Eileen McKenna photo
The long wait
In that long slow
stretch between
late winter and
true spring
the sky stands static
and gray until
suddenly
the dogwood opens,
forming a choir
of blooms
every petal lifted
like hands in praise
and we are witness
to a miracle we
can finally
believe.
- Drew Myron
It doesn't take much to make me happy: sunshine, a good book, and people who give me books. (Is there a better gift than a book? I can only think of one: a letter, a letter tucked inside a good book).
I'm happily immersed in books — books I would have never known had good people not shared their good books with me. The world really does turn on the exchange of words.
Landmarks
by Robert Macfarlane
Published in 2016, this book is lush, dense, poetic. Robert Macfarlane is a British academic, nature writer, and word lover who is working to restore the “literacy of the land.” Landmarks, says The New York Times, "is part outdoor adventure story, part literary criticism, part philosophical disquisition, part linguistic excavation project, part mash note — a celebration of nature, of reading, of writing, of language and of people who love those things. . . " That's me!
The Five Minute Journal
by Alex Ikonn and UJ Ramdas
I wasn't immediately thrilled with this gem. It's billed as "the simplest, most effective thing you can do every day to be happier." While given to me with love, I saw it as a unending homework assignment. Uggh. But I do like structure and lists, so I stepped up and gave it a try. And I'm "happy" to say this is a five-minute focus exercise that works! I don't do it everyday (there's only so many shoulds I can do and remain a pleasant person) but when I start my day with this journal I always feels better than when I don't.
Princess Pamela's Soul Food Cookbook
by Pamela Strobel
I'm not a foodie or a fancy cook, still I love the spirit of this book. Long out-of-print, after 45 years this treasure has been re-introduced as history lesson, poetry, and cookbook in one. Written in 1969, this is a collection of recipes from Pamela Strobel’s tiny soul food restaurant that thrived in New York's East Village in the 1960s. Orphaned at 10 years old, Strobel was just a teenager when she traveled north from South Carolina to New York to make a life for herself with her one skill: cooking. She pairs nearly every recipe with a poem, serving up a wonderful mix of food, love, religion, and race. With a recipe for tripe, for example, she offers this:
Practically every kind of people
eat somethin' that somebody
else make a godawful face
at. If that don’ tellya what
this race-hatin’ is
all about, nuthin’ will.
In this life, we gotta give
ourselves a chance to digest a
lotta things we don’
understand right off.
The Visual Display of Quantitative Information
by Edward R. Tufte
I am perplexed by this gift. It's more textbook dull than visual cool. Given to me by a designer friend, I know I'm holding an important work of another world but it's a world I don't fully understand. Still, I recognize a classic, so I plug along, puzzling over detailed graphs, elaborate tables, and engineer-ish illustrations. That's how it is with books that arrive as gifts, both giver and receiver are seen and revealed — and, really, that's a gift in itself.
Your turn. What are you reading? What books have you gifted, and what have you received?
Get out your pen and paper. Let's write!
Have you written a "Where I'm From" poem? For many young writers, this form is their first taste of writing poetry. The teacher passes out a template and the kids fill in the blanks to create their poem.
Sounds like amateur hour, right? Yes, but stick with me. These poems are fun for all ages.
I recently attended a long and tedious professional conference (nothing to do with writing) and toward the end of the session the instructor handed out the tired old templates. I groaned but played along — and it turned out this short writing session was the best part of the day.
So, yes, give it a try.
Here's the template. Fill in the blanks:
I am from _________________________
(specific ordinary item)
From _____________________________
(product name)
and ______________________________
(product name)
I am from the _____________________
(home description)
I am from _________________________
(plant, flower, natural item)
I'm from __________________________
(family tradition)
and ______________________________
(family trait)
From _____________________________
(name of family member)
and _______________________________
(another family name)
I'm from the ________________________
(description of family tendency)
and ________________________________
(another one)
From _______________________________
(something you were told as a child)
and ________________________ (another)
I'm from _____________________________
(place of birth and family ancestry)
____________________________________
(a food item that represents your family)
____________________________________
(another one)
Feel free to condense, expand and rearrange your responses. Let this be the door that opens you to a poem. And then, let it take you even further.
Poetry lore says this form was created in the 1990s by George Ella Lyon, Kentucky Poet Laureate 2015-2016.
"The process was too rich and too much fun to give up after only one poem," she explains on her website. "I decided to try it as an exercise with other writers, and it immediately took off. The list form is simple and familiar, and the question of where you are from reaches deep."
She offers this stellar advice:
"While you can revise (edit, extend, rearrange) your Where I'm From list into a poem, you can also see it as a corridor of doors opening onto further knowledge and other kinds of writing. The key is to let yourself explore these rooms. Don't rush to decide what kind of writing you're going to do or to revise or finish a piece. Let your goal be the writing itself. Learn to let it lead you."
Now, let's share. Here's my poem:
Something will come
I'm from Capn’ Crunch and Brady Bunch
from Love Boat and Little House
from Sun-In summers and waffle-stomp winters.
I’m from peace signs and dusty ferns
from cigarettes and scotch, apples and wheat
from sickness and grit
I’m from apartments rattled by railroad noise
from long walks to school and swimming
at the neighborhood pool.
I’m from big eaters and hard workers
from Bart and Lucy, Margaret and Andre
and Cindra, best sister and friend.
From Oregon, Washington, California, Colorado,
from inner-west, left coast, city, suburb, and farm
from quiet talkers and white-knuckled independence
from something will come
and more is not always better.
- Drew Myron
Your turn. Where are you from? Please share your poem in the comments section.
I'm finding inspiration in unexpected places.
Starting with the headline above. I read it as: May is Wildflower Awareness Month.
Well, yes, of course. After a wet winter, it's been a season of lupine, foxglove, and sweetpea, and with each spotting my heart lifts. But no . . it's wildfires, not widlflowers, that need our attention.
Is this metaphor? These days it seem we're racing to put out fire after fire (immigration, health care, walls, and wars). There's so much to resist my naps have grown in duration, so exhausted from the worry and weight of thinking.
And so I unexpectedly found solace — and mirth — in the sports pages. No, really.
Do you read Jason Gay? I don't even like sports (at all, none of them) but I eagerly read Jason Gay's column in the Wall Street Journal.* He's chatty and smart with loads of pop culture references. For example, in This Sports Column is Too Long, he writes:
Let’s be honest: You’re never going to make it to the end of this stupid column. You’re too rushed, too busy, too compressed for time. You have a million things to do, and a million more things competing for your attention. Who has time to read 800 or so words in a newspaper? Or eight words, for that matter? I’ve lost you already. I’m certain of it. At least my mom is still reading. Thanks, Mom!
Just when I think I can't get further afield, I stumble upon car reviews. Yes, you read that right. I couldn't care less about cars. When I drive, I have only three questions: Does it start? Does it run? Do I have to pump my own gas? But when I read Dan Neil, who writes about cars with such a sharp fun tongue, I can't wait to turn the ignition. For example:
I worried that calling the Toyota Land Cruiser a “behemoth” might sound catty, so I looked it up. The word comes to us from the Hebrew for “hippopotamus,” and—in the actual presence of Toyota’s cultic, revered luxury SUV—I have to say, that’s pretty spot on. Both appear equally aerodynamic, for example. The proportions are similar, too, with massive bodies poised over itty-bitty feet. If anything, it’s the hippos that should take umbrage.
You may be asking, what do Jason, Dan and wildfires have to do with writing?
Everything!
To be a writer you must first read. Far and wide. You must stretch yourself beyond the injustice of sports glory, beyond the dullness of automotive details. You must wander into fields unknown. And on your sidetrip, if you're lucky, you may find the real prize: wildflowers.
* Yes, I read The Wall Street Journal and The Guardian and The Washington Post and Reuters (though the website is akin to a utilitarian version of Google: all data, no decor). Because I'm a skimmer and frequently forget details, this much reading doesn't make me smart, just tired.
How the world opens its arms
The day rests with a swell of lilac.
And the blue, see how it swoons
across the wide open sky, and how
now the day has made room for
beauty, waiting just long enough
to hear us whisper amen.
— Drew Myron
Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy,
I make room for Thankful Thursday.
What are you thankful for today?
Last week I asked:
What poem is in your hand, in your head, in your heart?
The response was vibrant, and I'm heartened to know that poetry thrums and thrives in our lives. As we wrap up National Poetry Month, I'm sharing some of the poems I've enjoyed — thanks to you, dear readers, writers & poetry appreciators.
* * *
"This poem is knocking my socks off," writes Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Colorado's Western Slope Poet Laureate:
Life While-You-Wait
Life While-You-Wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.
I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.
I have to guess on the spot
just what this play’s all about.
Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.
Words and impulses you can’t take back,
stars you’ll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run —
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.
If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).
You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.
The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.
And whatever I do
will become forever what I’ve done.
— Wislawa Szymborska
* * *
Jeanie Senior, a journalist and poetry appreciator, recalls one of her favorite poems:
Dover Beach
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; - on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
— Matthew Arnold
* * *
Shirley McPhillips, author of Acrylic Angel of Fate, shared her own poem:
Shaking Off the Village
— after Wanderlust
Today, I walk--cloud-gaze, woolgather,
meander--because it is slow.
I take leave of my senses, do nothing
in particular, with nobody, all alone.
Today, I do not make a sacred pilgrimage
or walk for justice or freedom
or any global good.
I walk to shake off the village
where a false urgency of devices
moves faster than the speed of thought,
or thoughtfulness. I saunter--my feet
equally at home in every place--taste
the essential wildness of presence.
Steps add up like taps on a drum
to the rhythm of breathing
and the beating of the heart.
— Shirley McPhillips
* * *
Woesha Hampson shares a poem she wrote:
Painting in the Yard
Mother Nature paints, our yard her canvas.
Watching needles falling, I find solace.
A dog drops a rag doll. A girl appears.
She spots the doll, smiles, wipes away her tears.
Squirrels bury walnuts, hide them in pots,
large and small. They are brazen as a fox.
A young deer passing by, sees me. He walks
through the rain. Circling above are two hawks.
A flicker bathes briefly in the bird bath.
Through bushes, the dog returns on the path.
Evergreen and fruit trees, flowers, and plants
are caddywampus after a rain’s dance.
— Woesha Hampson
As the hoopla of Poetry Month subsides, we know poetry lives in the everyday, in what we do and what we say. Keep on poeming!
It's April and the world hums with poems.
Time to get in the groove for Poem in Your Pocket Day!
(Yes, it's a real thing).
So, tell me:
What's in your heart & on your page?
What do you clutch & what do you give away?
What poem is in your pocket?
Where Art Is Made
We are builders, makers, hopers, doers.
From clunkers and junkers,
out of shards and clay,
we shape and frame, sort and stir.
Each of us turning grime into gold.
Against fence and lock,
a door swings, a window opens,
a sunflower reaches for a fresh day.
Everything is always growing.
Dirt dusts places not yet alive
and in this gravel of possibility,
we honor the old and worn, the faded and frail,
know that good bones are worth holding.
Deep against rock, trains clack and roll,
we press into paper, scissors and paint,
splattered, gathered, mixed.
With each ding-ding-ding, solid freight
floats our dreams and we clatter, wide awake
in dark, in light, in love and hope.
The day opens, the sky widens, you are here.
Hand in hand, arm in arm, each grip
is a dare to you declared:
Breathe, work, sear and sculpt.
Sew and hold, paint and saw.
Mix and mingle. Break rules, break ground.
Create your self, your world, your now.
On the bridge of progress, we dance and dive,
wonder, wander, taste and make.
With each how and why and what next?
we dig in and reach out
to build in the mind,
a step, a ladder, another sky.
Let’s scaffold the unknown.
In every thing, promise.
— Drew Myron
I love a good collaboration, and this special project brought together all my faves: image, sound & words.
"Where Art Is Made," by Futuristic Films, celebrates the many makers who continue to shape and define the River North Art District (RiNo) in Denver, Colorado. Conceived by Tracy Weil, RiNo's Co-Founder/Creative Director, the film features the spoken word talent of Toluwanimi Obiwole, Denver's first Youth Poet Laureate (2015), and an original poem by Drew Myron (me!).
As we celebrate National Poetry Month, this artful blend is proof that poetry lives in everything, everywhere, every day.
According to Chinese tradition, a garden landscape without poetry is not complete. Poetry, along with rocks, architecture, water, and plants, is one of the five necessary elements of a Chinese garden.
I'm honored to celebrate National Poetry Month at the Lan Su Chinese Garden in Portland, Oregon. Please join me for this free workshop.
Come to Your Senses
—a writing workshop
Portland, Oregon
Wednesday April 12, 2017
3 to 4:30pm
Free with admission.
Writing comes alive with the detail our senses provide. Using the sense of smell as a trigger, we’ll focus on fresh writing with prompts and practices designed to energize and inspire.
From poetry to prose, fact to fiction, this 90-minute workshop will serve as a creative springboard in which you’ll generate new work, meet other writers, and share experiences that will help shape, shift and propel your own writing.
This workshop is free with admission to Lan Su Garden, and open to writers of all ages, experience & interests. No registration is required. Drop in, bring pen, paper & your writing mind.
About Lan Su Chinese Garden
One of Portland, Oregon’s greatest treasures, Lan Su Chinese Garden is more than just a beautiful botanic garden. It’s an inspiring experience based on a 2,000-year-old Chinese tradition that blends art, architecture, design and nature in perfect harmony.
About the Instructor
Drew Myron is a former newspaper reporter and editor who has covered news, arts, entertainment and travel for AOL, Northwest Best Places and other publications. For over 15 years, she’s headed a marketing communications company specializing in literacy, health and advocacy for the vulnerable. Drew is the author of several books and art collaborations.
[Art] has been reduced to an insult:
"It's a bunch of squiggles that my kid could do" . . .
You want to know how I think art should be taught to children?
Take them to a museum and say, "This is art, and you can't do it."
— An Object of Beauty
a novel by Steve Martin
This is how to bloom
— for Dee, of daffodil season
And you,
From damp earth
and newborn grass
Born among daffodils.
The sky strains to grow.
You are ruffled edge,
a burn of gold.
And you, in resurrection
In this tender-sun season
Made from burden and stone
In an urgent quiet, whisper
What are you waiting for?
— Drew Myron
Talking about the weather is a sure sign of:
1) A dull wit.
2) An old crank.
3) A long winter.
Yes, all three! It's been a long, wet, gray winter in Oregon. But, wait, this is not a weather report. This is my how-to-survive guide.
A Guide to Gratitude
Or How to Be Thankful When Life is Sucking The Life Out of You
1.
Drink Coffee
Or tea, warm milk, warm water . . . anything that soothes.
2.
Watch Flowers Grow
So much better than watching paint dry or water boil. Did you know daffodils — my favorite flower — are only $2 a bunch? That's a pop of sunshine for less than a latte! Go ahead, splurge.
3.
Wear Something Soft
I love cashmere, and regularly stalk Goodwill for thrifty luxury. But a soft scarf works too, or snuggly mittens, a smooth blanket. The world can feel so hard, cocoon in softness.
Caution: Don't park yourself in comfy clothing. Bursts of comfort are good. Living in sweats (or yoga pants) is bad.
4.
Bathe in Books
This is a two-for-one pick-me-up: take a bath and bring a book. Or skip the bath and just bathe in words. Either way, you'll immerse yourself in sensory pleasure.
5.
Eat with a Friend
Or drink and eat. Try not to drink alone or eat junk food alone (for me, chips and cookies are guilty binges devoured in the shame of solitary over-indulgence). Still, to be of healthy mind and body, I try to eat with others. And rarely drink alone — that's just sad.
6.
Move
I loath exercise until I actually do it, and then I wonder why I didn't get moving sooner. When you're feeling low the pit of lethary is deep, so you gotta start small. Get off the couch, then out of the house, then take a walk around the block. Fresh air is invigorating, no matter the weather. And that first jolt is usually enough to make you want more.
7.
Write
Start easy. One page. One line, even. You're allowed to write junk. You're allowed to babble. This is just for you. Keep the pen moving. Keep your mind open. Just write. Like moving your body, moving the pen across the page reinforces that you can. Keep on. As Naomi Shihab Nye says, "No one feels worse after writing."
8.
Get a Chia
I don't like dirt or gardening and rarely remember to water the plants. But my Dad — bless his goofy heart — recently sent me a Chia pet. Remember those ceramic pots shaped into animals and objects in which you place seeds and they magically sprout? Yes, so kitschy and corny and fun.
9.
Pray
For sun, for spring, for just a hint of light in the sky. For patience.
10.
Forget Yourself
Read with a child. Make soup for the sick. Hold hands with the lonely. Listen to a neighbor. In short, get out of your head and into the world. There's a lot of hurt, be a balm.
How do you get through?
It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. Joy contracts and expands in relation to our gratitude. What are you thankful for today?
1.
I haven't written in a while because I talk too much and say only one thing: rain, rain, more rain.
It's grey again and my stomach rumbles, or is that my hip? Something is rusted, shut.
This long winter. This season of life. I celebrated a half-century and a friend reminded me that there was a time when 25 seemed like a feat I would fail. Oh, but for the grace of . . . protecting me from myself. I did not know what I did not know.
2.
For months now, we hurry up and wait. Each day is crisis or calm.
At the nursing home where I work, people die. And I am always surprised. Not that they die, but that it always feels sudden even when I know it's coming.
I want to say life is long stretches of gray. Not just the sky but day-to-day. It's murk. You think you'll make decisions, or have time, or just know. But such defining moments are rare. And yet we keep expecting to offer a yes or no or now. As if we have control. As if we hold both charity and clarity.
3.
Today I drove for hours across farms and fields and rain-soaked road. As a young reporter, wide-eyed, eager, open, I traveled country roads just like this.
I'm trying to say I've circled back and have learned so little. And yet the mind, the body now hold much more. Is this of use? Am I of use? I do not know.
4.
I was once charmed by these small towns half asleep. This would pull me: empty storefront, broken window, wide sky. I'd search for the sagging barn, a falling down house. I was camera and focus, giving image to a brokenness within.
Now, I feel a numb sort of sad for the struggle of getting by, of nothing stretched across years of it'll do. Even the silos seem to be mourning. Never full but not quite empty. A perpetual vacancy.
5.
Yes, I've gained weight . . . there is a heft to me now, in years and experience. I'm not so much "older and wiser" but living with a lens that offers a longer view. In this, some perspective, some relief.
See Me | an adverpoem
Sleep is the ultimate luxury. Buy it for bragging rights.
The best seats in the house are no longer in your house.
Love is complicated. Make room for more.
The choice is simple, and it’s yours.
You’re an expert in the art of compromise.
Convenience. Convenience. Winsome.
Be the breakthrough. Do beautiful work.
— Drew Myron
A found poem, featuring ad taglines from: Novartis Pharmaceuticals, Beautyrest Mattress, Moen, Ford Motor Company, LaraBar, Cost Plus World Explorer, Genentech, Delta, Amazon, Toyota, Pepperidge Farm.
Inside the car, it feels like
the devil is grilling sinners.
— We Need New Names
a novel by NoViolet Bulawayo
My gratitude grows but my attention is short. Let's make a list.
On this Thankful Thursday, I'm thankful for:
1. No knowledge
My new reading trick is to avoid book flaps, blurbs and best-seller lists, and to dive in without preconceptions. This approach worked recently when I read The Girls, an engrossing and engaging novel by Emma Cline. I liked the book very much, and it was refreshing to learn about the backstory and author after I had finished the book.
Is this how we use to read, before fevered promotions and author platforms?
2. Noteworthy
A friend sent me a card. She is "remembering to send handwritten mail every now and then" and I was the lucky recipient.
3. Retread
I rarely watch movies more than once or return to books I've already read. But this week I found myself bookless. In desperation, my eyes darted across cereal boxes and classified ads. Words, any words. Without time for a book run, I reached for my bookshelf and one of my favorite novels: Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner.
Over the years I have gifted this book to dozens of friends and family but could remember few details (I can barely remember the book I read last week, and I read this one 15 years ago).
Much to my relief, I slipped back into those creaky yellowed pages and still liked the book.
4. Pie
Though I dislike Valentine's Day (forced affection and obligatory gifts), I'm thankful I ditched my sour mood and allowed a sentimental groove. Now we're eating cherry pie and we're both happy.
Sometimes, most times, it's good to get out of your head and into your heart.
It's Thankful Thursday (on Friday, because life gets full), a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, poems and more. Life expands with gratitude. What are you thankful for today?
It's a great time to be alove.
That's what I saw. At second glance the word was alive but, really, I prefer alove. I imagine alove is similar to in love but more immersive and inclusive. Weightless through a cloud, a fog, a thicket of feel-goodness.
It's said that creatives — writers, painters, dreamers, dawdlers — need down time to replenish the well (and maybe get new glasses). The garden metaphor is often used: plant, germinate, grow, harvest, or some such. I tried to be a gardener but I dislike dirt and prefer chips to kale.
Still, the metaphor works.
There is a time to plant and a time to sow. A time to write and a time to rest. A time to produce and a time to consume. I fear, though, I may have taken consumption a bit far (see: empty chip bags and me on the couch). But hey, it's winter; I'm sowing.
In my ravenous state here's what I've consumed:
BOOKS
The Book of Unknown Americans
by Cristina Henriquez
A moving story of immigrant life, freshly and poignantly told.
The Wangs Vs. The World
by Jade Chang
Flip and easy, this riches-to-rags story about a wealthy Chinese family is a funny yet touching observation of vapid American culture.
TELEVISION
Call My Agent
An engaging French television series about a firm of agents working with a cadre of colorful, high-maintenance actors. It's light and fun but the subtitles make me feel a little more smart, a little less cheesy. See it on Netflix.
Sensitive Skin
Kim Cattrell is best known for her spicy role in Sex and the City but in this Canadian series she shows greater depth playing a widow navigating a new life. Because there are so few shows featuring intelligent, thoughtful, stylish mid-life women, this one has me hooked. Available on Netflix.
FOOD
Oh my gosh, have you binged on (err, I mean tasted) Caramel & Cheddar Cheese Popcorn? Skip dinner. Skip lunch. This is the only meal you need.
Okay, yes, I do sometimes eat "real" meals. Lately, we've been making Pho. This quick and easy version isn't the authentic Vietnamese soup, but it's darn good.
YOUR TURN: What are you consuming? and what's consuming you?
And even more important: Are you alove?
I wasn't looking for a poem. I was gathering pieces, making a word bank, trying to write my own. But instead, I found this poem. Today as the world feels so ugly with division, these lines seem just right, just now, timeless.
My heart is moved by all I cannot save:
so much has been destroyed
I have to cast my lot with those
who age after age, perversely,
with no extraordinary power,
reconstitute the world.
— Adrienne Rich
This is the last stanza of Natural Resources, a poem by Adrienne Rich that appears in the collection, The Fact of a Doorframe: Poems Selected and New 1950 - 1984. This is an excellent book. My copy, now over 20 years old, is dog-eared and falling apart. I return to the pages again and again, with new appreciation of an old friend, a firm foundation.
The Week in Review
I bought soft socks. Ate too many chips. Got lost in books.
An old woman and I held hands. "I don't know if I'm coming or going," she said. "I don't know why I'm here."
I went to a ranch and met the cows. Wide-eyed, we shared a certain numbness.
Snow met sky and erased horizon. Everything silent and still. I didn't reach for camera or phone. Didn't reach at all.
In the distance a thin ribbon of blue broke through.
It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. Some weeks are tougher than others, but every week offers some small thing that redeems and heals. What are you thankful for today?
“It's not that I have a way with words;
it's that I have no way without them.”
― from Private Citizens, a novel by Tony Tulathimutte
