Lovely Evening, Annunciation (Denise Levertov) and the Voyage (Tony Hoagland)

Here I am in my cozy kitchen with 9 Lessons and Carols from King's College playing next to me and everyone either asleep or out and about, and it is still.  Ah, what a lovely, lucky, profound morning here.  Last night we took our kids and their significant others to dinner, a show (A Christmas Carol) and then back to our house to hang out by the tree and the fire.  Watching our two young adults with their arms around the wonderful people they love was surprising and remarkable and delightful.  I didn't know what this would feel like, but I felt a bit like the Grinch with my heart expanding a few sizes as I watched them all.  Then we played dice, and their real personalities surfaced!  A fun, happy, loving evening for all of us....how lucky we are!  I wish it were so for everyone across the globe.  Let us all work and pray for such an outcome!  How about a poem or two.  The first is a remarkable poem by Denise Levertov who converted to Catholicism late in her life.  She was inspired by an ancient line about Mary, "Hail space for the uncontained God." Ok, it is a great line!   The second is one that came winging its way across the internet into my email, and Tony Hoagland is a master, i think.
Cheers to all

Annunciation

by Denise Levertov

‘Hail, space for the uncontained God’
From the Agathistos Hymn, Greece, VIc

We know the scene: the room, variously furnished,
almost always a lectern, a book; always
the tall lily.                   Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings,
the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering,
whom she acknowledges, a guest.
But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions
courage.                  The engendering Spirit
did not enter her without consent.                                            God waited.
She was free
to accept or to refuse, choice
integral to humanness.

          ____________________________

Aren’t there annunciations
of one sort or another
in most lives?                   Some unwillingly
undertake great destinies,
enact them in sullen pride,
uncomprehending.             More often
those moments     when roads of light and storm     open from darkness in a man or woman,
are turned away from
in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair
and with relief.
Ordinary lives continue.                                 God does not smite them.
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.
         ______________________________
She had been a child who played, ate, slept
like any other child – but unlike others,
wept only for pity, laughed
in joy not triumph.
Compassion and intelligence
fused in her, indivisible.
Called to a destiny more momentous
than any in all of Time,
she did not quail,                          only asked
a simple, 'How can this be?'
and gravely, courteously,
took to heart the angel’s reply,
perceiving instantly
the astounding ministry she was offered:
to bear in her womb
Infinite weight and lightness; to carry
in hidden, finite inwardness,
nine months of Eternity; to contain
in slender vase of being,
the sum of power –
in narrow flesh,
the sum of light.                   Then bring to birth,
push out into air, a Man-child
needing, like any other,
milk and love –

but who was God.

Voyage (Tony Hoagland)


I feel as if we opened a book about great ocean voyages
and found ourselves on a great ocean voyage:
sailing through December, around the horn of Christmas
and into the January Sea, and sailing on and on

in a novel without a moral but one in which
all the characters who died in the middle chapters
make the sunsets near the book's end more beautiful.

—And someone is spreading a map upon a table,
and someone is hanging a lantern from the stern,
and someone else says, "I'm only sorry
that I forgot my blue parka; It's turning cold."

Sunset like a burning wagon train
Sunrise like a dish of cantaloupe
Clouds like two armies clashing in the sky;
Icebergs and tropical storms,
That's the kind of thing that happens on our ocean voyage—

And in one of the chapters I was blinded by love
And in another, anger made us sick like swallowed glass
& I lay in my bunk and slept for so long,

I forgot about the ocean,
Which all the time was going by, right there, outside my cabin window.

And the sides of the ship were green as money,
             and the water made a sound like memory when we sailed.

Then it was summer. Under the constellation of the swan,
under the constellation of the horse.

At night we consoled ourselves
By discussing the meaning of homesickness.
But there was no home to go home to.
There was no getting around the ocean.
We had to go on finding out the story
                                                        by pushing into it—

The sea was no longer a metaphor.
The book was no longer a book.
That was the plot.
That was our marvelous punishment.

Elizabeth Edwards and Optimism (Jane Hirshfield) and Signs (Hazel Collister Hutchison)

Boy, I am wrestling with my feelings after just hearing that Elizabeth Edwards died today.  I considered her a kindred spirit, a cancer buddy, a hopeful and resilient woman.... hopefully just as I am.  I was standing in the kitchen making brisket (ok, I've never made brisket before, but Katie made me do it), and out of the blue came the announcement on the radio.  I panicked.  I ran to the radio and turned it up; I lost it just a little.  I cried.  Katie looked at me and asked what was wrong, and I had to tell her that a brave woman, someone who made everyone feel as if they knew her, had disease just like mine and had died.  I hadn't even known she was sick.  I felt so vulnerable and sad and scared; the immediacy of my reaction surprised me a little.  I hadn't really realized how much I identified with her.  I rolled over in bed and cracked a rib a year before she did, and I am not the one who's dead.  Hmmmmm.  In fact she and I actually chatted just a little about our situations at a conference several years ago; she did indeed have a wonderful way of making everyone feel as if they knew her well.   Funny, I have been feeling pretty together, full of hair and hope, and most of the time able to exercise and feel normal.  I don't feel so normal right now.  But I don't feel alone, either.  There are so many of us out there dealing with something hard--illness, divorce, unrest, poverty, war, loss of  employment, aging parents, many things combined, whatever.   You know, I think it is most of us. Maybe it is the season, but there is both sadness and hope in the air.  Elizabeth Edwards, you were a role model and an inspiration to me, and I mourn your death and hope you meet your young son again who died years ago.  For all of us still here struggling with our own burdens, may we find a way to take time out to relax,  to focus on what we can be grateful for, and to feel the hope and wonder of this divine season.   How about a few poems.  The first is something I believe I have shared before, but it is wonderful, and it is in tribute to Mrs. Edward's resilience and spirit. The second is by a wonderful poet from Cleveland who's book has Marc Chagall illustrations-- called "Toward Daybreak".

Optimism (Jane Hirshfield)

More and more I have come to admire resilience.
Not the simple resistance of a pillow, whose foam
returns over and over to the same shape, but the sinuous
tenacity of a tree: finding the  light newly blocked on one side,
it turns in another. A blind intelligence, true.
But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers,
mitochondria, figs--all this resinous, unretractable earth.

Signs (Hazel Collister Hutchison)

If it is a new star

Not still and very far,

It is the one,

If a glory makes the ground

Articulate,

Yearning up to light and sound,

Do not wait.

It may be a dark king

Bids you go

Or angels shining in a ring,

You will know.

And be sure to keep away

From walls of a house.

Look for mystery in hay,

Wonder in cows.

Cheers to all

Happy Thanksgiving and Perhaps the World Ends Here (Joy Harjo) and Family Reunion (Maxine Kumin)

Good morning and happy Thanksgiving to all.  I am sitting in the study on a cold, rainy morning, and everything is quiet except the wind.  All the beds in the house are filled for the first time in months; even the dog went back to sleep after I slipped out of bed.  And here I am, feeling the pull of the page.  Last night, both kids went off to a hip hop concert downtown, and as usual, I worried when I hadn't heard them come in by midnight.  Something woke me, and I got up to use the bathroom at about 1am, and there they were.  Both of my beautiful teens sitting on Will's bed laughing at something on the computer while curled up on top of each other.  Did I say that the dog was curled up there too?  Nice scene, that's for sure.  And I know how much the boy watches out for his lovely, skimpily-clad sister at concerts like this.  I realize how much I miss him when he's at college at times like this, but here's the other thing.  Watching him mature in between our glimpses of him is a glorious thing.  He told me that he has to read a great deal more in college than in high school, and that he is beginning to enjoy it.  "Mom, I'm really learning things!"  Ok, that was a little late in coming, but I'll take it.  Anyway, just looking at them and seeing how much they love each other is so wonderful.  After all the crap they've been through with their teetering parents, they have come through the fire with grace and wisdom.  Haleluia.  Today is a great day for rejoicing and feeling grateful.  Happy Thanksgiving!  Here are a few pieces to savor:

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

 

Family Reunion

by Maxine W. Kumin 

The week in August you come home,

adult, professional, aloof,

we roast and carve the fatted calf

—in our case home-grown pig, the chine

garlicked and crisped, the applesauce

hand-pressed. Hand-pressed the greengage wine.

Nothing is cost-effective here.

The peas, the beets, the lettuces

hand sown, are raised to stand apart.

The electric fence ticks like the slow heart

of something we fed and bedded for a year,

then killed with kindness’s one bullet

and paid Jake Mott to do the butchering.

In winter we lure the birds with suet,

thaw lungs and kidneys for the cat.

Darlings, it’s all a circle from the ring

of wire that keeps the raccoons from the corn

to the gouged pine table that we lounge around,

distressed before any of you was born.

Benign and dozy from our gluttonies,

the candles down to stubs, defenses down,

love leaking out unguarded the way

juice dribbles from the fence when grounded

by grass stalks or a forgotten hoe,

how eloquent, how beautiful you seem!

Wearing our gestures, how wise you grow,

ballooning to overfill our space,

the almost-parents of your parents now.

So briefly having you back to measure us

is harder than having let you go.

Cheers!

Thanksgiving and Camas Lillies

All, I've been blogging (though intermittently) long enough to feel increasing tension if I don't sit down and write.  Sitting here now,  I feel embraced by a loving page; how nice.  I have had quite a week last week.  In fact, I think it might just be one of the best weeks I've ever had.  I have had the good fortune to be part of a leadership group at my new fab church, and we meet every Sunday night for several hours.  After spending a weekend with this group, I feel a strong bond growing with this wonderful group as we tread over territories of faith and doubt and the like.  Also, I had two birthday parties last week.  Even though my birthday is at the end of September, I found myself upside down in an aerial yoga class with the gals and then at dinner with others; turning 50 has been remarkably full of fun so far.  Ok, have you ever been upside down in a large red sling trying to speak to your inner ears so you keep down the nausea and look....mmm...not idiotic?  We raised a glass afterwards and a friend had brought a larger-than-life cut-out of my father, the headmaster, and we put him in a sling too...with a glass of wine!  A few days later, we had a small dinner, and I felt loved and cared for and free enough to dance with abandon at the end of the evening.....hmm.  For all these things and many more, I feel incredible gratitude.  There was my husband of many years struggling through a remarkable poem his sister wrote.....for me!  There was my college room-mate and soul sister reciting Katherine Hepburn in Much Ado about Nothing, for me (hey nonny, nonny), etc, etc, etc.  wow.  Gratitude and thanksgiving.  Unfortunately,  there is also much suffering among dear friends these days, too--suffering  and remarkable strength.  I'm learning that these are often  intertwined--hope and loss, suffering and strength, light and dark. Perhaps we need some dark to truly see the light.   hmmm.  Well, on to some poetry I really like

Thanksgiving (Lynn Ungar)

I have been trying to read

the script cut in these hills—

a language carved in the shimmer of stubble

and the solid lines of soil, spoken

in the thud of apples falling

and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.

The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak

as they gather in the fallen grain,

the blackbirds sing it over their shoulders in parting,

and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript

where it is written in the trees.

Transcribed onto my human tongue

I believe it might sound like a lullaby,

or the simplest grace at table.

across the gathering stillness

simply this: “For all that we have received,

dear God, make us truly grateful.”. 

Camas Lilies (Lynn Ungar)

Consider the lilies of the field,
the blue banks of camas opening
into acres of sky along the road.
Would the longing to lie down
and be washed by that beauty
abate if you knew their usefulness,
how the natives ground bulbs
for flour, how the settler’s hogs
uprooted them, grunting in gleeful
oblivion as the flowers fell?
And you—what of your rushed and
useful life? Imagine setting it all down—
papers, plans, appointments, everything,
leaving only a note: “Gone to the fields
to be lovely. Be back when I’m through
with blooming.”
Even now, unneeded and uneaten,
the camas lilies gaze out above the grass
from their tender blue eyes.
Even in sleep your life will shine.
Make no mistake.
Of course, your work will always matter.
Yet Solomon in all his glory
was not arrayed like one of these.

Sometimes (Sheenagh Pugh) and The Thing is (Ellen Bass)

My son is back from college for a few days, and I am so happy to see his smiling face...or his sleeping face, anyway.  His boyish enthusiasm and  joie de vivre are just so lovely to be around, even the dog has been beside herself with joy since he walked through the door.  You should see a standoffish Weimaraner show joy.  It is very, very  funny.  So, things are good around here.  The standoffish 16 year old has found her way down the steps of her 3rd floor lair and into Will's sphere again, and they are so loving and funny together.  I think all of us have missed these scenes that used to happen every day.  But, but, but, he feels very connected to home--much more connected since living away for awhile.  I also see the 16yo coming out of her shell a bit and finding her own voice...and it can be very loud!  What else has been going on?  Well, I have spent an intense weekend with 10 people I didn't know very well delving into some big questions that could only be answered by our Apples to Apples Junior games.  We laughed, we cried, we got to know each other better.  I love the idea of working with a group of people to understand what it is that i believe, where I think I am going, and perhaps discerning a bit better what else  i might put my energies toward.  And finally, over the last two weeks, two very close friends have been diagnosed with cancer.  Sometimes I feel as if I should be doing this work of helping people through the cancer process, but  I'm also tired of the process.  I wish this were NOT happening, and I'm angry that this diagnosis feels so common and puts such good people through such anxiety and fear.  The irony of my position as a ray of hope is not lost on me, but it still feels so good to help someone else wade through these very murky waters.  So, how about some poetry that might lift us up a little.  The first comes from one of Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac collections, and the second was sent by a friend.  See what you think:

Sometimes (Sheenagh Pugh)

Sometimes things don't go, after all,

from bad to worse.  Some years, muscadel

faces down frost, green thrives, the crops don't fail,

sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,

elect an honest man, decide they care

enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.

Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go

amiss, sometimes we do as we meant to.

The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow

that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.

The Thing Is (Ellen Bass)

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

In the Middle (Barbara Crooker) and Sky in September (WS Merwin)

I am sitting here in a huge, sterile hotel outside of Chicago on the eve of my 50th birthday feeling just a little sorry for myself as I begin a four day board recertification course. Ok, it was my poor planning, amidst other things, that is mostly to blame for this slightly depressing scenario, but at least I won't have a lot of distractions....AND, my wonderful friend here in Chicago is strapping on her purple party shoes and taking me out on Friday to celebrate! So, I have a remarkable opportunity here to contemplate how I feel about turning 50 without many interruptions, as the sun goes down on this beautiful fall day. Guess what? I feel pretty good. I find that a bit remarkable, but true. Our son is thriving and blissfully happy at college (hopefully he is going to class..), so we are hard-pressed to be too sad. He even communicates occasionally and he will be home now and again. The girl left behind has taken to her third floor hideout, and we are being diligent parents and trying to put the spotlight on her a little more than she would like. What we find, as we begin to see her without her brother around, is an incredibly funny, intelligent, thoughtful young woman with a biting wit who makes us want to either fling her out the nearest window or howl with laughter. She is exhausting, but well worth the effort. Chip and I have found joy in our new patio and in each other as we all come out from under the big personality of our son and the constant presence of his many large friends. Chip is well and improving slowly but constantly from his back surgery, and I am feeling pretty good, managing the new oral drug regimen with just blisters on my feet on week 2 and a bit of foot pain--but somehow I feel more able to handle it, even if I can't walk too well for a short time. My waist line is certainly suffering a bit, but I don't seem to be. Maybe 50 is ok. Maybe I can believe the wonderful pastor of my fab new church when she emailed me and said that 50 is the biblical year of Jubilee when all debts are cancelled, the past is forgiven, and liberation lies ahead. Now how about that! Liberation! Maybe I should stop telling my husband that I want my own house... Bottom line here is that this stage seems to be ok. Maybe a few more aches and pains, but maybe a little more ability to take time to appreciate what's right in front of me--a devoted, adorable husband, a remarkable, infuriating, fascinating, hilarious 16 year old, a wonderful old nutcase of a dog who has been with me through all the thick and thin (at this point, it is a little hard to know if it was our thick or her thin), and a wonderful group of friends and family that keep us laughing. I have babbled on a bit too long tonight, as I have few responsibilities in this hotel, but how about a few poems. A dear friend sent me the first poem about time and aging, and the second wonderful poem about September light is from our new poet laureate. Check them out.
Cheers

In The Middle (Barbara Crooker)

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
Struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
Has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
To get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
The chimes don't ring. One day you look at the window,
Green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,
And a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
Our parents gone,it happened so fast. We must learn
Again now to love, between morning's quick coffee
And evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
Mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
Twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
His tame is a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, uging
Us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
Sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
Of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up,
In love, running out of time.

Sky in September (WS Merwin)

In spite of the months of knowing
And the years
Autumn comes with astonishment
Light held up in a glass
The terrible news in a haze
Caught breath in the warm leaves

In spite of the gathered dust and the vast moon
The day comes with a color
Its words cannot touch
So it is when I see you
After the years when the ailanthus leaves
Drifted unnoticed
Down the gray wall

They have disappeared and nothing is missing
After their rocking and clinging
They have vanished with the thieves and shuffles
And the words of the dealers
Taking nothing
They have fallen like scales from the eyes
And at last we are hearer together
Light of autumn
Clear morning in the only time

Fall (Edward Hirsch) and At Blackwater Pond (Mary Oliver)

Yes, we are back from taking our son to college for the first time, back from a week basking in the glory of being waterside in Maine, back from paper plates full of the tenderest lobsters, back from rocky coasts disappearing into Vermont hills, back to a house turned upside down with one child gone and another moving upstairs leaving a swath of destruction in her wake! We really thought we would feel so unbearably sad when we dropped him off, but the reality was quite different.  When we finally, finally arrived (after 900 miles or so), the boy was so excited, so happy, so READY, that we could do nothing but laugh, share his excitement, hug him and skedaddle.  Now we are home and it still feels ok....so far.  I am sure that his absence will make itself a nice little hole in our hearts, but for now, he is so delighted with his new found home, that it just feels right.  Maybe I have figured one thing out--here it is:  our bond with this boy has not been severed by his absence.  In fact, perhaps we're even more aware of it now that it feels so precious.  Anyway, we are doing fine so far. Oh, and I wanted to recap a part of our trip home because it was just the perfect ending of a glorious week.  we spent our last night on the road at the house of a dear friend in Rochester, NY.  Now I was born in Rochester because my father was the headmaster of a little co-ed private school there called Harley School.  This was his first headmastership, and I was just a little thing when we lived there and I have little memory of the place (dad was there from 1959-1963).  Anyway, our host told us that Harley School was about a minute down the road, so in the morning, Chip and I walked into the school (which was not yet in session), and asked whether they had pictures of old headmasters on the wall somewhere.  The woman said that they certainly did, and then she asked me why I wanted to know.  We told her about dad and how much my parents had loved Harley, that I had never been here, and how much we just wanted to see his picture and look around a little.  Well, people came out of the woodwork to welcome us, give us a tour, meet the headmaster, and shower us with t-shirts and sweatshirts and bags with Harley emblazoned all over them!  This was one of the sweetest 45 minutes I have ever spent.  There is just something about a school....and perhaps something about an old headmaster too.....  lovely all around. Well, I'm feeling a little sad that summer is drawing to a close, I am always struck by how much I love the subtle change in the light and the air and the smell as autumn comes.  There is something exciting about this time--I will miss football games, but I will revel in Will's new love for all things Maine, and I'll know that he is experiencing a crisp, gorgeous, full-throttle Maine fall.....lucky boy!  Now we can focus on the other kid, even though she is hoping that we won't!  Too bad honey, here we come, and the third floor won't stop us!   Here are a couple of poems that capture something of my favorite season.  enjoy! FALL (Edward Hirsch)
Fall, falling, fallen. That's the way the season Changes its tense in the long-haired maples That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition With the final remaining cardinals) and then Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground. At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees In a season of odd, dusky congruences‐a scarlet tanager And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance, A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything Changes and moves in the split second between summer's Sprawling past and winter's hard revision, one moment Pulling out of the station according to schedule, Another moment arriving on the next platform. It Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away From their branches and gather slowly at our feet, Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving Around us even as its colorful weather moves us, Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets. And every year there is a brief, startling moment When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air: It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies; It is the changing light of fall falling on us.

AT BLACKWATER POND (Mary Oliver)
At. Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?

Let Evening Come (Jane Kenyon) and When I Am Asked (Lisel Mueller)

Once again, I have taken too long to return to my blog, but here goes.  I learned very recently about the death of a dear college friend's husband. My friend had been keeping a blog about her family's journey through cancer's diagnosis, treatments, and weights since April, and I went back and read much of her writings.   In addition to the great sadness she and her family were feeling, there was something else vividly reflected in these writings.  I believe I would have known who the writer was even if the names had been removed, even if I hadn't talked to this person in many, many years. I remember meeting her in college and wondering if she could truly be as upbeat, energetic, and fun as she sounded.  I learned over the 4 years of her depths as well.  Her writing sings such a beautiful song of praise-- to John,  to her teenage children,  to their lives together, to dear friends, to life. It is truly remarkable.  I am awed and inspired and deeply saddened, but I am also full of hope for them.  I think a  strong marriage and a close family takes work and nurture and love and more work; but on the flip side, they are rare jewels;  things of great beauty and strength.  It is so clear in my friend's writing that she had a remarkable marriage, and that she has a family that loves each other fiercely and will support and comfort each other and hold John's memory close.  I have been searching around for some pieces that might lend some solace.  Here are a few that move me.

Let Evening Come (Jane Kenyon) Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down. Let the cricket take up chafing as a woman takes up her needles and her yarn. Let evening come. Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned in long grass. Let the stars appear and the moon disclose her silver horn. Let the fox go back to its sandy den. Let the wind die down. Let the shed go black inside. Let evening come. To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop in the oats, to air in the lung let evening come. Let it come, as it will, and don't be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come. When I Am Asked (Lisel Mueller) When I am asked how I began writing poems, I talk about the indifference of nature. It was soon after my mother died, a brilliant June day, everything blooming. I sat on a gray stone bench  in a lovingly planted garden, but the day lilies were as deaf as the ears of drunken sleepers and the roses curved inward. Nothing was black or broken and not a leaf fell and the sun blared endless commercials for summer holidays. I sat on a gray stone bench ringed with the ingenue faces of pink and white inpatiens and placed my grief in the mouth of language, the only thing that would grieve with me.

Perhaps the World Ends Here (Joy Harjo) and Cherry Tomatoes (Sandra Beasley)

Oh my, has it really been a month since my last post?  Anyway, so much has been going on, I'm not sure where to start, but start I will.  Well, again the theme of loss seems to loom, but not without a good smattering of good things too.  Chip had back surgery three weeks ago, and is now up and walking, which is a significant improvement on the hunched over, painful gait he had for the 6 months prior.  My foot is recovering from bunion surgery and a first joint fusion, and after 6 weeks, I am beginning to walk.  What, I ask you, was I thnking?  I spent a week at the CSU Imagination Writer's Workshop trying to learn something about poetry.  I think I did, but it wasn't always without pain.   But, the workshop leader was wonderful and helpful and encouraging.  So, here we are. And just last week, my wonderful, hilarious, incredibly sharp-witted college roommate came to town last weekend.  She and her sister brought her aging parents back here where they lived for most of their adult years before departing for Chicago.  Unfortunately, her father is suffering a bit of short-term memory loss, and he hadn't been back here for many, many years.

Do you know what it feels like to be suddenly caught in a moment where you are no longer participating in what is going on around you, but observing every detail and recognizing that this is a perfect moment, that things could not be any better than they are right now?  Well, I had one of those moments last Sunday.  Betsy, her sister, her parents, our old landlords and an old friend were having dinner in our old landlords' wonderful carriage house, and there it was.  A moment of such joy that these incredible people were together laughing and talking and sharing as if they had not been separated by years, and years and years.  We stumbled over our future landlords just before we were married.  We had no idea that my room-mate had been born in their house, that they knew my dear friend Betsy from birth, that we would become life long friends of theirs and drink their wine for the next 23 years of our married life, etc, etc, etc, connection, connection, connection.  Life is a wonderful thing when it gives us these moments even amidst painful backs, changing therapies, sore feet, evil demon teenagers, a dog with a tumor, aging parents, and perpetually green tomatoes. Time for some poems!  The first from a poet I love about connections, and the kitchen table.  The second is one from my workshop leader, Sandra Beasley.  See what you think.

Perhaps the World Ends Here (Joy Harjo) The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table so it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. CHERRY TOMATOES Little bastards of vine. Little demons by the pint. Red eggs that never hatch, just collapse and rot. When My mom told me to gather their grubby bodies into my skirt, I’d cry. You and your father, she’d chide – the way, each time I kicked and wailed against sailing, my dad shook his head, saidYou and your mother. Now, a city girl, I ease one loose from its siblings, from its clear plastic coffin, place it on my tongue. Just to try. The smooth surface resists, resists, and erupts in my mouth: seeds, juice, acid, blood of a perfect household. The way, when I finally went sailing, my stomach was rocked from inside out. Little boat, big sea. Handful of skinned sunsets. cheers to all! Lissa