Wednesday, February 29, 2012

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?

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

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?


 
                                                                                                                                                                     

Monday, February 27, 2012

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.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

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. 

Saturday, February 25, 2012

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.

Friday, February 24, 2012

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?

Thursday, February 23, 2012

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?

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Start Close In - Ash Wednesday

START CLOSE IN
by David White from River Flow:  New and Selected Poems, 1984-2007 (Many Rivers Press)

Start close in,
don't take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step you don't want to take.

Start with
the ground
you know,
the pale ground
beneath your feet,
your own
way of starting
the conversation.

Start with your own
question,
give up on other
people's questions,
don't let them
smother something
simple.

To find
another's voice
follow
your own voice,
wait until
that voice
becomes a
private ear
listening
to another.

Start right now
take a small step
you can call your own
don't follow
someone else's
heroics, be humble
and focused,
start close in,
don't mistake
that other
for your own.

Start close in,
don't take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step you don't want to take.

Usually I begin the Lenten poetry collections with an often amusing yet thought provoking poem about mortality.  For many churches, the words imparted with the imposition of ashes are a memento mori-- remember from dust you came and to dust you shall return.  In recent years, some communities have begun marking Lent as the beginning of a journey of conversion and thus the ashes become the mark of a pilgrim taking the first step on a long road. 

I realize I often begin Lent more like I've been dropped from a plane into the middle of the desert where I spend forty odd days wandering around until I'm thrown the life-line of Easter that allows me to repel out.  There's no easing into the journey.  Ash Wednesday arrives and I'm pushed out of the aircraft whether or not my parachute is ready.  Rather than feeling like I've suddenly landed in the wilderness, this year I intend to take my time, walk in slowly.  As David Whyte says, start in close, take the first step. 

The questions he raises in this poem (as in all of his poems) are good ones to consider for the beginning of this season:

     What is the ground you know?
     What is your question?
     Where is your own voice leading you?

And finally . . .

     What is the first step for you, the step you don't want to take?


Tuesday, February 21, 2012

I'm back . . .

After a brief hiatus from this blog (but not from writing), I'm back at it.  Beginning tomorrow, and continuing every day in Lent, I'll be posting a poem and a brief reflection.  

For those who mark this season, one on the church calendar that encourages a time of going into the desert in order to go deeper, hopefully the words you find here will be bread for the journey.  For those who simply stumble across the entries, hopefully they will provide a speed bump on the information superhighway that will invite you slow down, if even for a moment or two. 

For many years I compiled these poems and reflections on paper.  While others were eating pancakes and enjoying Mardi Gras celebrations on Fat Tuesday, the night before Ash Wednesday you could usually find me sitting in the middle of my living room floor surrounded by pages of poems as I decided how to best compile them into a booklet that I would frantically photocopy early the next morning so it would be ready for those who visited the Center for Prayer and Pilgrimage on Ash Wednesday and throughout Lent. 

Last year, however, I chose not to observe Lent.  No poems, no giving up chocolate, or cookies, or taking an extra dose of a spiritual practice.  My Lenten practice was not to observe Lent.  So as a bit of a pre-Lenten post, below is an essay I wrote about my experience last year.  It was an assignment for an essay class I took at the Writer's Center where we were given a list of words and had to write a personal essay based on one of the words.  The word I chose was dust.  It's much longer than any of the upcoming Lenten posts will be but hey-- Fat Tuesday is all about excess and indulgence before a season of sparseness so I'm going for it.

______________________________________________________________________________
Housecleaning by Terri Lynn Simpson
            Evidently it’s a myth that the major component of household dust is human skin.  It would have been more theologically significant for me to be cleaning on Ash Wednesday if that old wives’ tale was actually true.  I could have been reflecting on my own mortality while wiping away the dust from which I came and to which I will one day return.  Although now that I think about it, maybe the lingering scent of furniture polish wouldn’t have had the memento mori effect that going about one’s day with a forehead marked with ashes is meant to have. 
            The impression many people have is that Lent is a season of self-sacrifice or self-flagellation, but I’ve never been one of those.  For me, Lent has always been an invitation, an opportunity to enter a desert of my own creation, forty days to reflect on where I am, where I’ve been, and where I want to go in the future.  The beginning of this journey used to be my favorite day on the church calendar, but these days I’m not much concerned with the church calendar, or actually anything having to do with the church for that matter.  I’ve spent a lot of time wandering in the desert this past year, a result of circumstance rather than choice, and I’m not eager to go back any time soon.  So I certainly didn’t plan on observing Ash Wednesday this year by dusting.  As a matter of fact, I didn’t really plan on thinking about Lent at all. 
            I did plan on cleaning my room, however.  I tossed a can of Pledge and a few paper towels on the bed thinking that after I worked out and took a shower, then I’d dust.  That was last Friday or maybe the Friday before, I can’t recall.  I do know that in the realm of my ability to procrastinate, it wasn’t that long ago.  Usually my intentions linger in piles on my bedroom floor for longer than twelve days before I get around to doing anything about them.  Lately my favorite form of procrastination is purging, ridding myself of possessions I don’t need.  That way, the self-judgment I impose on myself for being lazy and unmotivated is mitigated by the self-congratulations on the virtuous endeavor of simplifying my life.  Plus, I feel like I’m being productive even when in the midst of avoiding the task at hand.    
            My latest urge to clean out something began when I was working on my dissertation.  Instead of sitting at the computer writing about the theology of the imprecatory psalms, I’d stand in front of my closet and curse the impulse that led me to spend too much money on trendy t-shirts and uncomfortable shoes.  Experts say that when cleaning out your closet, if you haven’t worn something for a year you should get rid of it.  That may be good advice for some, but not for me.  There are things I’ve worn recently that I know I shouldn’t wear again, such as the bubblegum pink t-shirt with the black skull that bears an uncanny resemblance to my brother.
            After culling my wardrobe, the compulsion to purge was still there.  I needed another project to tackle.  One morning when I actually was working on my dissertation, I had just typed up the bibliographical information for a text that I’d first encountered in grad school and re-read as part of my project research, when it hit me—not only did I never want to read that boring book with a misleadingly lovely title ever again, I didn’t have to.  In fact, I didn’t even have to keep it around.  Just as I’d bagged the shrunken cashmere sweaters and skull t-shirt, I needed to get rid of books that didn’t quite fit me any more either.
            For well over a year, I’d been meaning to organize my basement bookshelves.  When I first learned my job had been eliminated, my biggest concern as I faced unemployment wasn’t what I’d do for health insurance or a paycheck, but how I could make space in my house for the all the books that had lined the walls of my office,  In the end, I just crammed them into every available space so that trying to take a book from a shelf was like a giant game of Jenga. 
            It’s always been far easier for me to get rid of clothes than books.  Perhaps it’s because I look at the volumes that line my bookshelves—from the biography of the Brontë sisters to the Marcella Hazan cookbooks—and see reflections of who I am, or perhaps more accurately, who I want to be.  Getting rid of a book feels a little like abandoning hope.  I hesitated before taking the “teach yourself Gaelic” (and Italian and French and Czech) books off the shelf, but in the end priorities won out.  While there are many things I need to work at becoming, a self-taught conversational polyglot isn’t that high up on the list. 
            One theory about procrastination is that it isn’t a symptom of laziness but rather fear.  For months I had been putting off going through my bookshelves because I was afraid that in deciding what books to let go of, I’d also have to let go of possibilities for the future that had been my safety net for the better part of my adult life.  As The Moral Vision of the New Testament joined the language textbooks in the ranks of the rejects, it hit me that the boxes I was filling didn’t hold abandoned dreams, but rather the detritus of the past that had been obscuring a vision for the future.  After I finished clearing the shelves I stepped back to look at the new arrangement.  In my excavation process, I not only rid myself of several boxes of books, I also unearthed some long forgotten volumes that had been hidden behind the double stacked rows on the shelves.  I noticed that on my newly reorganized shelves there was a lot less theology and more space for poetry.             
            Last year I decided to get rid of one thing I didn’t need each day during Lent.   The idea was that in letting go of material things I would somehow create more space for God.  A year’s worth of unread New Yorker magazines went, along with the fraying t-shirts I saved to wear to the gym and the tights with a hole that could be hidden by my shoe if I put them on just the right way.  I don’t know how much space I created for the holy, but I did end up with more room in my dresser drawers.  On my nightstand where the magazines used to be I recently placed the copy of Pablo Neruda’s 100 Love Sonnets that I’d forgotten I had.