The World is Too Much. . . .

Consider William Wordsworth: English poet and early leader of the so-called Romantic Movement of literature (and other arts) in Wordsworth's England, and in Europe and America generally, at the beginning of the Nineteenth century. Scholars suggest the movement was a reaction to the growing impact of the onrushing industrial revolution and the mechanized and scientific civilization associated with it. Some characteristics of Romanticism are

determined individualism,
nature-worship, free thought,
revolt against political authority
and social convention,
enjoyment of emotion
and physical sensation
(for their own sakes),
and sexual promiscuity.

(I always save the best for last!)

You wanna know more: think America during the 1960's and 70's. Remember the Hippies? The return to nature? The youth revolt against the Vietnam War -- the marchers and the slogans on their placards suggesting Americans should MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR! Think hippies shoving daisies down the barrels of National Guard rifles.

You want still more, take as many undergraduate English and American literature survey courses as you can stand. When you've suffered enough, perhaps you'll feel romantic. And that will be the beginning of new ways to understand the Romantic Movement -- and life in general.

Which brings us back (part-way) to wild-Willy Wordsworth. Because I stole the title of this piece from him. The five word title comes from the first line of one of his most famous sonnets: The world is too much with us late and soon. The first four lines of the sonnet go:

The world is too much with us late and soon,
Getting and spending we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
(And on he goes!)

Well: maybe Wordsworth's right. Are you working too hard? Are you plodding along buried in debt? Shoulder to the wheel? Nose to the grindstone? Do you keep up with local and world news? Do you ignore your loved-ones? (Do you HAVE any loved-ones?)

If you answered even one of these questions YES. . .then you may well have "given [y]our heart. . . away. . . ." Not to a good woman, as you should have. But to energetic business pursuits. Shame on you! Clearly, the material world is too much with you. . .and it's likely you're behind in your bills. You may also be (at least somewhat) behind in your love-making.

If you answered YES to three of these questions, then get thee to the woods. (Or at least get a kitty to pet!)

That's what I've done. I'm a widower, living in a beautiful woods. And I've got nearly all the fur rubbed off my Gatsby-kitty. (Of course I'm long-since retired, living frugally off my annuities.)

If you had a bad day, consider mine:

I woke up and bounded lightly out of bed around 9:30am.
I stretched and practiced gentle yoga poses until 10:00am.
I then worked-out with light weights and
a variety of machines for another half hour.
I showered and ate a light breakfast.
I rinsed and shoved the dishes into the dishwasher
and paged thoughtfully through
Norman Rockwell: Artist and Illustrator,
all the while laughing, remembering the richly
romantic years of my youth and middle-age.
Then I took a brisk two-hour walk.

Following the walk I took another shower, jumped into a pair of shorts and sandals, retrieved the day's mail, then carefully read and responded to it in my downstairs office. Then I read and responded to my email messages. (Apologies to Wordsworth: I'd rather answer my email soon than late!)

Next, I grabbed a cup of coffee from my automatic coffee-maker and carried it out to my glassed-in, four-season porch. About forty feet from the windows is a small clearing in the woods. In the center of that clearing is a bird-feeder. On the ledges and roof of this feeder this morning I counted

about two-dozen whirling finches,
four fat mourning doves,
a virtual swirl of barn swallows,
and two gorgeous cardinal couples.

All these birds milled about, taking turns feeding.

Beneath the feeder, in the large scatter-circle I counted six rabbits, four squirrels, and a mother Canadian goose and her four, nearly full-grown offspring. All birds are beautiful. But Canadians are large, long-necked, silvery-gray, light-footed birds. Their bodies are oval-shaped, their tails, necks, and heads are black, and a white blaze marks their blackened tail-feathers and lower jaws. Beneath my feeder this morning, they moved quietly, with dignity and unhurried grace as they tip-toed carefully about the scatter-circle, pecking away at grain-ground-fall.

I didn't count the squirrels that scampered up and down nearby tree trunks, now-and-then darting into the scatter-circle, finding and gobbling fallen seeds. Nor the baby rabbits. But there were many.

And, of course you won't believe this: but no more than seventy-five feet away -- behind the broken-down wire fence that separates my neighbor's portion of the woods from mine -- five deer quietly grazed: a young buck, two does, and two fawns only-lately turned bright-orange-brown. Nearly every day they show up around noon, patiently waiting their turn to pick among the seeds carelessly scattered by the busy birds. Customarily, they feed a few minutes beneath the bird-feeder, then mount the rise that carries a narrow path along the east side of my home, usually chomping a hasta or two as they pass through on their way to a thick-wooded patch beyond my neighbor's home.

Of course, the woods is continuous -- if you ignore the winding road, the seven homes, the small patches of grass, and the concrete driveways. We think we've built here to watch the wild-life. But the wild-things know they're here to watch us. Believe it!

I adored my wife. I miss her terribly. I miss the work I loved. But on lazy days like today, I think maybe Billy Wordsworth knew something important that many of us may have forgotten. Taken at its busiest, at its most industrious, the world REALLY IS too much. Or it gets to be if we aren't careful.

I worked hard today. I stretched, yoga'd, and practiced deep breathing. I exercised vigorously with light weights and machines. I walked over two hours on quiet back roads. Today I paged slowly through scores of Norman Rockwell prints. I remembered the simpler years, the simpler people and events Rockwell recorded. I smiled and laughed out loud. I sat for over an hour quietly watching a wide variety of gentle animals mingle and feed in a wooded space not ten feet in diameter. I've pulled some weeds and completed some household cleaning chores. I've read parts of six books I'm currently working through. I've thought, paid attention carefully to everything I did. That's hard work.

I've always been a Romantic. When I was fifteen, I wrote the number 16 on a small piece of cardboard and stuck it in the heel of my boot. I went to a railroad foreman across town, and swore on a Bible I was "over 16." He hired me. And for 60 of my 75 years I've worked hard for a living, learning things, and mostly teaching, creating what I've hoped has been a worthwhile and thoughtful and useful life.

It's over midnight right now. I still haven't watched the news. Or worried. And right now, Gatsby-kitty sits quietly on my lap as I type. Now and then he darts out a paw and adds a letter or two. But that's easy to fix. And he's good company.

I challenge you: think about your life. Consider the degree to which the world may be

TOO MUCH with you late and soon.

Try to love yourself enough
to find rich ways to slow down.