o, how much space is filled with future memories
and the want of somedays of normal things…
camping trips and menu plans,
laundromats and walks,
farmers markets,
magazines,
watching too much something.
thunderstorms.
getting in the car and going,
bad jokes, good coffee,
live music,
dead art,
singing together in crooked chord.
it’s not doing the things
but the gladness I’d feel in them
whilst I do.
You cannot have my joy
without allowing for the sorrow.
Do not play with me today
if you’ll not work with me, tomorrow.
You do not get the lover
without caring for the child.
I will not show my tame
if you cannot witness wild.
There is no ease without the nerve.
There is no straight without the swerve.
There is no part of me
that can be taken
apart from all the rest.
There is no part of me
that is not needed
or in this body, blessed.
There is no part of me.
If you should choose to love me,
love every crooked side;
the heart in all its colors
is ferocious and sublime.
I am a tyrant and a servant,
a sinner and a saint.
I am cracked but fused together
an explosion in restraint.
It’s all or nothing, love.
I am not ala carte.
You can’t pick out the mushrooms
and keep
my quartered heart.
There are times that I’m afraid of what’s on the other side of all this process and pain and laughter and learning and change and discomfort and excitement and hope and curiosity and question.
I’m afraid that the other side of this is just…
Fine, like a sandwich you get at a gas station.
It fills the space but leaves you empty.
Fine, like a flower without scent.
it fills your vase but leaves no aroma.
Fine, like fake wood
and flimsy knives
and rental roller-skates.
When I feel that fear,
I remind myself that I’ll only fall into fine if I don’t cross this chasm
all
the
way.
Fine is like a creek under all this, ready for a slip on the bridge above, ready to carry me off in it’s current like a leaf or a twig if I get scared, or lazy, or forget that all this actually IS important.
Fine tells me to settle down.
Fine tells me no one cares.
Fine tells me I’ll be okay without.
Fine tells me my dreams are just
Fine whispers, “wake up. get real. deal.” with a smile and a hug
as if it was being kind.
as if it was helping me to grow up.
(since when did “grow up” mean “get small?”)
I am not fine.
I am fight and flight,
finding and fastidious.
and I will not float away in fine today.
simple things, like glass and plans.
fleshy things, like heart and heroism.
weighty things, like platinum and promises.
And I could spend too much time chewing on the WHY things break
misuse
neglect
age
overuse
recklessness
but that would only distract from the real question:
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum
Art presents the question
and from the question comes response.
If the response is ANGER, the problem grows.
If the response is NEGLECT, the problem festers.
If the response is DIALOGUE, the problem is exposed
for discussion
for understanding
for healing
for progress
for empathy
for knowledge
for peace.
In all the rest of the world, I’m quite sure there was a pause and a humming in everyone’s mind, wondering how a tune went, trying to make sense of a song forgot.
Last night, all the music in the world went silent to listen to sounds coming from inside a little church, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, between hills and valleys, soil and sky.
For three years now, I’ve attended this annual concert. It is not comprised of a “band.” It’s a Dane, a Finn, a Shetland Islander, and a Bostonian who come together to share, to teach, to play, and to learn. They’re each masters in their own land.
They gather in a church that has a ship hanging from the ceiling. It’s a replica of the ship some of our immigrant parents arrived in.
They recover songs of the past, from composers long gone, and remember us to culture’s voice. They write and compose the sound of today; they pass it along and add to the cry of generation.
They tell story.
They relay history.
They nudge us into tomorrow.
I got to hear the Finn, who keeps the rhythm in his feet, without apology or restraint. Who pounds the floor and forces the beat up, up, up into your ankles and changes the pace of your pulse.
I got to see the Shetlander, who stirs the strings with his arm, and whips his wrist like a horse’s tail while his fingers fly on the board.
I got to see the Bostonian Lass, whose grooving knees and bouncing bun accent every slide and chop, cut and crunch, and whose wide smile almost hides the somber knowing in her eyes when the music starts to play.
I got to see the Dane, whose heart comes out in note and accidental, who is history in the making, who hears and plays the sound of soul. And his wife, the song, the muse, the Danish beauty. How they looked at each other when they played…
I got to see that. In a small pond of people, in a little church in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, between hills and valleys, earth and sky. I saw.
“There are times in our lives — scary, unsettling times — when we know that we need help or answers but we’re not sure what kind, or even what the problem or question is.
We look and look, tearing apart our lives like we’re searching for car keys in our couch, and we come up empty-handed. Then when we’re doing something stupid, like staring at the dog’s mismatched paws, we stumble across what we needed to find. Or even better, it finds us. It wasn’t what we were looking or hoping for, which was usually advice, approval, an advantage, safety, or relief from pain. I was raised to seek or achieve them, but like everyone, I realized at some point that they do not bring lasting peace, relief, or uplift. This does not seem fair, after a lifetime spent in their pursuit.”
-taken from Hallelujah Anyway; Rediscovering Mercy,
by Anne Lamott
For it is not the time invested in the pursuit of something that renders it useful, profitable, or fruitful. Time is actually a very poor benefactor. It is absolutely impervious to what we “deserve” and will march forward without the slightest hesitation, no matter how many do-overs or hold-ons we may beseech.
Yet time is the only thing that stands between us and the answer to questions we don’t even know how to ask.
So, maybe it’s not the answer that brings us peace.
Clear aim makes time a slave to it’s end,
a servant to the mark,
but time itself is a devious train,
and can cloud and pall in it’s ether,
leaving the sightless without course,
and the searcher without stop.
so, stop.
All the things I grow
in the earth
in my mind
in my heart
in my home
too often stay there,
in the earth
in my mind
in my heart
in my home.
and I wonder,
The good things I grow?
Of course, when they’re seed,
yes,
they must be sheltered and shaped,
pruned and secured.
Then comes sprout and leaf
and we test our foliage against the sun.
But the bloom –
the perfume –
This is the harvest. This is the good that grew.
out of the earth
out of the mind
out of the heart
out of the home
and into green rooms,
black corners,
blue moods,
and red mornings,
It’s late.
There is a film over the full moon.
like a glaze over my eye.
The heat of summer coming
is seeping into spring nights
and makes thick the air tonight.
I want to walk.
I want to be over sidewalks
and under street lamps
and strolling without aim.
I want to talk.
about all the things that are,
and none of the things
that could be,
should be,
won’t be,
can’t be.
I want to feel steady in my pace again.
I want to practice, here in the dark
-stepping strong steps-
so I might stride in the light.
I want to laugh.
at what you say
and how you say it.
I want to be silent.
and hear the things
we cannot say with words.
The night moves, still,
and into morning
and the humid hazed halo
turns into light dawn blue.
The heat will come with sun,
and the day brings too much duty,
and I’ll forget
perhaps
the sweet earth smells of peony and grass
that filled my senses when
I stood out there,
in the night,
alone,
and thought about the walk I’d like to take
and didn’t.
What if there’s no such thing as “the jerk?” What if, in any given fight, disagreement, impasse, and standoff, there was actually no “wrong side?” What if it was all just malady caused by lack of understanding, fatigue, and an empty well from which to draw compassion.
IF that “what if” were the case, I think I could replace anger with deliberation, defense with inquisition, and flight with pause.
I’m sure I would still stand with soft knees and ready reflexes, in anticipation of a dash to the door or a quick escape back inside my garrison or trench. I’m sure I would guardedly stare into the eyes too long after words were spoken with the mouth, and try to discern, “did I really hear?” and “was I really heard?”
IF that “what if” were the case, maybe I could exchange detachment for a hand shake. Maybe there need not be a conversion to a “side” or convincing to a “win.”
Stand, facing the jerks and the wrongs and the maladies without reaction, and wait. With fists down and gloves off. just. wait.
