Ordinary is largely a matter of perception. The other night, for example, was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday night for me. I sat for a while in the nave of a glorious cathedral, listening to the dulcet strain of harp music and the shuffling of stocking feet slide across a canvas labyrinth. Then I stood for a few minutes and noticed the way the light filtering through the stained glass turned the surrounding limestone from a fiery orange to a rosy red as a cloud passed over the sun. I moved on to a quiet side chapel where I sat in a rickety wicker and wood chair as a gifted healer, a true channel for Light and Love, placed her hands on my head and surrounded me with the pulsating energy of prayer. Finally, I descended into the crypt where I spent the next hour with a group of about thirty or so people reading, discussing and, perhaps most extraordinarily, writing poems about the ordinary.
Part of my work for the past few years has included leading programs that use seasonal poetry as a vehicle for reflection. Last night's program, exploring the poetry of summer, focused on the idea of the ordinary for, according to the church calendar, we're in the season of Ordinary Time. Without the anticipation of Advent, pageantry of Christmas, stripping away of Lent, and drama of Easter, the days of Ordinary Time seem, well ordinary. They plod on, one flowing into another. The liturgical color of ordinary time is green, which for those of us in the northern hemisphere is a pretty ordinary color at this time of year. Summer is in full swing and to quote Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "Earth's crammed with heaven and every common bush afire with God." German poet, mystic, healer and artist Hildegard of Bingen wrote about this fire in creation as viriditas-- the green-ness, vitality, fecundity that is an attribute of the divine, present in all creation. Barrett Browning goes on to write in her lengthy poem Aurora Leigh that only those who see recognize this viriditas in creation pause to take off their shoes, acknowledging the holy moment. For those who are unaware it's business as usual.
This idea of seeing-- being aware, awake, in the moment-- is a great lesson we can learn from Ordinary Time. For when we are awake and fully present in the moment we more easily recognize the extraordinary in the ordinary.
The poems I chose for Tuesday's program focused on this idea of seeing-- as the task of the poet (Denise Levertov's Looking, Walking, Being and Mary Oliver's The Summer Day), as a challenge when our mind wanders (The Moment by Billy Collins) and how seeing can reveal the rich beauty in an ordinary object we often take for granted (Pablo Neruda's Ode to Tomatoes). We began with a quick-writing activity by writing a modern cinquain on the subject of "ordinary" and then sharing what images or ideas came out of that. After reading and talking a bit about the poems I selected, we shared in smaller groups a time we recalled when we were in the moment and paying attention, like Mary Oliver's example in her poem. From there, I gave people a measly ten minutes (that's all the time we had left) to write a poem of their own, suggesting they pick an ordinary object and try writing an ode a la Neruda or taking an ordinary situation and see where writing about it took them, like Billy Collins did describing a June day.
The results of writing about the ordinary were extraordinary. We had a lot of odes-- to basil, clothes, cats, and a trustworthy car. Commuting was a popular theme. There was a witty rhyme about trying to get to work on time using public transportation and a musing about the ordinary scenes one encounters on the journey from one's door to one's regular seat on the bus. I'm always amazed at these programs, not only at the creativity and thoughtfulness that comes out in people's writing, but at their eagerness and generosity in being willing to share what they have written with the larger group.
After the program as I was back in the nave gathering up the dirty labyrinth socks to take home and wash (the not so glamorous part of my job as the coordinator of Cathedral Crossroads), a woman who hadn't shared with the larger group approached me and asked if she could read me her cinquain. She was proud of what she wrote and wanted someone to hear it. After she read her poem, she remarked that she was surprised that she wrote such a poem and thanked me for creating the safe space for her to open to the process.
I've come to realize that as much as my path is about my own writing, it's also just as importantly about the ways in which I am called to help create that safe space and offer encouragement for others to discover how writing can open their own doors. And that, is an extraordinary opportunity for which I am truly grateful.
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