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Quintessence ~ the essence of a thing in its purest and most concentrated form. Substance composing the celestial bodies.
The shoes that climbed Gonergrat, Switzerland
February 24, 2015
THE NEXT TIME
BY Mark Strand
Nobody sees it happening, but the architecture of our time
Is becoming the architecture of the next time. And the dazzle
Of light upon the waters is as nothing beside the changes
Wrought therein, just as our waywardness means
Nothing against the steady pull of things over the edge.
Nobody can stop the flow, but nobody can start it either.
Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,
And what is invisible stays that way. Desire has fled,
Leaving only a trace of perfume in its wake,
And so many people we loved have gone,
And no voice comes from outer space, from the folds
Of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this
Is the way it was meant to happen, that if we only knew
How long the ruins would last we would never complain.
Thre is something deeply wise and thought provoking about this poem. The poet, Mark Stand, has taken the familiar idea of time and its passage and said something interesting about passage
itself. We know time is transition, a flow of moments here and gone, rinse and repeat. Yes, we think of time as dynamic. But do we think of it as an architecture
, a ghost? I am intrigued by the way Strand envisions time as the inexorable tumble of what was into what is. That "then and now" coexist ever so briefly before what was is no more. This is a poem of moments. A poem that says be now, let go.
The last line of this poem is particularly poignant -
...if we only knew
how long the ruins would last we would never complain.
Measured hours lean into the next and the next. The architecture of time is beautiful - a vaulted hall. A long, columned esplanade forever heading into the distance. Strand writes of the pull - we cannot stop nor begin time's flow. The culmination of expired tomorrows. In time we abandon our monuments, let go our losses, release our loves. The ring of our footsteps swallowed in silence.
A trace of perfume. How long the ruins last.
February 18, 2015
THE RETURN: ORIHUELA, 1965
for Miguel Hernandez
by Philip Levine
You come over a slight rise
in the narrow, winding road
and the white village broods
in the valley below. A breeze
silvers the cold leaves
of the olives, just as you saw
it in dreams. How many days
have you waited for this day?
Soon you must face a son grown
to manhood, a wife to old age,
the tiny sealed house of memory.
A lone crow drops into the sun,
the fields whisper their courage.
By chance does a poet become a bookmark in one's life. This small poem has a special place in my heart. Not only because "The Return: Orihuela, 1965" (THE SIMPLE TRUTH) describes hill country I know and love, but because the poet has framed a transfiguring moment - a tenuous tipping point in the human soul.
At some point in life we will each of us tilt between yearning and insufficient courage: afraid that what we remember, what we loved and left and dream to see again, must as the fates would have it, be gone. Revisiting what is memory, standing in the firmament of a dream, echoes the poignancy of that famous melancholy line, That is no country for old men,
from Yeats's "Sailing to Byzantium." In "Byzantium," Yeats's observer understands his time has passed.
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
Levine however, stands in the shoes of a man on the brink of a return. A man stepping back toward his past; who comes "over a slight rise" awash in fear, hope embedded in memory.
Philip Levine has died. Prolific, thoughtful, humble, comfortable among the ordinary - the common man celebrated in his poetry - Levine (1928-2015), bookmarked an important cornerstone in my life's eclectic reading. One of those contemporary American poets whose work remained as honest and strong throughout his life as when I first encountered WHAT WORK IS, which was honored with the National Book Award in 1991, followed by THE SIMPLE TRUTH, honored with the Pulitzer in 1994. Levine was a poet without pretense. He offered insights that did not need to be made grander than the breadth of plain truth. He gave me a language of beauty, but not false.
Philip Levine's poems, to paraphrase Yeats, stand among "the singing-masters of my soul." Perhaps we do not know these influential voices until they are silenced. At the end of "Sailing to Byzantium," Yeats reflects on the soul, It knows not what it is... Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
A lone crow drops into the sun.
February 10, 2015
- by K.P. Kavafis (C.P. Cavafy)
As you set out on the way to Ithaca
hope that the road is a long one,
filled with adventures, filled with understanding.
The Laestrygonians and the Cyclopes,
Poseidon in his anger: do not fear them,
you’ll never come across them on your way
as long as your mind stays aloft, and a choice
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Laestrygonians and the Cyclopes,
savage Poseidon; you’ll not encounter them
unless you carry them within your soul,
unless your soul sets them up before you.
Hope that the road is a long one.
Many may the summer mornings be
when—with what pleasure, with what joy—
you first put in to harbors new to your eyes;
may you stop at Phoenician trading posts
and there acquire fine goods:
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and heady perfumes of every kind:
as many heady perfumes as you can.
To many Egyptian cities may you go
so you may learn, and go on learning, from their sages.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind;
to reach her is your destiny.
But do not rush your journey in the least.
Better that it last for many years;
that you drop anchor at the island an old man,
rich with all you’ve gotten on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.
Ithaca gave to you the beautiful journey;
without her you’d not have set upon the road.
But she has nothing left to give you any more.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca did not deceive you.
As wise as you’ll have become, with so much experience,
you’ll have understood, by then, what these Ithacas mean.
In high school my son was asked to contribute a poem that was meaningful to him for a booklet complied by his AP English Literature class. ITHACA was his choice. I recently stumbled across the poem again, thinking how surprised I was that this complex and thoughtful poem was his selection. That at the age of not quite eighteen, he understood something about the nature of journeys and setting goals and the hidden significance of the unexpected. This, on the precipice of personal challenges over the next six years that would change his life, redefine him, and reorient his compass.
Do we not all "hope that the road is long" and full of adventure, full of knowledge? Are we able and willing to set down our fears and refuse to "carry them within" as we set out upon our journeys? I suspect many of us head out in pursuit of our grand desires mostly unaware the journey has no more to give than the beauty of the voyage. Ithaca, as the poet writes, will not make you rich.
I like to think my son had an intuition of the difficult and life-changing pathways ahead for him. That he understood the value of mountains climbed and challenges met, the gift in an unexpected view. Certainly he knew very young that nothing is a given. He picked a star and followed it on through the dark.
Somewhere along the road toward a goal, the journey becomes all. I think of Samuel Taylor Coleridge sailing from England to Malta in 1804 - his ambition to repair his health in a warmer clime, to regain his poetic focus and stoke the powers of creative fire. Coleridge's journey at sea did indeed deepen the keenness of his observations, and served as the catalyst for new poems and imagery. His love of the sea consecrated in his journal, "The Stars that start up, sparkle, dart flames and die away in the Snow of Foam by the vessel's side."
Nonetheless the poet sensed, even as he neared his destination, "Malta, dear Malta as far off as ever."
The island failed to fulfill Coleridge's dreams but the voyage was a poetic highlight of his life. As ITHACA reminds us, our lives are gems of boldness, pearls of adventure, "the summer mornings...when — with what pleasure, with what joy — you first put in to harbors new to your eyes." Ithaca is
the beautiful voyage - for without her we would never have taken the road.
I like to think my son, now in his mid twenties, gazes long and far down the road. Not measuring the miles but the viewpoints along the way. A poem that first spoke to a boy keeps the watch in a young man's heart.
February 4, 2015
It takes a certain maturity of mind to accept that nature works as steadily in rust as in rose petals.
Adam, Auguste Rodin, Cantor Art Museum Sculpture Garden
- Esther Warner Dendel
Three years ago I wrote about the "work value" of artistic versus public service ("A Content Heavy World," 9/14/2012). In this essay I mulled over what I felt was a troubling dissonance between the work value of individual creativity versus practical service to others. An online discussion then evolved which included a Washington physician and a professor in the humanities from the Chicago area. Let me begin by recapping some of our discussion before I pick up this thread in view of the importance of work itself:
"In light of our challenged world, can we value a work life committed to personal pursuits equal to one led in productive service to others? Can we meaningfully balance the social value of the artistic (inclusive of work in the humanities) with production, service, or quantitative science careers?"
Physician: Such an appropriate question for all of us. Especially those who yearn to have a meaningful life. You are asking exactly the question that my daughter, working in the arts and humanities, has had for ten years now. For those of you who are artists as well as pragmatically skilled, the contrast stares you directly in the face. For the rest of us, the choice may not be so stark, but the question still exists. How have you, Glenda, reconciled creative writing vs. your past government work with the U.S. State Department?
Me: I'm not sure I have. Although I like to think that value exists (however intrinsic or physically expressed) in all manner of human endeavor, and anything fundamentally positive, even indirectly channeled or expressed as a catalyst, is of benefit.
Professor in the Humanities: What a wise thinker (the two don't always correlate). This debate very much reflects the paradox of my chosen path. It is so hard to measure the impact of work in the humanities. I'm not sure it puts me at more ease but it is nonetheless interesting to compare my tension (in a productive sense) with another's. I think what matters most is that each individual finds fulfillment in the everyday of work life. I can only hope to work within something bigger than myself... and my tensions will begin to subside.
Me: Our shared perspective! For example, I think sensitivity to the question of "social versus personal" value was partly behind my decision to stand back as my daughter made her career choice, weighing her dual passions for art history and medicine. She concluded she would always express and appreciate the arts, while a day's work in medicine would provide a concrete sense of purpose. It was very personal for her, and very balanced as she combined degrees.
What do you think? Does everyday work
have life and value, independent of what or how work is done? I think it does. I also think because the arts and humanities are by some definition open-ended fields of research and interpretation - perpetually yielding to new territory, rendition, and discovery - the artist/scholar never feels something is concretely, genuinely accomplished but rather always part of a subjective, shifting evaluation. It is the burden of artists and some scholars to settle for a role as "a voice of translation." The light shines brightly on new thinking and understanding, yet is transitory: a perpetual "work in progress."
I like the professor's approach, valuing work in term's of the everyday of work life. Reminding us the universal, haunting sense of a bigger picture
might frame our choice of work - how we productively use our "voice" - and still incorporate all the subtle, nuanced efforts we make in life and love that nonetheless mysteriously impact the micro and macro human story.
To be capable of both the artistic and practical. To quest from science into art and back again, from one subject's track to its cross. I spent dinner in California recently with a friend of my late husband's, a gentleman who reminded me of the richness of work life balance and its inherent personal uniqueness and complexity. This friend is a chemical engineer, as well as entrepreneur, professor, and spiritualist: an intellect that traverses all boundaries. He has found a way to make his "inner creative" practical as well as personal. We all mirror complexity. Observing those in medicine, there is clearly art in the science of the body human, and machine in the art, scalpel as tool of discovery. Consider the journalist, who combines research with the precise and creative. Many fields combine the technically skilled and creatively inventive, work in everyday engineering, technical design, agriculture, teaching.
Perhaps the debate is not so much the value of one particular professional path or "field of dreams" over another, but instead, acknowledging the importance of the everyday work life, committing to "work within something bigger than myself."
January 28, 2015
Character gives us qualities, but it is in actions - what we do - that we are happy or the reverse... All human happiness and misery take the form of action.
- The Poetics, Aristotle
A series of essays I write on creative practice explore technique and muse and approaches that block or contribute to successful writing and personal productivity. Our frustrations as writers (or any artist in creative practice) arise in cycles, often anchored to the same problem, situation, or struggle we have wrestled with in the past. Recent reader email and blog comments have queried me about suggestions on better linking the inspiration for a story to planning the structure that will best translate the idea to the page.
A post first published February 19, 2014 is my jumping off point ("Habits of Creative Practice 3") to explore this idea further. What do I mean by technique and the tools we employ to build narrative?
Technique is...any selection, structure, or distortion, any form or rhythm imposed upon the world of action; by means of which, it should be added, our apprehension of the world of action is enriched or renewed. In this sense, everything is technique which is not the lump of experience itself, and one cannot say that a writer has no technique, for being a writer, he cannot. We can speak of good technique and bad technique, or adequate and inadequate, of technique which serves the novel's purpose, or disserves.
- Technique as Discovery, Mark Schorer
So we have our idea. We know the thing that we want to put down in print. We've thought long and hard on this idea that keeps us up at night. Now what? We need an architecture. Structure influences narrative style. What ways and means of storytelling best serve our idea? Does the topic belong in an essay? Narrative nonfiction? Short story or novel? We map out the twin foundations of our book: character and plot. Importantly, now is the time to set aside worry we lack the skills required for the task. We read, right? Constantly and widely? We've absorbed more than we know.
Not enough can be said for the developmental power for the writer of reading and observation. Reading well, and deeply, is the writer's avenue into understanding and developing technique, learning elements of craft that serve storytelling in unique ways. Reading the works of others is the best way to observe the subtle relationship between story and structure. What does the writer shade in, and what does he or she leave out for the reader to intuit? The best experience as a reader is one in which the writer has deliberately opened a door on speculation and contemplation. Created a dialogue with the reader that leaves a slice of mystery in our hands, an idea or truth to interpret that defines the tale in keeping with our own intellect or experience. Often the hardest aspect of good technique is refraining from overselling an idea because the anxious writer is anxious the reader not miss his or her point. If the technique is solid however, the foundation of the story will be sufficiently grounded. There will be no doubt in the reader's mind where the architecture of the story is leading. That said, it is the unexpected - the views opened to the reader from within the story, born from thoughtful construction of plot and character - that comprise our pleasure in good writing.
Observation and deep reading nourish our sense of character development, build our library of root behaviors and histories gathered from the world, including our own interior landscape. We find characters and establish their authenticity from what is reflected around us. Snippets of observed conversation spark a theme, bits of history polarize character interaction, human privacies and anonymous dramas nuance story tone and detail. A writer needs to both observe the world and study storytelling to build narratives readers will relate to, come to own in uniquely personal ways. We love a book because it resonates for us, not because it is a technical marvel, or an example of perfect history.
We fall in love with a story because it shares our secret perceptions or questions the world in a meaningful way. Writers define these truths by marrying observation and effective techniques of revelation and contradiction.
How then do we accomplish this, build our repertoire of story-building tools? One tip that works well for me begins with notebooks of observation, immersion in life around me. I leave the solitude of my study and drop in on life. Grocery aisles, vacation beaches, airports, bank lines. What are people wearing, reading, eating, arguing about? Connect with the landscape of humanity in all its richness and humor, its pathos and chaos. As I tune in to the dramas around me, the story I want to tell begins to form. The characters step on stage. Second tip: begin to read widely around the topic of your idea. Are there plays on this idea, previous classics, new authors, essays, paintings, music? By immersing myself in the selected theme or subject, I learn what I need to know, and see ways in which different narrative approaches might better filter the story. Perhaps I find I love the first person style for telling this story best. Or maybe it comes together as an ensemble of voices. Reading widely helps me understand the strengths in differing narrative styles and offers exposure to new ways of craft. Writers are continually re-inventing the medium in new and innovative ways. Borrowing from what works is a strong beginning.
At this very moment I am immersed in reading for my new novel and I've been out in the world gathering details and notes. I'm reading to find my way into that bell-tone of a first paragraph, laying down that first line. This dance between idea and framing is expressed by this lovely passage from John Fowles in his work "Notes on an Unfinished Novel"-
The novel I am writing at the moment [provisionally entitled THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT'S WOMAN]...started four or five months ago with a visual image. A woman stands at the end of a deserted quay and stares out to sea. That was all. This image rose in my mind one morning when I was still half-asleep... Indeed, mythopoeic "stills" (they seem always to be static) float into my mind often. I ignore them, since that is the best way of finding whether their early hauntings are the door into a new world.
So I ignored the image; but it recurred. Imperceptibly it stopped coming. I began deliberately to recall it and to try to analyze it and hypothesize it. It was obviously mysterious. It was vaguely romantic. It also seemed, perhaps because of the latter quality, not to belong to us today. The woman obstinately refused to stare out of the window of an airport lounge; it had to be this ancient quay - as I happen to live near one, so near I can see it from the bottom of my garden, it soon became a specific ancient quay. The woman had no face, no particular degree of sexuality. But she was Victorian; and since I always saw her in the same static long shot, with her back turned, she represented a reproach to the Victorian age. An outcast. I didn't know her crime, but I wished to protect her. That is, I began to fall in love with her.
How will you tell your story?
January 21, 2015
TE ROGO, PRAETERIENS FAC MORA ET PERLEGE VERSUS
QUOS EGO DICTAVI ET IUSSI SCRIBERE QUENDAM.
EST MIHI TERRA LEVIS MERITO, SED QUIESCO MARMORE CLAUSUS
REDDEDI DEPOSITUMM COAGLAVI SEMPER AMICOS,
NULLIUS THALAMOS TURBAVI, NEMO QUERETUR.
CONIUNX KARA MIHI MECUM BENE VIXIT SEMPER HONESTE.
PRAESTITI QUOD POTUI, SEMPER SINE LITE RECESSI.
UNUS AMICUS ERAT TANTUM MIHI QUI PRAESTITIT OMNIA SEMPER HONESTE,
T.L. HERMES V(IATOR) Q(UAESTORIUS),
TUNC MEUS ADISDUE SEMPER BENE LUXIT, AMICE, FOCUS.
- Tomb Inscription, CE 477, Ager Tusculanus, Italy
I ask you as you pass by
Take a moment's pause and read
The lines I've dictated and
Ordered to be written.
The earth rests lightly on me
Which is as it should be,
And I lie quietly, encased in marble.
I've repaid my debt.
I always had a cluster of friends,
I disturbed no one's bedchamber, and
No complaint was lodged against me.
My dear wife lived with me
In harmony and always virtuously.
I performed the tasks I could,
Always gave place without recourse to the law.
I had just one friend who did all things honorably.
He surpassed all others in virtue:
Titus Flavius hermes, a court officer of quaestorian rank.
In those days my hearth always burned brightly, friend.
- from the translation offered by Paul Shore in "Rest Lightly: An Anthology of Latin and Greek Tomb Inscriptions," Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers, 1997.
Then and now.
Centuries and tides of history separate the long-departed life of this Roman citizen and those of us living today in the 21st Century. This tomb inscription, from the slim but intriguing book of Latin and Greek tomb inscriptions translated by Paul Shore, "Rest Lightly," is particularly notable for its depiction of Roman domestic tranquility.
We take for granted that much about humanity and culture has changed over the millennia, but note the importance - and significance - of those virtues and values that have not: love, loyalty, righteousness, charity, peaceableness. I am struck by the deceased's abundant gratitude for a life well lived, and his outspoken adherence to a code of ethics and noteworthy friendship. Here is a man who honors the simple gift of a life without regrets. Here is domestic life conducted in harmony, with abundant affection and loyalty.
Could we ask for more?
January 13, 2015
Wednesday, 11th April, 1804
"What a beautiful object a single wave is!" wrote Coleridge in his notebook. "I particularly watched the beautiful Surface of the Sea in this gentle Breeze! every form so transitory, so for the instant, and yet for that instant so substantial in all its sharp lines, steep surfaces, and hair-deep indentures, just as if it were cut glass, glass cut into ten thousand varieties, and then the network of wavelets, the rude circle hole network of the Foam."
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, late 18th to early 19th century British poet, and beloved friend to William Wordsworth, wrote those words on board the Speedwell
slipping down the Channel on a voyage to Malta. Coleridge had undertaken a sea-going journey in desperate spirits, a man who had "abandoned poetry," as he claimed to Wordsworth, and "being convinced," he bitterly added, "that I never had the essentials of poetic Genius, and that I mistook a strong desire for original power." (c.f. Alethea Hayter, "A Voyage in Vain: Coleridge's Journey to Malta in 1804," Faber & Faber, Ltd, 1973).
Hayter reflects on Coleridge's notes of his sojourn to the Mediterranean: "On his voyage to Malta he was never weary of watching the patterns of the waves as they lifted into crests of foam and sank in wrinkled slopes down to deep troughs, and swelled again in dimpling ripples to flash sun-glints from their summits." Coleridge, Hayter continues, tried to evoke the various surfaces of the sea "in phrases and notes scribbled into his notebook. Many of them were images of minerals - the waves had the sheen of soapstone, bright reflections such as he had seen on fireplaces of plumbago slate, the exquisite purple of tinted drinking glasses, shimmers of brass and polished steel and tin alloys."
In the Inland Northwest it is winter. The deep cold and the low gray skies lay a still hand on my pages. I find myself these last months in reflection; without "poetic Genius" as Coleridge put it, to create. To make something of nothing. The exquisite "nothings" of nature, the unseen part, possess undeniable splendor. Nature gives us all that we need - yet the silver frost and unmarred snow left me empty. Too much stillness, perhaps.
This week during my own sun-drenched sojourn here on the island of Maui, that "beautiful object a single wave" has also captured my attention. The rolling ocean has given me inspiration, encouragement the creative spark is not dead. Wave upon wave. Momentum and iridescence. Teals and mallard greens, pearls and garnets; colors that rise and curl and splinter white on the iron red of the broken shore. These waves sing, not unlike the whales spouting and breaching further out in Wailea Bay.
Waves carry the music of their endlessness and ceaselessness, an unchained melody not unlike breath and the unending breeze.
Coleridge set out in hope, yet "arrived in resignation" as Hayter observes, having failed to reclaim his younger energies, to recharge his creative vision or regain his idealistic self. Yet no voyage is in vain. Experience is our wage: we are paid in scribbles and phrases, sketches of somethings from endless nothings.
Fare thee well!
Health and the quiet of a healthful mind
Attend thee! seeking oft the haunts of men,
And yet more often living within thyself,
And for thyself, so haply shall thy days
Be many, and a blessing to mankind
- from Wordsworth's "Prelude," thought to be a tribute to Coleridge
January 6, 2015
A WORK OF FICTION
by Louise Gluck
As I turned over the last page, after many nights, a wave of sorrow enveloped me. Where had they all gone, these people who had seemed so real? To distract myself, I walked out into the night; instinctively, I lit a cigarette. In the dark, the cigarette glowed, like a fire lit by a survivor. But who would see this light, this small dot among the infinite stars? I stood awhile in the dark, the cigarette glowing and growing small, each breath patiently destroying me. How small it was, how brief. Brief, brief, but inside me now, which the stars could never be.
This paragraph of poetry slays me.
Louise Gluck's (my apologies for the missing umlaut) 2014 National Book Award collection, "Faithful and Virtuous Night," will change the way you think about poetry. Each page in this slim book offers singularities of stunning language. Words break away in your thoughts. Images linger, haunt, cross into the interior. From the page in your hand to the wonder expressed back to the stars. The words, the lit cigarette. Brief, brief. Each breath patiently destroying me.
This transmutation of language is what we crave. We secretly hope the books and poems we carry in our hands from work to table to bed will reach inside us in ways the grand physical world cannot. We crave writing so good it speaks from within; so precise, so startling the words marry wonder. We want
books that change the way we comprehend the world. In her poems Gluck fiercely, delicately dissects the anatomy, the impact of language.
Do you want to read this year more than last? I do. There have been many year-end "Best of -" lists for books and authors in a year of well-deserved awards and accolades. But the real problem - carving out time for these wonderful books and poems - dogs me every year. What do I give up to find more time to read? Answering email? Classic movies? Leaving the house? The Strand Bookstore's Reading Resolutions for 2015 (above) is perfection. THIS
I can do, and I'm excited to see where this approach will take me.
A decidedly practical guide to finding more time for reading was posted on Twitter recently by author Austin Kleon, who read 70+ books this past year. His tips are both tongue-in-cheek and perfectly serious. They adapt to both print and e-readers.
HOW TO READ MORE by Austin Kleon (Twitter: @austinkleon)
1. Throw your phone in the ocean
2. Make a budget, buy books you want to read, make a stack of them that you walk past every day (library is great, too, of course)
3. Carry a book with you at all times
4. If you aren't enjoying a book or learning something from it, stop reading it immediately (flinging it across the room helps give closure)
5. Schedule 1 hour of nonfiction reading during the day (commute/lunch break is good)
6. Go to bed 1 hour early and read fiction (it will help you sleep)
7. Write about the books you read and share with others, as they will send you more books to read
Have I inspired you to start a new book this week? Drop me a note and tell me what tips worked for you. Read to wonder
December 23, 2014
by William Carlos Williams
All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
Tis is the season of quiet. Slipping deep into the heart of who and why and wherever we happen to be. This lovely little poem, like so much of WCW's work, frames an oblique glance at life in mideas res...nature in the midst of narrative, without preamble. In "Winter Trees," Williams sketches an orchard emptied of fruit. The turning point in the cycle of things to do, and being done. Activity and rest. The deep cold months of waiting-in-stillness. The season of the "liquid moon."
I invite you into winter. Into the space between the years. Into the break among days marked by the distance between stars. I invite you not only into the quiet and the stillness, but to stand comfortably within this empty space. In my last post I talked about grief and the geography that is love, both present and gone. The "space" others hold in our lives, and the space our feelings occupy, is important to me. I believe we need space to find ourselves, space for what is truth to rise into consciousness. Space to rest and regroup, space to gather and rethink - and most of all, space to breathe in the beauty of all that is present.
Bone-white moments of clarity, fragile barrenness, lush extravagant joy, tenuous fulfillment.... Whatever our circumstances, we take the essence of our experiences up as plants do oxygen, slowly. We absorb life on the broad leaves of our soul. We need
space. Stillness. An expanse of stillness.
Do you know where you stand in this year as it "disattires" of its days? I am not sure that I do, not yet anyway. The time is here to stop and abide the hours. Our work is done. And in the quiet will come the story of what has been and what we hope will be. As the long branches fill with winter moon, celebrate or lay to rest, what came before. Allow tomorrow to seep into your awareness. Now is the time to dream.
To all my readers - dear friends one and all - thank you for a rich and meaningful year. I am grateful we travel the stars together. This adventure is less lonely and more grand because we do. See you in the new year.
December 16, 2014
by Billy Collins
The first thing I heard this morning
was a rapid flapping sound, soft, insistent -
wings against glass as it turned out
downstairs when I saw the small bird
rioting in the frame of a high window,
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of transparency into the spacious light.
Then a noise in the throat of the cat
hunkered on the rug
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in the cold night
through the flap in a basement door,
and later released from the soft grip of teeth.
On a chair, I trapped its pulsations
in a shirt and got it to the door,
so weightless it seemed
to have vanished into the nest of cloth.
But outside, when I uncupped my hands,
it burst into its element,
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.
For the rest of the day,
I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms as I wondered about
the hours it must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
its eyes open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
tucked into a holly bush now,
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.
This poem by Billy Collins, from a 2013 compendium of new and selected poems "Aimless Love" (Random House), evokes many feelings for me.
Interiority (noun): being within, inside of everything.
Loosely that which is within; going inward, further toward a center.
For many of us, the holidays are not easy. We are the ones with grief tucked in a back pocket. Interiority a place we dwell in instinctive rebuff of a season frequently marked by chaotic family gatherings, lush sentimentality, bombastic festivities, and prickly, achingly nostalgic traditions. We take refuge, wait out the hours. Wary of the ways the social carousel tenders the blues. The mood is not exactly melancholy, certainly not joy, but more fragile. A splintered heart. A clear-as-glass gathering of the self.
I was reminded of all of this recently chatting with a friend in New York about the recent loss of her mother and her difficulty enjoying the season. "How is it for you?" she asked.
Indeed. How is it for me? After a decade of widowhood and a recent remarriage, I find myself in a different place now than in the years leading to this moment. The word I reached for was "serene" as I answered my friend. But that is not quite right. "Serene" implies a peaceful contentment when I am thinking of quiet still waters. The truth is I am not beyond it, even a decade later as I reflect on the death of my first husband, Ken. But I have come to accept it. And as time swallows the insignificant and polishes the pure, I have found comfort in the goodness of our years together. There is acceptance in surrender, knowing loss is nonnegotiable. I have learned I can thrive at the kinder edges
of that once-gaping hole. I want to tell my friend, Time will gentle loss, and life will come to mean more than enduring sadness.
There will be joy - and that is okay.
The commitment to a new marriage - to growing, building, loving - helped free my life from loneliness. For loss is
lonely. Others skirt its cold shadow. I will never not feel my grief, but that pain no longer paralyzes living. I have come to see grief and sadness as one more beautiful ring of color encompassing the soul. Much as a seashell forms bands of ridges, rings, and patterns in response to the ocean, so have I, living this life given me. Part of the beauty of Collins's poem is its inexpressible awareness of the nuanced shadows of danger and mercy, moonlight and grace - the very Christmas sparrow I want to place in the hand of my friend, closing her fingers gently around the gift. This is life. And someday, that acceptance will be enough to fly to joy again.