a poem, a practice

This week’s prompt was inspired by a conversation I had with the parents of a friend of my mother’s. The conversation took place about eight years ago in the kitchen of the house they had lived in throughout their more than 50 years of marriage. Years later, I sit here on my couch, with a laptop before me, working on a poem inspired by that conversation. Honoring the lesson, yet again, that every moment is poetry.

The poem is still a work in progress, so I will not share it today…

As I mentioned in a post earlier this week, I have been reading Daniel Ladinsky’s translations of poems by the Sufi poet Hafiz. Almost every day this week I have picked up the collection of poems found in The Gift and let the book flip open to a page. I read the poem that lives on that page aloud. And take a breath. And sit with it. And try to eek out all the answers I can find from it.

Today, the poem* living on the page I turned to:

When You Can Endure

When
The words stop
And you can endure the silence

That reveals your heart’s
Pain

Of emptiness
Or that great wrenching-sweet longing.

That is the time to try and listen
To what the Beloved’s
Eyes

Most want
To

Say.

Today, I began the practice my teacher gave me last Saturday.

Part of the practice is an inner-guided, silent meditation. Another part of the practice is a speaking meditation of sorts. Listening to the silence, then listening to myself as I give energy to the words that are trapped within my throat, and then coming back to the silence once again. Opening the head and the heart to something greater than me.

Today, I opened The Gift and discovered…

this poem is my practice.

*shared with permission

poetry, candles, gratitude, and a special day

I am spending time with the words of David Whyte, specifically the poems in his book Where Many Rivers Meet. The first poem in this collection, “Enough,” is the one that I keep reading over and over. It is short, only a few lines, but it resonates deeply this week. A brief snippet from the poem:

This opening to the life
we have refused
again and again
until now.

I have again explored Whyte’s website and listened to him read “The Journey.” Take a moment and go hear him read this poem (just scroll down for the audio file). I read this poem a few months ago and it had one meaning for me. Last night, another meaning was revealed. I love this about poetry. You can take a few moments out of your day to read a poem, and your perspective on life, yourself, a relationship, a moment, the world around you, and on and on can shift just a bit. And the poem might even be an old friend, but it reveals something new to you.

I am lighting the candles I bought over the weekend from Carla’s online shop Zena Moon. The scent of these candles is delicious yet subtle. If you know you like the scent of sage for example, I am sure you will like the candles with sage in them. All five candles (and the one she gave us for free) smell incredible. But the part that means the most to me is that when she makes them, she makes them with a specific intention. So I have been burning the healing candle, and today I will burn the boundaries candle (I am learning that if there is ever a time you need to set boundaries it is when you are ill – may this be one of the many lessons that stays with me through this experience).

I am thankful for the friends and family who have reached out to me through emails and phone calls (and comments of course). It is such a blessing to have someone let go of saying platitudes and just say, “I know this is hard, and no matter what happens, I am here.” Because really, when you are scared about your health, that is all you want someone to say. That and “this just sucks” because it does. From the way I have been treated through this process (by my HMO) to the uncertainty ahead, it just sucks. (But I am happy to report that we have found an incredible new primary care physician. She is listening to me, and her job isn’t “just her job.” She understands that her job deals with people’s lives and fears and health.)

I am blessed to be sharing my life with an amazing man who is my husband and my friend. Today is our fourth anniversary. (Happy Anniversary sweetie!) I sometimes just can’t believe I am married (I really thought I would never marry) and that I am married to someone who is so kind and who truly honors the woman I am and the woman I am growing into. We continue to navigate through communicating as partners and learning together. And through bumps and miscommunication and laughter and care and silliness and love and looking into one another’s eyes, we are finding our way.

poetry in every moment {poetry thursday}

In this week’s Poetry Thursday prompt I mentioned that since I started reading and writing poetry I have noticed that poetry seems to be in every moment. I realize this may be naïve or give a nice obvious indication of how new poetry is to my life. But I think of it as something else.

When I told people I was going to give a presentation about journaling as a practice earlier this year, so many people were quick to say to me, “I don’t journal” or “I hate journaling” and so on (not you bloggers, those other people). When I asked them why, many said, “because I have nothing of any importance to say” or something similar.

Poetry can invite some related insecurities, “I don’t understand it” and “I don’t know what I would write.” In noticing the moments of poetry in my life, I begin to feel confidence to find the words, to write a poem.

********

A few moments of poetry in my week:

Standing in the bathroom, I lean against the counter eye-to-eye with me. The continued awareness that I greet an old friend. I am not afraid.

Millie watches every move my husband makes. He turns the page of the newspaper, he scratches his head, brings his mug of tea to his lips, she is there with every movement. I wonder what she thinks, hopes, “will this movement bring dinner?”

Closing my eyes and losing myself, just for a moment, in the music of Loreena McKennitt. While listening I imagine myself in a long flowing skirt of layers and layers of fabric, flowers in my hair, spinning in circles and dancing beneath a huge, full moon while women play the drums and other instruments in celebration.

Observing the interactions between a mother and son. Though he is an adult, there is still the expectation between them that she does and he lets her.

An argument with my husband about the way he cooked dinner for us after I get home from yoga class. I wonder if I am the same person who gently leads my class through pose after pose to remind them who they are, who can then come home and expect perfection for dinner.

Resting my head back in the basin at the beauty salon while the color seeps into my hair, I close my eyes and just listen to all the voices around me.

I walk through the house and light candle after candle.

For the second time in two weeks a woman reminds me of my life’s path. And this time I listen.

I am crabby and still in my pajamas at 1:00 in the afternoon because the work has piled up and it feels like it has taken over my life. I am becoming my parents.

A friend gives me a glimpse into her experiences, her journey. I listen and nod. The gift of the opportunity to understand.

My foot leans into the pedal as I move the fabric through the foot of the machine. Feeling the rhythm, what was once only in my mind is now a reality.

I look in the mirror and giggle. Wearing my hanky pankies, my silk camisole, my cardigan, and a flower in my hair. I am a redhead!

********

Writing this I realize that when work consumes me, I end up spending too much time alone in my house. I want to come back to this exercise with the intention of taking time each day to get out of my house. Even if that means just sitting in the backyard and watching the birds, taking Millie on a quick walk, driving to Starbucks for…you guessed it, a pumpkin latte. The need to get outside myself.

a bus full of poetry {poetry thursday}

My husband gets up before me almost every day (except for the nights I suffer from insomnia). So sometimes when I make my way to my laptop in the morning, I will find a clipping from the newspaper waiting for me. Something he thought I might want to know. (love this)

Earlier this week, I came upon a little clipping about a magic bus full of poetry. It seems that Wave Books has a bus that has been traveling around the country during September and October celebrating poetry with poetry readings and other events. 50 cities in 50 days.

My reason for telling you this is because the bus will be in Portland on October 24 and will be back in Seattle on October 27. If you are in this neck of the woods, you might want to check it out.

To read more visit this article at The Washington Post and this article at The Believer (which, by the way, is a very interesting online publication I have just stumbled upon).

And also check out the Poetry Bus Tour blog (I am calling it that...because...well, I think it is a blog).

A bus full of poets and poetry...sounds like a nice way to spend a few weeks doesn't it?

a witness {poetry thursday}

This week, I have been spending time with Sharon Olds and the poems in her book The Father. If you have been stopping by here on Thursdays over the last few months, you have probably noticed that I tend to share poetry I have written about my grandmother and sometimes about her death. I haven't really found a "voice" to talk to her as I am living my life and she is no longer alive. When I reach for the phone to call her and then remember she is dead, I don't start talking to her anyway. At least not yet. (Though when I was cleaning my home office/studio a few weeks ago and kept running across letters from her/pictures of her in the oddest places I did start talking to her. "Janet, I have had about enough of this.") It is through my poems that I am finding my voice and addressing her. She is the "you" in my poetry.

Some people have mentioned that it must be healing to write about her. I am not sure I see it as healing. Though do we realize we are healing when we are or do we just notice it later? I don't know. One idea that has to come to me lately is this: By writing about her, I am a witness that she existed. She was a woman who didn't have many friends, she spent most of her days in her home, she wasn't close with many people, and she had a tendency to alienate others. But she changed my life. She taught me about laughter and acceptance and finding little joys in living a quiet life. It saddens me that it seems she didn't really teach anyone else these things. I am the one who experienced this side of her. And I can be her witness to share these pieces of her.

I also feel that writing/talking/sharing grief has to happen. We do not do this enough in our culture. I am almost bizarrely fascinated with it. I want to talk and talk and talk about my experience. I want to listen and learn from the experiences of others. And poetry has become a vehicle for both of these things.

The book of Olds’ poetry that I have been reading this week is all about her father, his illness, and his death. How to explain the feelings that come up as I read her words?

Before my grandmother died, I did not understand stories of people falling on the casket sobbing or someone pretending a loved one was still alive and talking to that person as though she is sitting across the dinner table with them, even when others are in the room. During my uncle’s funeral, his casket remained open. A song was played over the speakers while we all sat their quietly. My aunt stood up and went to the casket. I remember thinking, “does she know we all can see her?” I realize now that I was simply embarrassed by the intimacy of the moment. Goodness. Now I realize the last thing you are thinking about when standing looking at someone you love who is in a casket is what others are thinking about. This doesn’t matter much when you have lost a part of your heart.

After my grandmother died, I suddenly understood why people do all that they do that we cannot understand when “dealing with” the loss of someone they love. Sharon Olds writes about this in a way that has me nodding through my tears. I am fascinated by her words, her images, her truth. And, I suppose, I am also healed by reading.

To hear Sharon Olds read a poem from this book, visit poets.org via this link.

*****

edited in 2011: Poetry Thursday is referenced throughout my blog in 2006 and 2007. It was a community website where participants shared a love of poetry through their blogs as they posted their own poems and poetry by others on Thursdays.