David Whyte Wednesday - The Journey

THE JOURNEY
by David Whyte from The House of Belonging (Many Rivers Press)

Above the mountains

 the geese turn into

   the light again

painting their

  black silhouettes

    on an open sky.

Sometimes everything

  has to be

    enscribed across

      the heavens

so you can find

  the one line

    already written

      inside you.

Sometimes it takes

  a great sky

    to find that

first, bright

  and indescribable

    wedge of freedom

      in your own heart.

Sometimes with

  the bones of the black

    sticks left when the fire

      has gone out

someone has written

  something new

    in the ashes

      of your life.

You are not leaving

you are arriving.

My apologies to any early bird readers for the late posting this morning.  Although I was awakened at 6ish by the honking of geese flying over the house (and thus another geese poem for this morning), it's one of those rainy mornings in the DC area where only the need for a cup of tea drives me from the comfort of my bed.  In fact, I think an upcoming poem will celebrate staying in bed, so a bit of a teaser there . . .

But for today, an oft quoted David Whyte poem.  Yesterday thoughts of geese lingered throughout the day and I found myself wondering about the role of geese in some of these poems-- are they prophets or sacraments?  Anglican divine Richard Hooker defines sacrament as an "outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace."  While this is a theological definition my brain comprehends and I can get behind, when I read David Whyte's words, I understand it in my bones and know it to be true. 


What outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace are true for you? 

What is the line written inside you?

What We Need is Here

WHAT WE NEED IS HERE
by Wendell Berry from Selected Poems (Counterpoint)

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes.  Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith:  what we need
is here.  And we pray, not
for a new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear.  What we need is here.  

Next year I need to see if I can do a week or two on geese poems.  There's something about the image of these birds in particular that makes poets take note.  Maybe it's the way a flock of geese often resembles a big check mark scrawled across the sky, as if their presence affirms something about our life on earth that's been written in the heavens-- something we have to pause and ponder to be able to read. 

What message is being made clear to you today?

What do you need, that is here?


 
                                                                                                                                                                     

Mary Oliver Monday - Yellow

YELLOW

by Mary Oliver from Evidence (Beacon Press)

There is the heaven we enter

through institutional grace

and there are the yellow finches bathing and singing

in the lowly puddle.

Welcome to Mary Oliver Monday.  When I was looking at all the poems I collected for Lent, I noticed an abundance of Mary Oliver, David Whyte and, of course, Billy Collins.  As this is the first full week in the season, I decided to inaugurate Mary Oliver Monday-- to be followed by David Whyte Wednesday later in the week.  I'm still trying to decide what day of the week to designate Billy Collins Day since there's not easy alliterative connection. 

The image of the finches singing really struck me this morning.  While meteorological spring begins on Thursday and seasonal spring a few weeks later, my personal start of spring is marked the morning I'm awakened before daylight by the song of an eager early bird in the backyard.  Now I'm awaiting the mother mallard who, for the past few years, has appeared to check out our yard, looking for a safe space to lay her eggs. She always rejects us, moving on after a day or two of scouting, but her presence still speaks of the promise of new life . . . a glimpse of heaven on earth. 

Where are you finding a bit of heaven around you this season?

By the way-- while these are questions for personal reflection, if you ever want to share an observation, question, answer, etc., please feel free to leave a comment.  I'm sure I'm not alone in being encouraged and inspired by the insights of others.

Love After Love

LOVE AFTER LOVE

by Derek Wolcott from Collected Poems:  1948 - 1984 (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC)

The time will come
When, with elation,
You will greet yourself arriving

At your own door, in your mirror,
And each smile at the other’s welcome,
And say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you
All your life, whom you ignored
For another who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

The idea of sabbath, a day of rest, is an important and common idea in many faiths.  Joan Chittister talks about the idea of holy leisure-- not the lounging on the sofa eating bon bons in front of the television type of leisure (although that could qualify depending upon the circumstances).  Rather, holy leisure is when we take time out from the busy-ness and routine of our lives to ponder our place in creation, to glimpse the big picture, to consider if we are on the path to becoming who and what we're meant to be. 

One step on this journey is not only recognizing, but also accepting that we are not God and therefore are not perfect.  Often our imperfections give voice to the inner critic in us.  For many of us, we are far more generous with others than we our with ourselves.  So  on this Sunday, even if you don't spontaneously find yourself at the place Derek Wolcott describes, consider what you need or want to give yourself today.  Take some time to sit, to feast on your life.  Take some time for holy leisure. 

Welcome Morning

WELCOME MORNING

by Anne Sexton from The Awful Rowing Toward God (Chattus & Windus)

There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry 'hello there, Anne'

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.

All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

to a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.

So, while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter in the morning,

lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,

dies young.

No commentary or reflection this welcome Saturday morning, just an invitation . . . to share a joy you experience today.

A New Look and Landscape

[I decided I wanted a new landscape for the blog so thus the changes to the design and color scheme.  Now on to your regularly scheduled poem . . .]

LANDSCAPE

by Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems, Volume One (Beacon Press)

Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that

they have no tongues, could lecture

all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience?  Isn’t it clear

the black oaks along the path are standing

as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around

the pond, thinking:  if the doors of my heart

ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I’m alive.  And now

the crows break off from the rest of the darkness

and burst up into the sky—as though

all night they had thought of what they would like

their lives to be, and imagined

their strong, thick wings.

Mary Oliver is another poet who notices things.  Her poems are practices in mindfulness-- lessons in how the landscape around her sheds light on the landscape of her soul.  Her starting point is a state of attentiveness. Billy Collins reminds us that one day we will die, so now is the time to pay attention, Mary Oliver reminds us that when we stop paying attention, we cease being alive.  Open eyes and open hearts are our natural state of being.  Like the crows, however, some nights I find myself thinking that I'd like to be more mindful, more attentive, more awake . . . and hopefully in the morning I am. 

What lessons are you learning from the landscape around you?

What is keeping the doors of your heart open in this moment?

Reaper (and Why I Love Billy Collins)

REAPER
by Billy Collins from The Trouble with Poetry (Random House)

As I drove north along a country road
on a bright spring morning
I caught the look of a man on the roadside
who was carrying an enormous scythe on his shoulder.

He was not wearing a long black cloak
with a hood to conceal his skull-
rather a torn white tee-shirt
and a pair of loose khaki trousers.

But still, as I flew past him,
he turned and met my glance
as if I had an appointment in Samarra,
not just the usual lunch at the Raccoon Lodge.

There was no sign I could give him
in that instant-no casual wave,
or thumbs-up, no two-fingered V
that would ease the jolt of fear

whose voltage ran from the ankles
to my scalp-just the glimpse,
the split-second lock of the pupils
like catching the eye of a stranger on a passing train.

And there was nothing to do
but keep driving, turn off the radio,
and notice how white the houses were,
how red the barns, and green the sloping fields.

Since some people may still be rubbing away a lingering smudge of ashes from their foreheads this morning, I decided to indulge in a memento mori poem.  So of course, I turned to the master of this theme-- Billy Collins.   I love Billy Collins.  I love Billy Collins for many reasons.  I love the way he is amused by words and phrases, and turns that delight into verse that, in turn, delights me.  I love the way he finds poetry in the ordinary bits and pieces of life-- an old school photo, the cracks in a ceiling, a vase of white tulips, patterns in the grain of wood or woof of carpet.  And I also love the way he writes about death.  A lot.  If you're looking for a poem about remembering mortality, Billy Collins is your go to guy.  I finally chose The Reaper because I think it encapsulates what I love about his poetry:  he notices things.  And in turn, he reminds me that my time to be awake, truly awake, in this world is finite, and I'd better start noticing things now.   

So onto the questions. . . .
     Who (or what) helps you notice things?
     What are you noticing today?