Jessie Willcox Smith – The Flowers, A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1905
Thanks for the inspiration, Ravenous Butterflies! This put me back in touch with the “me” that believes in fairies and devas and the little people.
All the names I know from nurse: Gardener’s garters, Shepherd’s purse, Bachelor’s buttons, Lady’s smock, And the Lady Hollyhock.
Fairy places, fairy things, Fairy woods where the wild bee wings, Tiny trees for tiny dames— These must all be fairy names!
Tiny woods below whose boughs Shady fairies weave a house; Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, Where the braver fairies climb!
Fair are grown-up people’s trees, But the fairest woods are these; Where, if I were not so tall, I should live for good and all. — The Flowers, from A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson
[Warning: this is a long one, but well worth it, I believe!]
Today I’m sharing something I read on Facebook, written by John Roedel. What he wrote — especially the poem! — resonated on a very deep level for me. Memories of my own dark moments of despair surfaced, and I believe some healing happened through the powerful experience his writings invoked.
I’m sharing what he wrote in its entirety, then I’ll share more about my own experience tomorrow…
Recently, I woke up at 4 a.m. feeling crushed under the weight of my anxiety. Unpaid bills. Graying hair. Strained relationships. Health problems of a loved one. Struggling writing career. Relentless bouts of depression. Self-doubt. Anxiety. Regret.
It was all laying on my chest like a cannonball. I have never felt this type of despair before.
I crawled out of my bed and walked across the street to find a park bench to cry alone on. I didn’t want my family to see me like this. I didn’t want God to see me like this.
I was at the edge of all that I could handle.
I put my hands in my face and just let it all out. Everything I had been holding onto. All my grief. All my sorrow. All of my fear. All of my pain.
It all poured out of my eyes. I hadn’t cried like this in a decade. The guttural groaning coming from me probably scared a couple squirrels into believing a wolf had made its way into town to eat a fat-tailed rodent for a snack.
I cried and cried until the sun came up. With my face buried so deeply in my palms I could hear my thumping pulse against my cheek. I felt each tear squeeze their way through the gaps in my finger.
It was like I was melting right there on that park bench. I figured in a couple hours a jogger would have to jump over the middle-aged puddle of clothes and hair that I would soon become.
My inner muse whispered in my ear like she always does in these moments when I’m barely holding on.
She told me to “write something.”
That was her usual prescription for helping me through a panic attack like this.
“No,” I replied out loud.
The nearby squirrels looked ar me with concern in their pebble eyes as I argued with my invisible angels.
I didn’t want to put it all on paper -or in this case on my phone. I didn’t want to write about this unseen heartbreak I was going through. I didn’t want to read it. I just wanted to melt down into a drain. I was too tired to do anything else.
“Open your eyes, John,” my muse spoke softly.
“Why?”
“Because you’re about to miss it,” she said. I swear I could feel a pair of lips kiss my forehead.
I lifted my head. The sun was peeking. The darkness was the one that was melting away and I was still there – yet so was my anxiety.
“Miss what?” I asked.
My muse didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.
A lovely dragonfly was hovering about four feet away from me. She must have come to the bench to celebrate the coming day. We looked at each other. One of us was breaking and the other was honoring the breaking dawn.
“It’s all so beautiful,” my muse said through the sound of the dragonfly’s whisking wings.
“Yes, it is,” I admitted through my post-sob dry heaving.
The dragonfly danced for me. Up, down. Right. Left. It was just the two of us.
“Now…write…” my muse said.
I pulled out my phone and wrote this:
******
I wasn’t going to write a poem today
then I worried that if I didn’t that I might start to forget
how terrifying and beautiful this whole experience is
I would love to quit writing about the knots in my stomach and the rivers of grace I often find myself swimming naked in
but I think doing they would be the first step in taking the mystery of each of those mystical riddles for granted
and I’d rather be mocked and made to feel humiliated for my vulnerability
than to be bored
by the distinctive music that the wings of a dragonfly makes when it joins the harmony of the near-silent sobbing I produce while sitting at a park bench at sunup
the frequency of it’s outstretched wings the tone of my sentimental tears blend simultaneously to create the song of sunrise
two unwitting poets writing lyrics together under the crawling shadows of first light
one writing with her furious anisoptera form
the other with his trembling hands
both poets unafraid of remaining authentic to the growing melody that’s been playing inside each of them since they first hatched
both poets unsure that they will survive this day without being under the boot of an enemy we didn’t know we had
both poets recognizing their fragile role in the beautiful play they have been cast in
both poets equally considered grotesque or lovely
depending on which set of eyes look upon them
both poets taking inventory and writing their story
one blurry wing beat and one thirsty written line at a time
a lemonade dragonfly hovering a blueberry man considering a pineapple horizon pouring a pair of cracked coconut wings a single fresh watermelon smile
For once I’m writing my blog post before noon. Why? Because inspiration hit early for once!
My friend, Lisa — who feels, as do I, a deep love for the poetry of Mary Oliver — shared a poem that really spoke to me today. And I felt to distill its message down to these words to live by: Go easy; be filled with light; shine.
Trees remind us that we, too, have come into the world to do this. But how quickly we forget…
WHEN I AM AMONG THE TREES When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, “Stay awhile.” The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say, “and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.”
@2006 by Mary Oliver Published by Beacon Press in Thirst, p.4
Oh my! This is a poem I wrote for a class assignment in the seventh grade, eons and eons ago.
Reading it, I realize I really was an optimistic child. The handwriting’s a bit hard to decipher (check out those exclamation marks😂), so I’ve typed it below…
To Be Able to See
What a privilege it is, To be able to see. We take it for granted, But don’t you agree?: To be able to see all the world, It’s stupendous! Each little color! I say, it’s tremendous! Why don’t we all take advantage of this… This wonderful gift we are bestowed with? Just think of all who are unable to see, And open your eyes! Look at land & at sea! Look at the world, You won’t be here that long! Look around & be happy, Fill your heart with a song! Be ecstatic! Erratic! Go crazy with gladness! Open your eyes, give way to madness. Look at flowers & trees At the birds & the bees. Fill your heart, fill your soul! And look! Look some more & some more! Until you are part of the wonderful world God made for us all. Look & be happy! Go ahead have a ball.
Seeing this darling video brought back memories of a poem remembered from childhood. Hope you enjoy both video and poem.
My Shadow by Robert Louis Stevenson
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.
He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see; I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
About a month ago a friend reached out to her larger community on Facebook, sharing her feelings of brokenness and grief, and asking for help. My heart went out to her and I felt to share a poem that meant a lot to me; a poem that resonated deeply many years ago when I was going through an extended period of profound loss. Just today I learned that it resonated for her as well, for which I am sooo grateful!
Now I’m feeling to share the poem here, in case there’s anyone else out there who needs the comfort it offers. I’ve been reading it for going on thirty years and it still teaches me and moves me to tears. And, thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was finally able to find out who wrote it! Her name is Rashani and she seems to be quite an amazing, inspiring woman.
The Unbroken There is a broken-ness Out of which comes the unbroken A shatteredness out of which blooms the unshatterable There is a sorrow beyond all grief which leads to joy And a fragility out of whose depths emerges strength There is a hollow space too vast for words Through which we pass with each loss out of whose darkness we are sanctioned into being There is a cry deeper than all sound whose serrated edges cut the heart as we break open to the place inside us which is unbreakable and whole. All the while learning to sing. —Rashani
