Clenching Mercy

Pivoting in short, choppy--often, incomplete motions.

Back and forth.

Left and right.

Can't forget this and that.

All of it matters.

Whatever you do, don't stop.

These snap shots have been my life for the better part of several weeks.

Some of it is has been expected and is a remembered part of this season, but a good chunk of it is new.

Managing deadlines both at home and work.  Looking down to see that both my belly and my ass have grown a little too comfortable making my jeans a little uncomfortable.  Realizing that my kid has a project due that isn't just his but involves three others and supplies and it's Sunday night.  Watching my five-year old daughter count down the days until Christmas, swearing that I'll order that thing this afternoon or carve out time to really decide what in the hell Santa is going to put under the tree.  Wondering why I took on that volunteer "opportunity" and how it is that I will have all three children in different spots at the same time? Trying to plan a meaningful graduate course terrified that the students will call me out as a fraud.

While I was doing the dishes and editing the grocery list and grabbing the towels...I heard the extraordinary writer, Mark Nepo define poetry as the unexpected utterance of the soul and the frailty of the human condition as:

And I was reminded, yet again that this deal we do is hard.  Let's not mince words.  From time to time, it fucking sucks.  A good chunk of it is spent enduring instead of standing open to the possibility of what the day brings.

So in that moment, I just stood

still.

And breathed, a sigh of relief.

A really, really big breath.

And I closed my eyes and un-closed my fists and tried to receive whatever it is that the world had for me.

And while in the moment, I had to grin thinking that I extrapolate ad nauseam about the power of possibility and standing open to the availability of the extraordinary in the daily mundane....until it comes to me....and my life slowly turns into..."well, everything will be better once I make it to Thursday night or Sunday morning."  Meanwhile, a million moments go by and my teeth are clenched, my stomach is in knots, my mental to-do lists are cycled through repetitively and I'm just making it.  Most of the time, it's not a bad making it...it's just a dulled engagement of what could be.

Mercy is trusting that you don't have to know.

It's the indomitable fact that you can't possibly be in control all of the time and that surrendering to what could be is the greatest form of inhabiting the moment as imperfectly and beautifully as one can.

And so this morning on my run, I released. little by little...unsure but hopeful...which I think is my mantra for the new year.

I'm done with knowing.

I'm in need of mercy and grace and the divine and the blessed possibility that comes with the great unknown.

Rise

Last week marked the beginning of a 10-week writing program.

Surrounded by other like-minded individuals enamored by the selection and connection of words, our first assignment was to craft a poem.

Twenty some years ago, I participated in a poetry writing workshop in undergrad; drank beers at a variety of poetry slams in my 'pre-kid' 20's and have maintained a journal throughout my 30's as a full-fledged mother...but a legitimate line of poetry has not leapt from my pen in more years than I care to own.

So, you can imagine my fear when I discovered that I would be one of four students workshopping my piece in front of the mass.

The last to do so, I prefaced my collection by saying, "I've given birth.  Three times.  And I'd rather give birth now, than get up in front of you."

Much to my chagrin, they encouraged me.  And this, is what I read:


                                              Rise

She offered, as I hobbled into the yellowed kitchen, well before I

deserved them.  Dark and weathered, spidered and wavering, her

outstretched arms claimed, it is enough. 

All of it.  These fields.  Those folks. That wash. Our bodies. 

You and me.  Here in this room.  We will be

okay.  When moments earlier, purple, lip cracked, unknown spaces in between,

we did not know if we would see the sun underneath the door.

But that’s the thing about the heart and its beat.  No matter the dried crimson or the

tender, fractured places, it is bound to cry out when there is good

left over.

Come now, she whispered.  We shall greet the world with banners and bells and

hope.  We still have something left

to offer.  I can bake with my good hand and you can tend to the mistress’ baby

and no one need worry about all of this. 

Go on, wipe it away.  Clean your face and

rise. 

Let go of what you think

you know and grab a hold of me.  I will never let you go.

And that is how it happened, the day I believed.


Trembling, with the piece of paper in hand, after multiple cups of coffee, I read it.  Much like lacing my first pair of running shoes and reaching the end of the block or the first mile marker, I survived.  And, it is was good.  Really good.  They were generous and constructive and helpful and well, exactly what I needed as I journey on this creative process.

Our next assignment is to craft a piece of fictional prose, which of course, I am petrified about...but thankfully, not nearly as heart splayed as I was with the first.

As it rains and I suck down an Americano tucked away from the world, I'm mindful that it all begins with one keystroke, word after word, draft upon draft, a choice to keep trying even when it falls flat on its face, time after time.

It feels good to put something into the world.  A start is a start, which is something.

Paying Attention to Mary Oliver

Do you know Mary Oliver?

The American, Pulitzer prize winning poet from Provincetown who has written some of the most beloved poems our planet has seen.  She's recently come out with a new book of poetry called "Felicity," but one of my all-time favorites, which seems odd to share in the dead of Autumn is "The Summer Day."

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Maybe it's because I went on a long run yesterday that felt more like summer than fall infused.  Or maybe it's that I've spent my morning buried in laundry and dishes listening to Mary Oliver being interviewed by Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being."  Or maybe, it's because as of late, I've been acutely aware of what it means to be attentive to the little, particular things that abound in my life.

Like the grasshopper.

The trail was flooded with them yesterday and I kept feeling compelled to look down for fear that I'd be the culprit who smooshed one of them as they seemed to be bounding out of every crevice.  But they didn't seem afraid, they kept jumping and hopping on each other and eventually, onto my leg which had me squealing as I motored by. 

After a weekend of single parenting while my better half and oldest kiddo were on a camping trip, it hit me.  Paying attention to the particular is the key to moving through general malaise.  It's being intentional with the world instead of taking it all for granted.

Which led me to another of Mary Oliver's brilliant pieces.  It's the third part to "The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac" installation written after she was diagnosed with cancer.

I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you're in it all the same.
so why not get started immediately.
I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.
And to write music or poems about.
Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.
You could live a hundred years, it's happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

According to Mary Oliver, intentional living begins when we choose to give our full attention to the moment which spins and molds and morphs and flows into our devotion which ultimately, creates a life.

So often, we keep waiting for the big, revolutionary experience...the vacation, the trip of a lifetime, the promotion, the renovation of a kitchen, a bathroom, the new lease on the shinier car, the countdown to a 30-day extreme body challenge, the pinnacle, the summit, the peak. 

Meanwhile, a million grasshoppers have jumped, leaves have changed, children have grown by inches, the temperature has shifted, the sun has come up and gone down day over day.

All for you and all for me.

But have we noticed?  Did we pay it attention?  Honor it?  Express gratitude?  Linger in it for a little longer?

For me, I can say no.  It's just so much easier to be consumed in the distractions and the minutia of the living part, until I stop and give myself permission to put those tasks on hold and take in the utter mystery of everything from a grasshopper to a red leaf to the color of my children's eyes.  And when I do, I am astounded.  Truly.

To Delight in e.e.cummings

This morning, my older children were home from school.

They had a teacher in-service day and their 3-year old baby sister had preschool.

It was rare and wonderful.

We headed to the bookstore and after researching the Golden Sower books that Sam wanted to read, I stumbled upon a book of poetry and shared one of my favorite poems by e.e.cummings.

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

 

They were a bit confused.  My 7-year old, Kate said, "That doesn't make any sense. But it does rhyme."

 

And then, we talked about how poetry can rhyme, but it doesn't have to.  It can sound garbled or backwards or nonsensical, sometimes like song lyrics.  But it can also touch your heart, move your soul, and help you to see the world in a new way, especially if you're open to the way it's written.

 

To that end, they directed me to Shel Silverstein and said, "Try this one on. It's better."

 

Hug O'War
from the book "Where the Sidewalk Ends" (1974)

I will not play at tug o' war.
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.

 I agreed and said, I adore Shel Silverstein.

And then asked, how about Pablo Neruda?  Take for example,

"Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too..."

To which they said, "Naw...how about Dr. Seuss?"

The Cat in the Hat

Then our mother came in
And she said to us two,
“Did you have any fun?
Tell me. What did you do?”
And Sally and I did not
know what to say.
Should we tell her
The things that went on
there that day?
Well... what would YOU do
If your mother asked you?

It was a lot of fun and ultimately, all three of us realized that poems have different meanings at different stages, seasons, and times in our lives.  I encouraged the two of them to start writing their own poetry and to watch it change and transform as they change and get older.  To which Sam replied, "I think I have enough on my plate."

Alrighty then...it was worth a try.