I haven’t been very attentive, in part because my son has arrived back home from Portland, Or., where he has lived for the past three years or so. I’m thrilled; he’s betwixt and between. He’s walking around with a bit of a broken heart, but also a very good sense of humor. Although he uses bad language (beware, ye of tender sensibilities), his blog is very good, I think. (I am a proud mom!)

He may move to New York when he’s earned a little money, which he is busy doing now. He’s painting the homes of two friends. If only he could spend a little free time on my own!

This brings to mind a poem written in the 9th century by a father to a son who has decided to return to his home, Ireland.  It’s wonderful, particularly when you think — it’s 9th century, and goodness, those medieval souls weren’t very Goth at all.

Author: Colman (?)—early Irish

Written possibly in the 9^th century

Translated from medieval Latin by Helen Waddell

……………………………………………………………..

To Colman Returning

……………………………………………………………………………

So, since your heart is set on those sweet fields

And you must leave me here,

Swift be your going, heed not any prayers,

Although the voice be dear.

….

Vanquished art thou by love of thine own land,

And who shall hinder love?

Why should I blame thee for thy weariness,

And try thy heart to move?

……

Since if but Christ would give me back the past,

And that first strength of days,

And this white head of mine were dark again,

I too might go your ways.

….

Do but indulge an idle fond old man

Whose years deny his heart.

The years take all away, the blood runs slow

No leaping pluses start.

……

All those far seas and shore that must be crossed,

They terrify me: yet

Go thou, my son, swift be thy cleaving prow,

And do not quite forget.

…..

Hear me, my son; little have I to say

Let the world’s pomp go by.

Swift is it as a wind, an idle dream,

Smoke in an empty sky.

…..

Go to the land whose love gives thee no rest,

And may almighty God,

Hope of our life, Lord of the sounding sea,

Of wind and waters Lord,

…..

Give thee safe passage on the wrinkled sea,

Himself thy pilot stand,

Bring thee through mist and foam to thy desire,

Again to Irish land.

…..

Live, and be famed and happy: all the praise

Of honored life to thee.

Yea, all this world can give thee of delight,

And then eternity.