These Sunlit Days…

Usually at this time of year I would be jealous of everyone in warmer climates. I would be daydreaming of days spent sunbathing. But the weather is being particularly kind in Michigan this year. It already feels like summer outside.

Despite all the horror stories I hear about skin cancer and the dangers of tanning; nothing can keep me from spending time in the sun. I love basking in the warm rays as I read and write. Letting the sun kiss my skin as I listen to music with my eyes closed. Most of all, napping in the cozy warmth like a cat. Getting a tan is just an added perk (and sometimes an awkward one since I’m known to forget to move with the sun and therefore end up with a half burnt body. Or I forget to put sunscreen on, even though I’m going out during the suns hottest hours, since I’m say going outside to paint and not to tan, forgetting I’ll get a tan whether or not I’m planning to).

Between the weather and my visit to Cornerstone, I’ve been thinking about my final semester of undergrad. Once the weather turned, it seemed like I spent every spare moment laying out in the grass at my apartment complex or on campus reading Atlas Shrugged listening to Star’s album “Heart.”

Though there is a lot to critique about that novel and Rand’s philosophies it will always have a special draw for me. In part because I’ve never met a female character in literature that I could relate to more than the protagonist Dagny. I’m also inspired by the grandeur of her vision. The other night my college roommate and close friend Nichelle sent me the link to a poem that no doubt inspired Rand.  I thought I’d share it with you before I head outside to work on my paper for that philosophy conference.


Arthur O’Shaughnessy. 1844–1881

WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

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