digging in the dirt.  Well not exactly when I’m doing those things- because when I’m fully immersed in the city, I’m fully there and when I’m fully immersed in the forest or ocean, I’m fully there. But  it’s the inbetween state. . . when I’m indoors and in between projects, I find myself pulled to the other one.


Tomorrow I have a meeting regarding the most beautiful piece of land and house I’ve ever seen.  The possibilities are endless- studio and barn and stone kitchens resting as if buoyed by enchanted air on organic  soil. . . almost 100 acres.  My very own “almost 100 acre woods” so to speak.


It’s just a meeting. . . and I can’t help but know myself so well that I can almost foresee building up walls so I don’t fall in love. . . because I’m always afraid of those other paths, the other choices and the other places that I would also love. . . how will I ever choose?  Somehow when everyone around me says it. . . and when I try and tell myself. . . that I don’t have to choose just one. . . something doesn’t quite believe it.

If I’m quiet and listen with the most open and un-expectant wholenss of my being. . . “I [will] hear it in the deep heart’s core”

“L’erba voglio non cresce neanche nel giardino del re”