Caught in a net of poetry

I pass this little gate occasionally on my way home -- it sits beside the road on one of the alternate routes across my part of the island.  And I always find it so appealing, even though -- as far as I can tell -- it leads nowhere.

I wonder now -- having spent my morning as if in college, reading Mary Oliver's critiques of Robert Frost and Gerard Manley Hopkins in her book, Winter Hours -- what my choice of images in these blogs, and how I choose to speak of them, will say, or are saying to readers now or years from now (should anyone choose to read with that sort of critical eye).

I was an English major, at a fine and fierce New England college, so Frost and Hopkins are hardly strangers to me; in fact I'm certain their influence on my poetry (because I read it so extensively in my youth) is far stronger than that of either Mary Oliver or Rumi and Hafiz, whom I read so avidly now.

In some ways it feels at times as if I'm trapped in a net of rhythm, carefully woven, trochee by iamb, by these two men and all the folks who wrote the hymns that so dominated my childhood: (even now, when I walk for any distance, the words and music of Isaac Watts' majestic "I sing the mighty power of God" seem to carry my feet forward and resonate in my veins.)

The net is tightest, I think, around Hopkins, whose earnest exuberance is so rigidly contained that I now find his work just exhausting -- and sort of painfully over-embellished -- to read.  But I'm not certain I ever understood that tension came from the tension in his own life between his Jesuit understanding "that sacrifice is bliss and self-indulgence is the real death; ... that nearness to God could be brought about by increasingly rigorous behavior, more prayer, more work, more abstinence," and his intense, rejoicing appreciation of the natural world -- "landscapes and waterways and copses, and especially the yearly gift of spring -- in which he read the proof of God."

And though I may have known -- and still think of -- Frost as an irascible old man, I don't remember noticing that "the voice of Frost's poems...is the voice of a man who finds life a trial, who finds the physical world handsome but fragile, who finds reality less than his expectation, who finds no easy solution to his desire for solitude and his longing for community, who finds love an agony, who finds no sweet that is not bonded to bitter."

I never thought to notice how that voice evolved over the years in response to public accolade, never saw that "the poems became, in the later books, entertainments and pronouncements... as though Frost felt himself obliged, as a public man, to display a reasonable cheerfulness, whatever he felt privately."  And yet, reading that, I wonder how much my own work may be influenced by the very nature of writing publicly; I worry a lot that each day's piece -- the combined work of meditation and poem -- becomes a sort of sermon, determined, always, to find message and encouragement, to honor the struggle but always to hold it in balance with the larger good, the larger message, the heartening cry of hope...

And so I look at the way this gate appeals to me -- even though it seems to lead only to darkness and confusion -- and wonder (given that what draws me to Oliver, Rumi and Hafiz is the lightness and chaotic charm that permeates their work) if I will ever step past the dark rigidity of those childhood influences, release the oughts and shoulds that seem to trip my writing up, or if  -- because, as the posts these lasts few days have mused, we are so deeply ruled by childhood influences -- my job, like that of these two masters (and let me reassure you that I have no illusions about being in their league) will always be to stand at the gateway, balancing the light outside with the dark beyond and within, caught in those determined verticals of line and structure...

Aching for Vermont

I spent the first half of my adult life in Vermont; covered bridges like this one in Taftsville, a stone's throw from a dear friend's home, dot the landscape and form a vital connection between the hundreds of small communities there.

So it's been hard to watch the videos and photos coming out of that state in the wake of Irene's devastation; we just never expected Vermont to be even affected, let alone so hard hit.

As you might expect, we still have lots of very special friends in that part of the world -- in fact we hope to be visiting many of them soon, when we head east for my father-in-law's 90th birthday.  So I've been contacting them to enquire, hoping things aren't as bad as the news and youtube videos make them appear.

... and I posted some of the photos I've been finding on Facebook this morning, because I'd been noticing that lots of people didn't seem to be taking the devastation seriously.  In response to that post, one of our closest friends wrote the following:

"Over much of the state whole towns and businesses suffered major flooding and/or washouts, houses washed away, communities cut off by complete washouts of major arteries and bridges. That amount of rain in 12 hours over the entire state just overwhelmed the watersheds of all the secondary rivers. It's very sobering."

Sobering, indeed -- and definitely a reminder of the fragility of the world as we know it: how easily the balance can be tipped.  Life was never easy in Vermont: it can be challenging to make a living there, the winters are painfully cold, those charming old houses expensive to heat, and the summers there can be blisteringly hot and humid, with an unfortunately short growing season.

But it is also incredibly beautiful, and a lot of their money comes from the "leaf-peepers" -- tourists who tootle around the countryside in October to enjoy the glorious foliage.  Those tourists may find their travels considerably more challenging this year, and I'm concerned that income already taxed by this difficult economy may be further decreased by the dual whammy of unexpected repair bills and a dearth of tourists. 

As John Cage so often used to say, putting his fingers to his forehead on Ally McBeal (yes, we are still slowly working our way through those reruns) "I'm troubled."

When will those naysayers out there GET that climate change is endangering ALL of us?

The good news (despite one of the comments you'll see in the video below) is that this beautiful bridge survived -- but look here to see the battering it was taking -- not just water, but logs and propane tanks... it's going to be an incredible mess to clean up.

Conscious presence

Here you see one of the highlights of yesterday's travels with my camera: I was just at the end, heading home; had just rounded the corner and headed down the hill onto the sandspit when I caught sight of this mother otter and her baby scuttling across the tide flats.

My kids and I laugh together, saying I was an otter in some previous life: I just adore their little faces, their playfulness, their love of both the surface and the depths...

But the truth is -- as I'm reading in both Richard Rohr and Mary Oliver this morning -- that we are largely formed, not by some mystical previous lives, but by significant experiences in our own lives, particularly our childhoods: where we grew up, what our parents looked like and how they treated us, what the prevailing norms were in our primary communities...

And reading that, I thought -- what a debt I owe to David Redding.  I spent my formative years at the Glendale Presbyterian Church in Glendale, Ohio, and David was our pastor: a handsome man, as I remember, and a gifted speaker, but also a writer.  Two of his books -- If I Could Pray Again (poetic prayers) and The Parables He Told (stories of the parables, retold) -- were like bibles for me as a child, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn that my decision, at the age of 8, to become a writer when I grew up, was at least partially based on my contact with him.

He moved on, of course, and wrote many other books; I'm sure he influenced the faith of many other individuals and encouraged many other budding writers.  But what matters here, in this moment, is how he touched my life -- and how we touch the lives of people around us.  We can't know what moments will prove most significant in the long run: perhaps for this young otter the experience of coming up over the river bank to be confronted with a photographer and a camera will give him a lifelong suspicion of purple flowers; who knows!

The fact is, even if we don't pay attention in the moment, our presence can affect those around us.  So how much better if we can be consciously present, consciously compassionate, consciously and beautifully the selves God created us to be...

A departure from routine

When I awoke this morning, the fog was so thick I couldn't see my neighbor's house, so I grabbed some clothes and rushed through my coffee, eager to hit the road with my camera.

These foggy days -- the really good ones -- only happen two or three times a year, and since everything on the island becomes beautiful in fog, I always see it as an opportunity to pick up and go.

I occasionally have second thoughts -- should I really skip my meditation practice? -- but the pleasure and serenity of being out with my camera (I reassure myself) is just another way of getting in touch with the peace that lies at the root of life.

And now that I'm back and looking through the results of the morning, it seems clear the work will be blessing these pages for a while, so - yay!  As I am so fond of saying --

It's all good!

Anxiety

"I am burdened with anxiety.  Anxiety for the lamb with his bitter future, anxiety for my own body, and, not least, anxiety for my own soul.  You can fool a lot of yourself but you can't fool the soul.  That worrier."
-- Mary Oliver, "Sister Turtle," from Winter Hours

For some reason I had trouble falling asleep last night, and I woke this morning to find anxiety tightly coiled in my chest, a troublesome knot of angst that kept sending trickles -- and sometimes surges -- of fear out with every heartbeat.

It took some time to understand that the anxiety was probably not my own, and that in all likelihood I was channeling that of our younger daughter, now in the final days of camp.  She's facing a transition always painful and this year doubly complicated by the lack of processing time: she will leave camp, which she adores, on Monday, and fly back to school, which she does not adore, on Tuesday -- and she's terrified of flying, and especially through storms -- which, given the current weather conditions on the East Coast, must seem inevitable.

It would also not surprise me if I were also carrying anxiety for any number of folks about the impending threat of Hurricane Irene -- after all, it affects so many millions of people, and so many dear friends and relatives of mine.

So I sat with that this morning, holding those concerns in my heart, allowing it to beat with them, speaking softly with the small frightened child within, carefully teasing out what is mine and what is not, honoring and releasing the feelings surging like waves, and sinking gradually to a calmer place.  And there I found something new, something like a crystal: clear, and smooth, unshakeable; a gentle, fleeting reminder that whatever comes, there is that within us that remains steady and true.

And, at the same time, looking at this photo that leaped onto the page, I see that those anxious things, coiled in the dark places within us, are part of the growth process, and in their painful unfurling new life and light emerge.  Still: sometimes it's difficult to watch... and feel.

Promptings of the Spirit: A sequel

Yesterday a new call for artists went out for ECVA, the arts organization for which I serve as exhibitions director.  The call, which is for an exhibit entitled "Imaging the Sacred Art of Chant" features the music of its curator, Ana Hernandez; you can click on the main logo or find the song, "Om Namah Shivaya," here.

I was off at my daughter's camp while they were putting this call together, so I can claim absolutely no responsibility for the lyrical beauty of this call, but I am absolutely delighted with it, and was listening off and on all day to Ana's lovely music.

My husband left around 5 to go into Seattle, and shortly after he left I got an email from my friend Ann, the music director of our local Episcopal Church, inviting me to participate in a sort of impromptu evening of chant. I had no idea what to expect, but there was nothing else on my agenda and he was gone, so I thought, what the heck?

In the parking lot I ran into a dear friend I haven’t seen in months, who was there waiting to pick up her daughter (coming home from a weeklong hiking trip) so I invited her to join us in chant while she waited. We went inside to find Ann seated on the floor in the middle of the sanctuary with a harmonium; there were two other musicians, one playing tabla and another guy with a guitar, and 4 other people seated in the circle. Ann passed out sheets to chant from, and I was surprised (and delighted) to discover that the chants were all Hindu chants from Ana’s book; there was also a quote from the book, and one of the chants was the one posted on the website.

So I squeaked, we talked about ECVA and the exhibition for a bit (apparently it was the call arriving in the mail that had inspired her to hold the evening), and then one more woman arrived and we settled in to spend an hour and a half chanting — with an improvised Namaste chant at the end.

Amazing. And I loved it: a perfectly lovely peaceful evening -- and such a blessing.  Sitting there in my favorite sanctuary, chanting Hare Krishna, I found myself thinking of the Hare Krishnas who stood around chanting in airports, street corners, and other places when I was younger, and how people used to mock them. When I shared the story of my evening with my friend Robin, ECVA's executive director, she responded that she'd wondered about the same thing, and said, "It seems as if we have been carrying those chants all of this time and are allowing them to be born (again, or for the first time). Maybe that's what we do at our age, we give birth again, this time from our hearts and souls."

The evening seemed to me to be yet another instance of that whole going-with-the-flow thing I spoke of yesterday.  I have to say, I'm liking these coincidences -- but I need to be very careful about how I view them.  They have nothing to do with me being "special" in any way; it's all about a willingness to be present in the moment and respond.  There are no guarantees that things will always play out so beautifully: the only guarantee, really, is that where we are is where we're supposed to be.  But somehow that alone is gift enough.

Promptings of the Spirit

Ok, I'll admit it: I bought my first piece on Craig's List last night!  We've been looking for another bookcase for a while, and I've been haunting the local Goodwill with no results, so I finally broke down and checked CraigsList.

There was an almost perfect one right at the top, recently listed, exactly the size I was looking for, and oak to boot, only $50.  So I emailed the image to my hubby, then wandered upstairs to see what he thought.

Now, I happened to be wearing a favorite pair of crop pants (first time this summer, because this is the first week it's been warm enough to shed my usual jeans) and while I was standing in the door of his office I noticed there was something in the pocket.  Lo and behold, $50!  I grinned and told him it was a sign, called the seller, and half an hour later we were on the road to Port Orchard, an hour's drive away. 

The lady was very nice, introduced us to her new dog (a rescued Cairn Terrier, 5 years old and adorable but definitely a handful) and pretty soon we had loaded the shelves into the car and were on our way home.  There was an A&W rootbeer stand on the way out of town (fond memories from our childhoods, so we stopped and had those big glass mugs of root beer, yum; who cares about the diet!) and then paused again along the way to photograph this amazing sunset over the Olympic Mountains.

I know: I get that it wasn't necessarily God telling me to go spend money, I mean -- get real!  But we got to spend a lovely time together, sharing stories, away from our computers, met a new person, played with a lovely dog, got a beautiful drive, a trip down memory lane, and some great photos -- all out of being willing to respond in the moment.

I just love doing things on the spur of the moment; do you?  If you do, I have this theory: you must have been raised East of the Mississippi!  Please tell me I'm wrong if you can, but it always seems to me that West Coast folk are not nearly as spontaneous as East Coasters; everything seems to need to be scheduled in advance out here.

... and yet I think of these folk as more spiritually adventurous.  So how does that work?  How can you listen to -- and act on -- the promptings of the spirit (and appreciate the blessings that arise when you do respond) if you're always on a schedule?

I'm just sayin...