let the immeasurable come.

 

Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith
by Mary Oliver (from West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems, 1997)

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything--
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker--
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing--
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet--
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

ode to rhubarb

I know that I am not the only one singing the praises of rhubarb, but please, humor me. Rhubarb, along with asparagus, is one of the first types of local produce to arrive at the farmers market here in my home state of Michigan. I watch for it, waiting in anticipation as the days get warmer, and then it finally appears, heralding summertime, whispering of all that is to come.

So naturally, I wrote you a poem about how much I love rhubarb. That's a perfectly normal thing to do, right?

Roasted rhubarb, above, adapted from such recipes as those of Molly Wizenberg at Orangette and Luisa Weiss, the Wednesday Chef. Rhubarb tarts with a corn flour crust, below, from Kim Boyce's brillant Good to the Grain. This recipe can also be found online at the Smitten Kitchen.

Ode to Rhubarb

Your long stalks

Deepest red

Pink fading to green ends

They beckon me from where they rest
On the tables at the farmers market

And in an instant
I am dreaming of crisps and cobblers

Of warm, bright pockets of fruit

Encased within the crumb of a perfect scone

Or under the layer of brown sugar and butter

Topping my mother's quick bread,

Breakfast on the last days of school before summer
I am dreaming of ruby-red juices
Threatening to escape the confines
Of a small, misshapen tart

Which I will call rustic

In explanation of its imperfections

I am dreaming of filling my bright red pot

With chopped stalks
Of a matching hue,

Stirred with sugar and vanilla

And a splash of wine
(Red or white, I've yet to decide)

They will fall apart

And become, like magic,

Something I never know quite what to call

But will gladly put atop my oatmeal

And over ice cream and yogurt

And beneath soft pillows of whipped cream

I am pulled back to reality

As I hear the old man say,

Why not two pounds?

Why just one?

(I think to myself that
He is so thin
Like a stalk of rhubarb)
And standing there in front of his stall
Your beauty before me
I am easily convinced

As I leave the market,

My bag is heavy

And I open my heart

To summer

i have eaten the plums.

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams (1934)

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I love this poem. However, it is rather irrelevant to my situation; indeed, there are upsides to living alone! Anyway, my friends, I wish you all a happy September. Enjoy these lingering days of summertime (remember, it's not over until it's over). More of an update to come shortly, I promise, and in the meantime, be generous and gracious when it comes to the summer stone fruits in your icebox. But perhaps buy a few extra, too, just to be safe.

what is it you plan to do...?

The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver (from New and Selected Poems, 1992)

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?

with a love like that.

Even

After

All this time

The sun never says to the earth,

"You owe

me."

Look

What happens

With a love like that,

It lights the

Whole

Sky.

-Hafiz

And so I strive for this kind of love, hope for redemption and light and beauty and purpose...

A friend reminded me this weekend that there can be peace in the marriage of discontent and hope. I certainly feel both discontented and filled with hope, but I don't always allow these sentiments to coexist in peace. I have a hard enough time letting this apparent contradiction exist within me, which is far from an actual embrace of it as healthy and good. But I want to reach for the embrace. I want to live in that space of peace.

And I want to do so with a love like that.

Let us light the whole sky, my friends.

giving thanks.

I hope that today was a beautiful day for you, wherever you were, whomever you spent the day with, whatever variation on the national theme you ate for your Thanksgiving dinner. I had a lovely day of celebration back home. It wasn't hard to enjoy the day -- I'm quite the fan of any event that gives cause for the gathering of family and friends and the preparing and eating of good food.

And I am glad for the reminder to be thankful, as there is so much to be thankful for...

I am thankful for people: this wonderful family of mine, my beautiful community in GR and the friends that scattered but remain so dear.

I am thankful for these last few months of confusion and complication and lack of direction and for all that they taught me. I am thankful that God is larger and greater than I imagine and his plan more complex and difficult and better than mine could ever be.

And oh heavens, I am thankful for a job, for a job that pays the bills, a job that, on most days, I like! May I never forget to be thankful for this.

And I am thankful also for coffee and poetry, for words and correct punctuation and photographs, for resale shops and community gardens, for farmers markets and a warm winter coat, for ovens that function and chimneys that stay put, for art and music and those that create them, for food and friends to eat with, for a great big beautiful world and people who want to make it better and a God who lets us be part of the change.

Oh yes, I am so thankful. May the same be true of you, today and always. Happy Thanksgiving, dear ones.

i thank you God for most this amazing

e.e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,

and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth

day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay

great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing

breathing any--lifted from the no

of all nothing--human merely being

doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

My contribution to the feast: Fruit and nut stuffed acorn squash

happiness. yes.

Today, I am happy.

In this season of my life, I am happy.

And it is really good to be happy.

But I am realizing, more and more all the time, that happiness does not result from today being what it is or from this season of my life being what it is or from any one influence in my life. Happiness comes when I choose it, when I look for reasons to be happy and wrap my fingers tightly around them, when I pull them up and lift them high above my head, when I open my hand so that the light falls on them and no one, not me or anyone else, can deny their existence.

This is nothing profound or new, not at all. But it's what I am learning in this coursing, continuous life, the one unmarked by exams and due dates and semester breaks, the one in which I make choices for significant periods of time and consider jobs that have no date of completion... you know, my great-big-real-world adult life. I want it to be a happy life, and I am learning that it can be happy, regardless of the good and the bad and the otherwise of what happens within it.

I could choose to look at the frustrations, at the confusion of the moment or the uncertainty of the future or that fact that life is kind of ridiculous. Because, of course, it is not all rosy here: I spent a recent afternoon hour in tears on the telephone with my mother because I am so confused about my next steps. I really miss my sister and brother-in-law and all of my friends that have moved away. I will need to find a new place to live and go about the awful business of moving once again come January, whether I stay in GR or go elsewhere. I cannot seem to catch all of the genius mice that live here in my flat, the mice that keep on reproducing their genes of brilliance, increasing the population of really intelligent, not-fooled-by-traps-of-any-sort mice and causing me to fear that one day the ceiling will break open and the whole colony of thousands and thousands of genius mice will run squeaking through my home, like that scene in Ratatouille where the rats pour out of the old woman's ceiling and she shoots them with her rifle (though, of course, I wouldn't reenact that part).

Now, I do see those things, the frustrations and the sadness and the confusion. I would be being dishonest with myself if I ignored them. But then I look deeper. Instead of dwelling on these things or basing my happiness on life turning out ever-shiny and bright and easy, I am looking for the reasons for happiness, reasons that are always there, regardless of the state of my life in any one moment.

And yes, things have been relatively calm for the last several weeks and far less tumultuousness resides in my mind and heart today than did two months ago. I do have a quiet flat for the weekend, void of roommates, in which I can turn up George Winston's December album (too soon for Christmas? no. never. more on that later.), sink into my chair by the window, drink my strong black coffee and rest and think. This month did bring -- finally! -- routine in my job and an income that pays the bills and possibilities for the future. And I do have particularly wonderful friends and family and live in a particularly lovely city.

But I could choose to see or ignore all of that. And I could choose to see or ignore the wonder of a campfire on the beach in mid-November... the beauty of the many kinds of squash on display at the farmers' market... the humor in my dad's insistance on converting every moment of my visit home last weekend into celebration of his birthday... the simple joy in making fresh-from-the-bog-cranberry salad and cranberry bread with my mom in her bright, clean kitchen while home... the tremendous peace and truth that seep into my soul whenever I am with my dear friend Nicole, one of the most incredible and wise women I know... the wholesomeness of the food she and I ate together at Gaia this afternoon...

And I choose to see.

Nothing new, nothing complex, nothing I haven't talked about here before. But today, I am filled with joy and peace, and I didn't want to keep it to myself.

Welcome Morning

by Anne Sexton

There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry "hello there, Anne"

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning

All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

in a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter of the morning,

lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,

dies young.

be the ground lying under that sky (reflections on agency and a poem)

Sometime during the development of my feminist sensibilities, I discovered the concept of agency. And oh, what a wonderful word, what a brilliant and beautiful concept. Agency, as a feminist theoretical notion, refers to the fact that we as human beings have the freedom and ability to act and thus to overcome social pressures, stereotypes, inequality and so on to gain (more) equal power and value in society. This proves important in feminist thought because our agency can be overlooked or taken from us, as it often has been for women -- and when this occurs, it must be reclaimed.

Now because we have agency, we have hope. Yes, difficult circumstances and oppression do affect us, but at the same time, we have the capability and the freedom to push back and to make things different. Speaking specifically, then, of women, I do believe that even our oh-so-developed Western society is oppressive and sexist, ideologically and practically and institutionally. But I also believe that all of us have agency. We do not have to sit and passively resign ourselves to the current condition of our society.

What a notion. I love it.

And this concept of agency ties right into the Christian concept of free will. The last thing I want to do here is to jump into a deep theological discussion of free will and predestination (heavens no!), but I do want to make the connection: agency is a biblical concept as well as a feminist one. God gives us free will; we are not puppets on strings.

You might be asking why I bring this up tonight, so let me now tie this feminist/biblical notion into my life at present. As of the weekend, I had started feeling at peace about a certain possibility for my future. For one brief moment, I thought I knew what was right -- what I wanted, even. On Monday afternoon, however, the content of two unexpected emails completely negated that moment of peace. I found that I know nothing, not a thing. I found that I am afraid of things I thought I didn't fear. I found that the future remains encased in shadow.

And this happens every time, doesn't it? Things fit together; things come apart. Every once in awhile, life stops being confusing and complicated, but just for a split second, and then -- poof! -- the stability is gone.

As I was bemoaning the rebirth of my uncertainty, I began thinking about agency and free will, concepts that usually seem so wonderful to me. I love that God has given us freedom and responsibility, and I love the hope that agency provides in bleak circumstances, but how absolutely terrifying. If I'm being honest, often I just want open and closed doors, black like night and white like a dove, lines in the sand, letters carved in tree trunks and words traced out in the clouds. Tonight is one of those times. Tonight, I want security and answers and stability. Tonight, I am so afraid of my agency.

But I am not one to let fear stand in my way, and I hope that the same is true of you. So join me, dear ones, and let us grasp this agency, this free will, this beautiful freedom that we have, even when we are afraid.

This weekend, a dear friend scribbled the following poem on the back of a pair of receipts and passed it along to me, telling me she thought I would appreciate it. I liked it very much when first I read it, but it strikes even more deeply tonight. I hope it means something to you also.

Dich wundert nicht des Sturmes Wucht

by Rainer Maria Rilke

You are not surprised at the force of the storm--

you have seen it growing.

The trees flee. Their flight

sets the boulevards streaming. And you know:

he whom they flee is the one

you move toward. All your senses

sing him, as you stand at the window.

The weeks stood still in summer.

The trees' blood rose. Now you feel

it wants to sink back

into the source of everything. You thought

you could trust that power

when you plucked the fruit;

now it becomes a riddle again,

and you again a stranger.

Summer was like your house: you knew

where each thing stood.

Now you must go out into your heart

as onto a vast plain. Now

the immense loneliness begins.

The days go numb, the wind

sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves.

Through the empty branches the sky remains.

It is what you have.

Be earth now, and evensong.

Be the ground lying under that sky.

Be modest now, like a thing

ripened until it is real,

so that he who began it all

can feel you when he reaches for you.