Tags
I walked out of this week’s final poetry class grateful for making myself go — in spite of my way too full cup of life right now.
The hour and a half with poet Nathan Brown slipped away too quick. But always, always, when time came to part company, I walked away lighter in spirit, like when walking out of a darkened movie theater into bright light, after experiencing a really good story. The world seemed a friendlier place after class. Not only bright and beautiful, but with its glory less hidden. Even now, this lovely contentment lingers with me.
After my second class, I recall carrying this hard-to-nail-down feeling through the aisles of the grocery store and still later, in my drive home past miles of ugly marquee signs seeking to steal attention from the wondrous world around it: “CASH AMERICA PAWN.” “TOO TRUE TATTOO.” “JERSEY MIKES.” “PIRATE’S ALLEY” “ARBY’S” “WALGREEN.” This sky graffiti became poetry — letters rather than litter — it served only to spotlight the chirping of birds and tree limbs waving in the whipping Oklahoma wind and the sparkling blue sky that held it all.
Later, in writing about that second class, I struggled to name the source of my contentment; What was it about that poetry class which lingered with me? I wondered over the mystery for the rest of the day, even while waiting for sleep in a darkened room, as the streets outside my window grew strangely still and silent. I fell asleep without reaching a response. But it was good sleep, peaceful, in spite of many things whirling in my mind relating to our upcoming move.
While I didn’t wake with an answer, an answer of sorts has grown in the intervening weeks. Because as I sit here, I’m ready to name my feeling as just joy — simple and pure joy radiating out of a trembling, awakened soul. At the deepest levels, I was touched by the thoughts and experiences of others; not only my poetry professor but the poets whose work he recited in class. Martin Espada. Sinan Antoon. Adam Zagajewki. Billy Collins. William Wordsworth. W. H. Auden.
But it wasn’t just listening to recitations and calling it ‘good.’ Rather, it was more like a conversation of souls — in that their personal truth became my own. Their sharing nourished my own impoverished spirit. And the experience left me feeling enlarged. No longer alone.
There are some reading this, those who know me best, that would say, “You’re not alone. You live with a husband, a son and three canines. And aren’t you surrounded by a loving family of three other children and their families and your sister and aunt and your Shawnee family and your brother in Dallas? And what about that aunt and those cousins in Utah and second cousins in Vermont you’ve never met?
And the list of people I share life with ripples out and away from me, in endless waves of emotion.
So when I confess myself alone, it’s less a physical state than spiritual – it is more like how I feel standing alone at a big party, holding up the walls of a room crowded with small-talk conversing people — I am a solitary soul seeking communion, longing for an intimacy that no one else is interested in having.
The events in our life that should unite us often don’t. We are scared away by those coping with a scary medical diagnosis. For example. The loss of loved ones — or even our own lives — are topics not often broached. And then, there are parts of us that die everyday for lack of nourishment — because what’s important doesn’t get shared. And what goes unshared is joy still born, one that cannot grow into an abiding sense that all will be well — in spite of evidence to the contrary.
What I’ll carry with me from attending class is a new definition of poetry, one less about form than substance — one less about meter and rhyming of lines — and more about words that breathe common experience causing two souls to become if not one, at least a little more whole for the sharing. And for this I’m grateful.
Oh, how happy I am to see this new post. I’m happy for you – for your class, and the joy. And I’m happy for me, because you’re sharing it.
I’m happy, too, because of a new discovery I’ve made, related to poetry. You may have seen it, or may not. But I’m going to sidle up next to you and mention it because it’s a place where poetry and Lenten discipline meet.
No class for me this year. Instead, I committed to writing a 140 character descriptive line about what I see, first thing in the morning. I’ve been posting them publicly on my blog entry called Porch Poetry.
Here’s the thing. When I’ve tried to write poetry in the past, I’ve frozen up and gotten nowhere. And yet, these daily lines are poetic to their core.
It seems as though they’re leading me to “a new definition of poetry, one less about form than substance.” Or, to put it another way, the looking comes first. The words come second. 😉
thank you for this post
I love poetry
much you shared
I understand…
Linda,
It’s interesting how we, living 500 miles apart as we do, could so often share similar sentiments — like finding joy in poetry — at similar points in our lives.
I like your porch poetry — your words leading up to your daily doses of poetry remind me of other published words you pointed me toward by link to a BYU magazine a while back — the poet’s name escapes me — but for a time, I read his thoughts on poetry as my own spiritual discipline.
To be able to write what we see does require us to pause — in order to look deep and wide — doesn’t it? And somehow, in the looking, life opens up a window to give us a glimpse of something or someone glorious.
So it’s my turn to say how happy I am about the joy you’re finding each morning in writing poetry from your porch.
Forgive me for taking days to respond to your kind words — I offer up no excuses for my shortcoming — time is slippery these days — and I realize, in writing these words, I need to slow down to avoid falling.
Janell
Ernestine,
You’re welcome — this was a post I could not contain — I had to write it or be worthless at everything else for the day.
But dear Ernestine, how sorry I am I missed your birthday and an illness that I am happy you are now recovering from — I was probably scrubbing toilets or doing something else I thought infinitely important at the time.
How rich everyday life is! The everyday cooking and housekeeping and gardening and the reading of poetry and dropping in on favorite blogs to enrich life further. I pray to never take any of it for granted again. I have missed it so, living impoverished as I have for the last six weeks or so.
It was good to see your family portrait last night — the one you recently shared on your blog — with you and your son and grandchildren and a daughter perhaps. Gathering times like these are too rare — I can only imagine how precious it was to have everyone together — the best of birthday gifts indeed.
Blessings on your health — and belated wishes for a happy birthday.
Janell
Well, it’s tax day. Even though I haven’t seen you surface, I’ve thought of you, so I brought you a bit of – uh – poetry loosely defined for the day. Hope all’s going well!
There once was a poet obsessed
with the government’s need to distress.
She sent them a sonnet,
but taxmen, doggone it,
are loathe to accept such largesse.
I like it, Linda — your frolic made me smile.
“Surface” is a good word to key in on as I’m trying hard to keep my head above water. So much to do, I feel like the late-for an-important-date White Rabbit or maybe the bemused Alice herself.
My saving grace these days is time spent with new granddaughter Reese. Already two weeks into my six-week stint, time is chipping away at my front-row seat which allows me to observe Reese awaken to the marvelous world around her; Reaching clumsy hands towards rattles, cooing along with Baby Einstein’s version of Mozart, and studying her own wiggling fingers with intensity and wonder, I am reminded all over again how I too often sleep-walk through life.
But having had too little of the real thing last night, I’m ready to dive under covers, hoping to surface refreshed for a new day.
Sleep blessings to you…
Janell
Janell,
Your post resonates with me deeply. I can fully understand your heart-felt sharing, that we can be totally alone in a crowd… not strangers, but even among our own family and friends. We are singular souls searching for meaningful ties and spiritual bonds… “I am a solitary soul seeking communion, longing for an intimacy that no one else is interested in having.” But I am interested… and I trust, there are others too. Isn’t it rewarding to know that through blogging, we can virtually commune in a gratifying way. Thank you for sharing and for stopping by my blog and leaving with such encouragement for me!
Arti,
You’re absolutely right about the joy of finding similarly minded souls in the blogging world — I do so need to find time in my day to get back to my blogging world of friends — and my own blog too.
Just when I thought life would return to a normal everyday hum, my husband resumed his business travels — after a year hiatus, he was in the Houston area last week and Beijing and Shanghai the last six days. He’s due home tomorrow night late for a few weeks — then it’s off to the rat races he goes again.
But maybe, just maybe, I’ve a two week window of respite ahead of me. It’s a nice thought — like the promise of spring flowers in the frozen north and an expected rain shower in our parched and dusty patch of earth.
Happy Easter, Arti.
Janell
Happy Easter to you, Janell. I hope your day’s wonderful.
Linda
Linda,
It was good, in spite of being tarnished with sadness. News of a cousin’s death earlier in the day — he was a few years younger than me — has me unsettled. Perhaps it has something to do with IT coming on the heels of Uncle Bob’s death last Saturday — and my writing another obituary a week ago — and then feeling the weight of the first anniversary of Dad’s death tomorrow.
Death, death, when does it end? So much death — the irony is too much to bear on Easter, as we mark Christ’s defeat of death with resurrection. I should take comfort in the good news of Easter — but instead, I just want to put myself to bed, under that big down comforter and have a good cry.
But as I was telling my Aunt Jane today, while it’s hard being part of a small remnant left behind, life is still good. Coming together, even in smaller gatherings, is still rich with love and laughter. Sis hosted Easter lunch today in her lovely home — the food was wonderful– the company better — and in spite of loss, and feeling a little battered and blue, I’m still good, deep in my soul where it counts.
Easter blessings to you, dear friend.
Janell
Thinking of you and wondering if things have settled a bit. I suppose I started thinking of you when I heard on the Outdoor show this weekend that the drought’s increased the salinity of the creeks and bayous so much they’re catching reds and trout in the canals up by Alvin. I don’t know how far behind we are now. 10 inches, maybe? I can’t remember the last time it rained. 2002, perhaps.
Hope all is going well – miss your smiling keystrokes!
Settled? No, not yet. I run from house to house, trying like mad to meet the needs of each; funny that my goal in our current home is to leave it glossy magazine perfect, shiny and clean without any evidence of everyday life while the goal of the new home is to get it ready to inhabit. Right now the kitchen is gutted and construction dust is flying. I am a woman between two homes and the only place I settle is in the rocker with that new grandchild in my arms.
I was outside Sunday morning at the new house, painting the trim of our freshly installed french doors, when I noticed our next door neighbor puttering in his garden. It made me want to putter too — so next year, I hope to write a post about me puttering away in my garden. Last night, as I was finishing up my indoors painting for the day I heard the rumbling of thunder. The sound made me put aside my paintbrush to run check the sky. It was gray but only puttering, leaving behind a few fat drops on a thirsty earth.
I find myself letting a few fat tear drops fall down my face fairly often these days as my daily time with Reese is drawing to a close. We’ve only eight school days left, and then my daughter Kara will be officially on leave. I tell myself it will the good to resume my own life again, to have more time to paint, to maybe get a head start to garden puttering — but somehow, my heart’s not buying what my mind is rationalizing away.
Gosh, I hope you’re not sorry you checked up on me.
Janell
Just checking in to see how you’re doing.
xxx
Viv,
Just saw your note — our internet service has been down for the last three days and AT&T came today to reconnect us to our world.
I’m doing fine, thanks for asking. Our house has a “SOLD” sign hanging out front so all that’s left is the packing and the crying and the unpacking and, well, being the very experienced mover that you are, you know the rest of the story. It takes 5 years to get your house and garden perfect for your needs and then its off to the races again. But this time I hope and pray that there will be no more moves, at least while I have breath in my body. I’m worn out. And I’m running on auto-pilot. So if you’ve room on your prayer list, say a little prayer for me and mine. Or just as you think of us. It’s all good and it will all work out — to paraphrase mightily Saint Julian’s words — but sometimes it’s hard to remember in the not-so-everyday times I’m living.
If all goes according to contract and plans, we should be in our new home next Wednesday — and closing on the sale of this lovely old home two days later. I shake my head that this could be so. How can one be happy and sad at the same time over the same event? Who knows but God — all I know is that it’s so.
Hope all is well with you and yours.
Love,
Janell