Etched onto two large wooden tiles and mounted on an even larger fireplace at a Craftsman Inn somewhere in upstate New York is this writing: “The Lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.”
My husband and I had spent the night at this Inn one crisp fall weekend, and since I like my morning coffee before the sun rises, I got up early, dressed quickly and headed to the Inn’s lobby-lounge — big, old-fashioned, and just plain cozy with its fireplace lighted and its cushy couches and chairs beckoning. Tables and breakfast bar filled an area to the side. Windows surrounded most of the space, the kind of glass walls with small panes you expect when a building is named “Craftsman” anything.
I knew when we checked in the night before this was where I’d spend my first hour or so of the new day.
I set my journal and pen on a side table and filled a mug with coffee. I wrapped my hands around its warmth and sank down onto the couch’s end cushion, pulling my feet up under me, to settle in. I looked up at the carved quotation above the fireplace as I took the first sip.
The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
Amazing the effect its wisdom had on me. Instead of thinking life’s too short to learn to paint (or write, or run a business) well without stress, that there’s very little room in daily-life’s margins, the quote slowed me down a little.
I wondered about the value of taking a lifetime to learn something well, that was important enough to do.
Maybe it was the quiet, or the skies beginning to lighten. Or just my best time of day. But I picked up my journal and jotted some notes, which later became this essay:
The Lyf so Short; the Craft so Long to Lerne…
My piano teacher used to say each key had its own color.
Music, color, words. All are art forms and express truth, she said. Or have the potential to.
Our job is to develop our craft out of what we know, and to keep crafting until our art communicates that truth. Through music, through paintings, through words written or spoken.
Well, that’s a lofty goal. One stuffed full of promise for our lives. But then God does claim to have packed each of us with his purpose.¹ He is not necessarily concerned with immediacy, though, ² and eventually he ties it all up and makes it work.³ … (read the rest of the article here)
A quick pencil doodle… not crafted well, but then my doodles are just scribblings made while the brain thinks of something else. 
A line from an old Frank Sinatra recording has always stuck with me: Let’s take a life-time to say… I knew you well.
I do wonder… what is your craft, and is it worth taking a life-time to learn? Can we say to our own talents, let’s take a life-time to know…………
Grab your coffee and let’s ponder that a moment…
Barb
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
Beautiful doodle Barb and beautiful post as well. I’ll leave it at that since my craft(s) still need a lot of work.
We borrow a line from Willie Wonka “So much time and so little to do” by which we mean the opposite truism. I think that when my life has ended, my inbox will still be full of things to learn.
Lovely post and essay, as always.
Carol
That thought slips warm through my heart, like your morning coffee. What a beautiful way of starting today’s work for me… for I am just beginning. I am even putting reading the essay off for later, so as to savour this little thought.
Such warm comments greet me this morning. Thank you.
Anita, I know you a bit, from your blogs, your art work, your love of your girls (which is given back to you), your indefatigable work helping blogging-students with the technical stuff, your steady support of friends who blog, your exceptional ability to write — let’s see, what else? Well, that’s a good list to start with.
Sometimes though, periodic resting is a craft worth pursuing. Many productive folk haven’t learned how to do that well.
As long as we have life, my friend, there is more to learn… that’s a good thing.
Carol, I love the Willie Wonka quote. Perfect! It’s true to that story’s way of teaching — through the back door, upside down. But the points are well-taken as we straighten them out. Thanks.
And my inbox looks like yours.
Swati, you write poetry! Thank you!