Evidence

 

I.

Where do I live? If I had no address, as many people
do not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the
same town as the lilies of the field, and the still
waters.

Spring, and all through the neighborhood now there are
strong men tending flowers.

Beauty without purpose is beauty without virtue. But
all beautiful things, inherently, have this function -
to excite the viewers toward sublime thought. Glory
to the world, that good teacher.

Among the swans there is none called the least, or
the greatest.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in
singing, especially when singing is not necessarily
prescribed.

As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious
and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it
wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in
the world that can hold, in a mix of power and
sweetness: words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,
ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

2.

There are many ways to perish, or to flourish.

How old pain, for example, can stall us at the threshold of function….

Still friends, consider stone, that is without the fret of gravity, and water that is without anxiety.

And the pine trees that never forget their recipe for renewal.

And the female wood duck who is looking this way and that way for her children. And the snapping turtle who is looking this way and that way also. This is the world.

And consider, always, every day, the determination of the grass to grow despite the unending obstacles.

3.

I ask you again: if you have not been enchanted by this adventure--your life--what would do for you?

And, where are you, with your ears bagged down as if with packets of sand? Listen. We all have much more listening to do. Tear the sand away. And listen. The river is singing. …

For myself, I have walked in these woods for

More than forty years, and I am the only

thing, it seems, that is about to be used up.

Or, to be less extravagant, will, in the

Foreseeable future, be used up.

First, though, I want to step out into some

fresh morning and look around and hear myself

crying out: "The house of money is falling! The house of money is falling! The weeds are rising! The weeds are rising!"

—Mary Oliver

[Swans in Hallstatt, Austria]

How Would You Live Then?

What if a hundred rose-breasted grosbeaks

flew in circles around your head? What if

the mockingbird came into the house with you and

became your advisor? What if

the bees filled your walls with honey and all

you needed to do was ask them and they would fill

the bowl? What if the brook slid downhill just

past your bedroom window so you could listen

to its slow prayers as you fell asleep? What if

the stars began to shout their names, or to run

this way and that way above the clouds? What if

you painted a picture of a tree, and the leaves

began to rustle, and a bird cheerfully sang

from its painted branches? What if you suddenly saw

that the silver of water was brighter than the silver

of money? What if you finally saw

that the sunflowers, turning toward the sun all day

and every day – who knows how, but they do it – were

more precious, more meaningful than gold?

—Mary Oliver

Forgive Me for Wanting to Soothe

 

Sometimes a wound must stay a wound. —James Crews, “Wound”     Sometimes I remember a wound must stay a wound. Why then,  this impulse to bring you a vase of blue  larkspur, white lilies and a blessing instead of sitting with you in the dark and letting what is dark be dark.  When I am brave enough to see beyond my longing to soothe,  all I want is to be with you in the dark.  To steep together in the uncomfortable ache.  To quietly meet you in the wounded place so you know you are not alone. Perhaps I will always send you lilies,  but let me also trust how necessary it is,  the open ear, this tenderness,  this willingness to be with, more gift than any flower. —Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Chapter One

 

I love how books begin; those passages

that lead us by the hand across

the luxurious lawns, that portage us

gently up the gravel drive,

toward the manor house.

The author is still a kind host here,

anxious that we mingle

with the other weekend guests, that we note

how even the banisters are polished for us,

that we feel free to walk out

with the lady of the house and smoke

a cigarette, down the grand alley of elms.

We're not expected to have things down pat

yet, like the family tree, or the route to the old Abbey.

Nothing really happens now,

beyond the delivery of breakfast trays.

It's not scheduled to rain

for two more chapters, and no one

who matters to us has died yet.

--Mark Aiello

Famous

 

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to the silence,

which knew it would inherit the earth

before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds

watching him for the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom

is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,

more famous than the dress shoe,

which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it,

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men,

who smile while crossing streets,

sticky children in grocery lines,

famous as the one who smiled back.

***

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,

or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,

but because it never forgot what it did.

--Naomi Shihab Nye

[Photo: Two of my favorite "sticky children".]

Let Love Do the Rest (Remembering John Lewis)

Just in case you forget

As you lay in your Sunday best

You are golden, you are blessed

Fold your hands upon your chest

You can let love do the rest

If the world is unaware

If they still think that God wasn’t there

The hour has come, they’ll confess

That you are heavens’ honored guest

It’s time to let love do the rest

When you pray, move your feet

Make good trouble, let it speak

So you said, so I’ve heard

As if the meek could inherit the earth

I still believe the words in red

As I pull on that hidden thread

Who can say what comes next

But as I walk in your footsteps

I will let love do the rest

Tom Prasado-Rao

[Photo from a long-ago visit to our home in Vermont.]

The End

 

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am six,
I'm as clever as clever

So I think I'll be six now
Forever and ever.

—A.A. Milne

(Video of our granddaughter and her K class reciting this poem).