Thursday, December 14, 2017

Going home

There's a time when the angry daylight buzz,
The sharp tick of fingers on keyboards,
Hundreds of echoing pavement steps,
Stalling, starting motors, honks,
Shouts, alerts, staccato heartbeats,
Falsetto laughter
Fade, fade, disappear in shadows and lights.

Not a silent night, no, a night alive
And filled with gentle sounds
Of washing up, or television laughter,
A pair of bundled walkers on the sidewalk,
Convoys of trucks far away,
Laden with products and presents.
Here the air fills noses with welcome, like
Roasted garlic and warm bread and chocolate chip cookies,
Drifting quietly beside the smell of clean laundry,
The cold honest scent of the earth,
A delicate wisp of perfume.

Listen longer, hear other sounds:
Harsh sounds, hurt sounds, crying, silence.
Look longer where the light is cold
In lonely rooms below, above, where the man,
The woman, the child takes up fist or bottle,
Shoots a slicing onslaught with abandon,
Or perhaps sits all alone,
Fighting alone.
See her at the darkened window,
Motionless panic, silent and frantic and drowning.
See him huddled against the brick,
Eyes down, only ragged arms,
Just these two arms against destruction
And so much hate.

A child will see and a child will hear.
I can help. Can't you help?
Through long years still a hummingbird heart
Feels the golden flame in every face,
The mark of God, dignity,
Aches for anyone outside the glow
Of a warm home with comfortable occupants
In comfortable silence and comfortable arguments
That end sometimes with every gut sore from laughter,
A sleepy peace in every woolly head
Brushing teeth, happy to dream.

Reflected fire in the dim sky fades.
Now let all drink oblivion.
Carry love and triumph, hope and fear
Alike, alike
Into mist-wreathed holloways, beaches, and prairies,
Search time-forgotten paths behind the windows
Of the soul to find the lost word,
The lost song,
Lost sight
Until the search is spent
And fire is born again
Another day.

Sunday, November 26, 2017

First Winter's Night

At dusk in November, the first winter’s night   
Crept into the pale blue air.        
When the north wind spilled its rich, deep dyes,
The light in the skies drew my eyes to the glass
And I witnessed the last sun of autumn pass.

The moment had gone. With a breath I returned
To the labor that fills each day,
To work that required four thousand breaths more
Before I opened my door and had done.                             
Too tired to wash, too tired to clean, but I let
Habit pull me through the routines.
Something outside seemed to push on the walls,
Pressed the air heavy and dim on my brow,
And too soon I slept by the lamp at the window,
The only sound three ticking clocks.

All unaware, stillness changed to a feast
When they came light on feet shod in blue, gold, and white,
With a piper’s reel and the scent of the night.
They lit every candle and toasted the flames
With a rich draught of dark honeyed mead.
Scattering crumbs of spice-cake and pie,
With a whirl and a twirl they leaped laughing by,
And the caper carried them under the sky
Once again, to dance on the paths of the moon.

But I heard the pipe and I caught the perfume,
Recalled dancing myself in the light of the moon
Long ago, and the moment of memory pierced
Like an arrow, and fiercely I felt the hot gladness
And sorrow roll down.

I leapt up and opened the door to the night
And burning there in the ink-dark sky
Met the bright eyes of all of the ancient world’s stories
Sharp-cut and clear beyond two evergreens,
My sentinels bristling stoic and tall.
In new awe of them all
I drank deep of the air, tonight a cold stream,
Clean and alive with the heartsongs of trees.
Then blowing a kiss to the moon, I
Reached up to the stars to offer a bow
In respect, and I joined the invisible crowd
In their dance on this first winter’s night. 

Saturday, November 18, 2017

"All you need is love and a puppy..."

Pupper photo here because I miss Lily, too.

These past 11 days have been a jolt, an education, and a catalyst for me. How many things we do for ourselves every day when we have the free use of our bodies! It is likewise astonishing how all these little things add up their time throughout the day. I would not have believed it was possible for me to work essentially two full-time jobs at once. In all honesty, it is not sustainable. Nevertheless, being able to do it for the short term leads me to reassess the way I've been organizing my time at home. 

Thanksgiving will soon be here. On many past celebrations of the day, I have probably mentioned being thankful for my family. I am now learning a new depth of gratitude for the strong and loving people in my family, whom I took for granted for so many years, like air or daylight. While in various ways the world seems to grow dark and cold, the trust and faithfulness of familial love still feed the flames of hope.  With the mission at hand, I am thankful each day for the work my aunt and sister did to rebuild this battered nest and give its bird a chance to heal his wings. Thankful that he is indeed healing and growing stronger, that he is still with us. Thank God for giving us enough grace to bear the trials. 

I miss something very much. I am rediscovering the feel of writing and the pull of its potential. The cello is becoming a friend, a door to a landscape of happy toil: part exploring and mapping, and part building. Soft encouragement still radiates out of a loaf of homemade bread. There are goals I want to pursue again. And behind it all, with the companionship of a dusky shadow, is the Something I find myself missing. I am not, and I am, content.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Zzz?

Floating
I think
So tired
I am

Perhaps
we are all
on loan from
hospital

Dazed and
beeping and
machines
sighing for us

It really might
all end
in
diapers

Till then
is the time
we have to
live

Saturday, November 11, 2017

The Professor

I am old, my body heavy
The weight of decades
Pulls me earthward;
Solid bones like mountain ridges,
Stiff muscles like an ancient ox.

Once was a time
I gave no thought
To waking or sleeping.
The point was the work,
My life was the work.

Incidental, everything else
Clothes– incidental
Food– incidental
Car– holds together
Haircut? My hat's all I need.

The shining quest, the fire,
Which I with dogged steady steps pursued,
Was knowledge: A treasure
To be both won and shared,
Spread to the furthest corners.

Who is man and whence comes he?
Ancient peoples, alive as we think ourselves to be,
Worshiped, warred, wed, and worked.
The pieces of their lives remain and
They themselves remain, so we should see.

The years that fell with dust
Upon their kitchen tools
Never choked the fires
Burning from their hearts. And so
I chose my place beside their hearths.

Years have not been so kind to me.
They press upon my lungs
To keep the stale air in
So that my very blood
Circulates confusion in my brain

Betrayed by blood, now water
Mutinies to jump the sinking ship;
Brigand keen to forge a blazing trail,
It burns my body as it goes,
Making purple limbs stiff as wooden boards.

Now blood, then dust.
My groaning body mountain
Will fall and turn to dust,
And will the fire below
Burn strong throughout the night?

November - William Cullen Bryant

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet-lea,
And man delight to linger in the ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

William Cullen Bryant

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Spent

We have probably all wrung out a washcloth or a dish towel. We've squeezed and twisted, watched the water drip out, and hung the cloth to dry with a feeling of satisfaction. Right now, these days, I am the cloth. I feel completely wrung out. 

The truth is, I have mostly done this to myself. Squeezed and twisted as much as I possibly could until there was not even a drop left of energy or time. And beyond that I've kept pushing, thinking optimistically that this state can't go on indefinitely; it will get easier; life will look brighter in the morning maybe, or on the weekend.

It feels like being swept underwater and crushed beneath the relentless tide of routine demands, with added weight crashing over you from extraordinary circumstances and current events, as you struggle to right yourself, to find direction and air.

Still, here at my desk, breath follows breath. I am here. There is work to do. 

Writing holds a natural magic. In putting pen to paper, and even in typing letters on a screen, writing easily generates life and light. In particular, I have found that making a diary entry– this kind of confessional writing– tends to herald a change. A new chapter, maybe ten or twenty pages from here. The point is, once you form your woes into words, they lose some of their power. 

Thursday, October 26, 2017

Finding a voice again

Welcome back! It has been four years since the last time I attempted to update this blog. To be honest, I am not sure that I will write often: it seems in my small corner of the world that people do not keep blogs anymore unless they are published bakers or full-time political commentators, and I am neither. 

Things have happened over the intervening silent years, however, which have served to confuse and scatter my thoughts. Not knowing what to think anymore is a state closely related to not knowing who one is anymore. At least, I have found this to be so. It has always been in writing that I have found the most clarity, and today I will begin an attempt to find my voice again on this blog. 

A Leaf of Thought
Thus Adam gave names to all the cattle, and all that flies in the air, and all the wild beasts; and still Adam had no mate of his own kind. Gen. 2:20


It struck me today that much of the division we see in the world is sustained by language. In a sense, what is language but classification– that is, division and demarcation? On this topic, the broad field of hermeneutics (the interpretation of meaning) yields the fruit of many theories and questions, but without becoming too technical, I would merely observe that as human beings, we seem to love dividing the world, beginning with language. 


The words we use regarding gender, for example, are becoming slowly but increasingly fraught. Notwithstanding the two-spirited as understood by indigenous American people, the humble terms "man" and "woman" have generally served people well in the past. Today it is a point of real consternation among some that we use only these words, as if they impoverish us as people, or as if there is something wrong with them intrinsically. 
I think there is something to be said for allowing that most people do not neatly conform to a narrow prescription of masculinity or femininity, and acknowledging the many unique understandings we humans have about our own identities. Surely, though, this is a matter of common sense, and "man" and "woman" are coming under fire unjustly, for failing at a job they were never intended to perform?

In other words, it is perhaps naïve to suppose that our language will achieve better representation (or ultimately, justice or happiness) for humankind by crafting and enforcing the use of new words to describe unique understandings of gender identity. In doing so, are we not using our first tool, language, to divide, when there is a much simpler remedy for our trouble? Might we not build some unity and peace among ourselves, instead, by agreeing first that human beings generally come as male or female, with some exceptions, and second that individuals are free to interpret for themselves how to be male or female? I wonder why we create more and more boxes for ourselves.

The United States is sometimes disparaged as a land ruled by individualism, to the detriment of the community or the group. Without a doubt, the sacred character of the individual is still honored here, at least in theory. Yet I think that ironically, we can be misguided and misled to use words that not only harm our community as fellow members of a nation, but also dishonor our individuality through their reductive generalization. The problem is that none of our words can be specific enough to truly capture a phenomenon as explosively, defiantly unique as a human being. 

As an afterthought, I will add the observation that language achieves beauty when it is both very specific (dividing) and very broad (inviting), as in poetry. But that is all, because I intended to paint only a leaf of thought here, and not a branch or the whole tree.