The Family Of Things

You do not have to be good

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

 

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

 Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 

are moving across the landscapes

over the prairies and the deep trees

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —

over and over announcing your place
in the family of things. 

-Wild Geese by Mary Oliver
photos: Rome 2013

*     *     *      

It's the best of times, and the worst of times. Everyday we're tugged this way and that by the stories of tragedy, heroism and helplessness. Some of us are just baking our way through the lockdown, or sitting numbly, waiting for release, or November, or both; or all of the above. Then there are the protesters who can't or won't stay home. It's tough for everyone. So we sew face masks and wash our hands and keep on standing six feet apart at the grocery. Or not because maybe we're still going to work everyday, one of the 'everyday heroes' though paid less than heroically and likely without health insurance. Sometimes I feel stupid because who knows, maybe the conspiracy theorists and anti-vaxxers were right after all, and I worry that I didn't even bother to find out what they were yelling about on youtube. Like maybe we should have been digging bunkers after all instead of following make-up tutorials or dancing on tiktok.  But nevermind all that. Here I offer the wonderful Mary Oliver to keep on reminding us its going to be okay. And what better series to pair her poem with than these photos from a trip to the beautiful Eternal City? Ah Rome, indeed it was nice to remember how I veni'd and vidi'd, but this city and its living breathing stones arranged in marvels of cathedral, tomb and bloodlust amphitheater definitely still vici's me. Totus tuus :)

A Spark On The Wind

Life is the only way 

to get covered in leaves,

catch your breath on the sand, 

rise on wings;

to be a dog,

or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain 

from everything it's not;

to squeeze inside events,

dawdle in views,

to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance 

to remember for a moment

a conversation held

with the lamp switched off;

and if only once

to stumble upon a stone,

end up soaked in one downpour or another,

mislay your keys in the grass;

and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;

and to keep on not knowing

something important.

 *A Note--by Wislawa Szymborska, photos from Amsterdam, 2019

I think poetry isn't easy to appreciate just any old time. But they say people turn to poetry when they're in search of their own histories, to hear their own thoughts and feelings spoken for them. Certainly the lockdown has me feeling up and down, confused, bored and lonely, anxious and afraid; impatient, lazy and mournful all at the same time. It's a mixed bag. But that's how it is right now. And I remembered how reading the lines of this poem for the first time made me feel a kind of gratitude for the poet and the loveliness of her gentle words. And so I hope it'll be the same for you, dear friend out there, or you who may have stumbled upon this here quiet spot I stake as mine. Funny how it's easier for me to tell you these things when on the so-called social media circus I'm sanguine, I'm light, I'm not all freaked out and panicky. But that's where the real theater lies anyway. About my photos--well they've long been sitting on my laptop. I don't know why. But here they are now--I didn't know the world would be so different by the time I'd get around to posting them. 

Don't Raise Your White Flags Yet

My dad (big smile, sitting in front wearing the dark flight suit and flak helmet) with his ROTC buddies, 1945

*

Tonight, the world is an abandoned lot 
enclosed by chain link fences,
and us, trapped,

two helpless birds,
two fish caught in nets,
two knotted napkins.

But I’ll say to you,

Hang on, love,
hang on.

Don’t raise your white flags yet.
Don’t surrender.

I’m sending you
a breeze for your sail,
sweet wind of faith.

I’ll blow a lock of hair
off your pale forehead
and sing to you
from far away.

Don’t give up, mi amor.

Together, we’ll hang on
the wires of the world.

We’ll billow, sway,
and flutter.

Soon, the fence will crumble
and we’ll dance.

“Breeze for your sail” by Claudia Serea from TwoXism. 8th House Publishing © 2018


*

Hello dear friends, I hope this little poem by Claudia Serea finds you safe and sound. Life has changed so much since I last updated my blog(s). It's been hard to concentrate, and a little hard not to feel worried as the virus strikes down people both young and old. But, as this Easter morning slowly starts to dawn (it's very early in the morning as I write) I think of all the people whose connection I feel despite the separation or the distance, including my dad who I miss everyday despite him being gone since April of 2009, and my mother in her house in New York, my two daughters sheltering in their own college cities, and all the people I know and care for, including you dearest blog friends. But I like the hopefulness of the last line, the poet's vision of reunion by the crumbling of the fence and the dancing afterwards. Yes, I'd very much like that. And so I wish everyone a happy Easter-- may the season of renewal and rebirth give us the hope to carry us through the long wait. And then we should all come out from the worldwide lockdown and dance :))

p.s. RIP John Prine, poet, singer and songwriter, and former Chicago mailman, who died a few days ago from covid-19. We miss you already dear John.

Let It Find Us

 

i cannot tell you how the light comes

what i know is that it is more ancient than imagining

that it travels across an astounding expanse to reach us

that it loves searching out what is hidden

what is lost, what is forgotten

what is in peril or in pain

that is has a fondness for the body

for finding its way toward flesh

for tracing the edges of form

for shining forth through the eye

the hand

the heart

I cannot tell you how the light comes but that it does,

that it will

that it works its way into the deepest dark that enfolds you

though it may seem long ages in coming

or arrive in a shape you did not foresee

And so, may we this day turn ourselves toward it

May we lift our faces and let it find us

May we bend our bodies and follow the arc it makes

may we open and open more

and open still

to the blessed light that comes.

--How the Light Comes, Jan Richardson

*photos from Paris, France, April 2019

*these are some of the Paris street photos I took on holiday--Paris is so "much of a muchness", to quote good ol' Alice while she was exploring Wonderland, that it's not easy to absorb and capture all the beauty and splendor, no matter how many times you return. A big thank you to my friend Arnaud for taking us on a magical walk through the hidden parts of Paris, and for the lovely time we shared over drinks --after so many years of visiting and commenting on each other's blogs, meeting in person felt so much like meeting an old and familiar friend--i hope to meet again and, maybe someday to meet all my blog friends :)) p.s. click on the photos to enlarge them. 

Not Knowing

Which Way From Here  2018

What the soul is,

I believe I will never quite know.

Though I play at the edges of knowing

truly I know

our part is not knowing,

but looking, and touching, and loving.

--Mary Oliver

Glittering Rooms of the Heart

 You still love the ones you love,

back when you loved them--

 Books, records, and people

 Nothing much changes in the glittering rooms of the heart

 Only the dark spaces half re-claimed

 And then not much,

An image, a line,

sometimes a song...

--Charles Wright, from "15" in Lightfoot: A Poem

These are some photos from a trip back to St. Croix in the Virgin Islands, where I saw some of the damage from Hurricane Maria. I learned of the passing of an old acquaintance, and found a few places shuttered, or gone altogether. But still, the church bells rang in the morning, along with the crowing of the proud island roosters. I rose early just to watch the sky change from night to day, made a few silent wishes and gave thanks: for the world as it continues to turn, for the love of my family, and for the kindness and friendship of so many people, including and especially you, my dearest blog friends, who continue to be my supportive companions in all my creative quests. May the renewals of the day last us all through the year!

Ten Lucky Minutes

“as long as there are
human beings about
there is never going to be
any peace
for any individual
upon this earth (or
anywhere else
they might
escape to).

all you can do
is maybe grab
ten lucky minutes
here
or maybe an hour
there.

something
is working toward you
right now, and
I mean you
and nobody but
you.” 
― Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense

what survives

 who says that all must vanish

 who knows, perhaps the flight

 of the bird you wound remains

 and perhaps flowers survive caresses in the ground

 it isn't the gesture that lasts

 but it dresses you again in gold

 armor--from breast to knees--

 and the battle was so pure

 an Angel wears it after you...

-What Survives by Rainer Maria Rilke; photos: scenes from US Route 20