Monday, August 30, 2010

In Which the Blogger Reacquaints Herself With the Invisible (Still Mostly Imaginary) Audience and Celebrates an Anniversary

Idling Reader,

I have been a terrible blogger lately. I'm sure the blogosphere ached without me but never fear. I've returned to heal its wounds with my presence and essence.

It's strange to think I've had this bad little habit for a year now. Craziness. Thanks to my readers for reading and for chiming in once and awhile. So what if I only need my fingers to count you all. It has been (and hopefully will continue to be) a lovely trip.

Even though I'm no longer in school (and therefore have no vacation to mourn), I always get a little sad this time of year. Not only does it make me sad to see my birthday month end (23 this year!), it's always a little melancholy to watch another summer fade away. Don't misunderstand me. I love fall. I can't wait for it to get cooler, and I'm already excited for Halloween, but I'm still a bit sad to see summer go. There's an innocence to summer that dies with the changing of the leaves. Nothing explains it better than the poem I've copied below. It's the poem that closes Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass and it might be my favorite poem. It's so poignant, so nostalgic and bittersweet, it always comes to mind when summer turns to autumn. Every year, I grow to love and appreciate it more.

By the way, the first letter of every line spells out the full name of the girl who gave her name to the Alice books: Alice Pleasance Liddell.

Life is but a Dream by Lewis Carroll

A boat beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July--

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear--

Long has paled that sunny sky;
Echoes fade and memories die;
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die;

Ever drifting down the stream--
Lingering in the golden gleam--
Life, what is it but a dream?