I can already declare this seclusion to be a major success! Why? Because not only have I successfully slowed way down, I actually got to bed by 9:00pm last night!
What you have to understand is that I don’t believe I’ve gone to bed that early ever in my adult life. Well, okay, maybe if I was desperately ill or super-jetlagged but that’s it.
Going to bed so early meant I was up early enough to watch the sunrise, without even trying.
Which reminded me of this Mary Oliver poem I discovered right before going into seclusion. Quite apropos.
I did a quick share of this on Facebook this morning, but seeing as how it remained in my mind and on my heart throughout the day, I realized I had more to say about it.
First of all, I’ve been loving the poems of John Roedel since I discovered him during the pandemic. His words have touched me deeply over the years, and today’s poem was no different.
I’ve been reflecting on how this poem has a very “both/and” perspective — something that is so lacking in the world right now. The ability to acknowledge how things are, but at the same time, refusing to let the craziness overwhelm us or cast us down into despair. It’s definitely a delicate balancing act.
Anyway, the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that — in times like these — being kind and gentle, and going easy on ourselves and others, is a powerful and radical act.
Enjoy the poem.
there’s no handbook for any of this
there are no hard and fast rules for times like these
~ you’re doing the best you can
holding things together while the world falls apart
in this age of fear and fret you don’t need to be perfect; you just need to be gentle
~ with yourself and everyone else
because that’s all you can really control, isn’t it?
yes, things might unravel a bit more before this is all done
~you might come undone as well
and it’s okay if you do
because
while the world is resetting it’s router
we can take turns deciding who gets to cry on the couch
we can take turns becoming a balm for one another
we can take turns yelling up into the silent sky
we can take turns having insomnia
we can take turns being confessionals for one another
we can take turns brushing the tears off of each other’s face
we can take turns inviting the butterflies to swarm us
my love,
don’t worry about getting all of this right
you won’t
don’t worry about making mistakes
you will
~ you’re doing the best you can
and remember
there is only one great commandment for enduring a year like this one
I’ve shared poems by John Roedel before; I love his stuff. This one is the result of his experience this morning. I found it powerfully perfect for Easter.
(It’s okay if you’re not up for reading a long poem. I’m happy to give away the ending: Hope endures.) 🌻
The poet sat at his computer for two hours on Easter morning without being able to produce a single word.
His hands resting on the keyboard like starfish drying out on a beach. His eyes fixated on the blinking cursor that mocked him with every flutter.
He had so much he wanted to say to you – but couldn’t find a way to start.
The poet knew you likely also had such a weight on your shoulders and he just wanted to find a way to take some of it off before you were crushed by the heaviness of everything.
The poet closed his eyes and he could feel it all.
All of the heavy emotions of the world were seeping under the door. The despair started wrapping him as if it were a hungry python.
The snake slid under the poet’s tear duct and made his way down to the his heart.
All of the fear. All of the sadness. All of the anger. All of the war. All of the greed. All of the inhumanity.
It all coiled around the poet until he couldn’t focus on anything but the endless anguish of the world.
“Write something,” the poet hissed at himself through his pursed lips.
He figured if he could start with a single word to get the ball rolling – anything.
Just write something. Now. Write. Go!
Nothing happened. No words came.
The hands of the poet remained still.
So so so still.
The emotions of the planet were swallowing him up and soon he felt he might be gone altogether.
When his family would come looking for him they would just find his shoes and an untyped document. Every other little bit of him would be devoured by the darkness.
The poet looked out the window.
The world was raging. Everyone was holding signs. Everyone was shouting at each other. Everyone was building fences between one another.
The python of despair continued to tighten around his heart.
“This is how it ends,” the snake said as it began to squeeze his heart like a breakfast grapefruit.
The poet could feel the tightness in his chest. He could feel the despair pinch itself around him. He took a gasping breath and watched for the darkness he assumed that was about ready to rise up out of the floorboards and gobble him up up up.
The poet and the python waited for his end to come – but that is when the miracle happened.
The harder the snake coiled around his heart the more light poured out of the poet’s eyes.
At first, the light was subtle – like little particles of glowing dust caught under the lights above.
The snake’s expression changed to as if to say “Uh oh.”
The emotions of the world hissed louder and started to squeeze as tight as it could around the poet.
As that happened, the light from his eyes sharpened into beams, then lightning, melting the snake.
The heat of the light pouring out of the eyes of the poet melted the snake down like an old Lenten candle.
“What’s happening?” the python asked.
“I’m not sure. But I think the more despair you tried to smother me with the more hope seemed to squeeze out of me,” the poet said.
“Oh…damn,” the python groaned as it became a purple puddle of waxy sadness and grief.
The poet looked back out through the window. The world was still raging. People were still screaming at each other. However, this time, none of that scared him nearly as much.
This time the poet knew exactly what to write to you on this Easter morning.
Many years ago now, there was a brief period when I became sort of an honorary member of the Irish-Irish (as distinct from the Irish-American) community in San Francisco.
It’s a long story, which I won’t go into, but during that rich and expansive time I became acquainted with the writings of John O’Donohue and even had the blessing of hearing him speak in person.
I hadn’t thought of him in many years, but was very moved to find this beautiful blessing for the new year. I was even more delighted to discover a recording of him reading the poem himself.
(Interestingly, I learned that I’m posting this on his birthday — January 1st — and that he was born in the same year I was.)
[Note: “Beannacht” is the Gaelic word for “blessing.” A “currach” is a large boat used on the west coast of Ireland.]
Beannacht: A Blessing for the New Year
On the day when The weight deadens On your shoulders And you stumble, May the clay dance To balance you.
And when your eyes Freeze behind The grey window And the ghost of loss Gets in to you, May a flock of colours, Indigo, red, green, And azure blue, Come to awaken in you A meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays In the currach of thought And a stain of ocean Blackens beneath you, May there come across the waters A path of yellow moonlight To bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours, May the clarity of light be yours, May the fluency of the ocean be yours, May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow Wind work these words Of love around you, An invisible cloak To mind your life.
Today I encountered a profound life lesson in the form of a poem.
“I wonder if you know, the work your body has done today. And every day. How much disease it has fought off. How many times it could have failed but battled on, how many ways it could have broken but did not. I wonder if you know, the work your body has done today. And every day. And each day it has done this amazing job, without your help, without your approval, your acceptance, your kindness. Each day it has soldiered on, regardless of the constant stream of negativity, pulsing its way from your brain to your cells. Not good enough. Not attractive enough. Not the right shape. Perhaps it’s time to see your body for what is truly is, An amazing and mind-blowingly competent machine. To get your soul to where it needs to be in this life. To let you live. I wonder if you know, how much better you would be as a team. I wonder.”
When I run after what I think I want, my days are a furnace of stress and anxiety; If I sit in my own place of patience, what I need flows to me, and without pain. From this I understand that what I want also wants me, is looking for me and attracting me. There is a great secret in this for anyone who can grasp it. — Rumi
