On Solitude and Community

Solitude does not necessarily mean living apart from others--it means never living apart from one's self...

Community does not necessarily mean living face-to-face with others--it means never losing the awareness that we are connected to each other...

--Parker J. Palmer

Everything Falls Away

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
--William Stafford

Sooner or later, everything falls away.
You, the work you’ve done, your successes,
large and small, your failures, too. Those
moments when you were light, along-
side the times you became one with the
night. The friends, the people you loved
who loved you, those who might have
wished you ill, none of this is forever. All
of it is soon to go, or going, or long gone.

Everything falls away, except the thread
you’ve followed, unknowing, all along.
The thread that strings together all you’ve
been and done, the thread you didn’t know
you were tracking until, toward the end,
you see that the thread is what stays
as everything else falls away.

Follow that thread as far as you can and
you'll find that it does not end, but weaves
into the unimaginable vastness of life. Your
life never was the solo turn it seems to be.
It was always part of the great weave of
nature and humanity, an immensity we
come to know only as we follow our own
small threads to the place where they
merge with the boundless whole.

Each of our threads runs its course, then
joins in life together. This magnificent tapestry--
this masterpiece in which we live forever.

--Parker J. Palmer

November 22

On this day long years ago, our promising
young President was killed. He was far too young
to die and I too young to watch my world unravel
as it did. I grieved my loss, our loss, then started
to reweave—a work, a life, a world—not knowing
then what I know now: the world unravels always,
and it must be rewoven time and time again.

You must keep collecting threads—threads of meaning,
threads of hope, threads of purpose, energy and will—
along with all the knowledge, skill that every weaver needs.
You must keep on weaving—stopping sometimes only
to repair your broken loom—weave a cloak of warmth
and light against the dark and cold, a cloak in which
to wrap whoever comes to you in need—the world
with all its suffering, those near at hand, yourself.

And, if you are lucky, you will find along the way
the thread with which you can reweave your own
tattered life, the thread that more than any other
laces us with warmth and light, making both the
weaver and the weaving true—the red thread
they call Love, the thread you hold, then
hand along, saying to another, “You.”

--Parker J. Palmer

[A favorite photo from our son's wedding to illustrate the thread of love.]

Their Slow Way

Let these woods have their

slow way with you.  Patient

pines that hold their green

through all the frozen seasons,

lichen-covered rocks that live

indifferent to time's passage--

these will teach you how to

bring your life to ground.

The fractal chaos of the forest

floor, its white anemones,

spiked grasses and dead leaves,

the fallen trunks and branches

splayed out like pick-up sticks--

these will teach you how

to live freely, with abandon,

and feed the roots of new growth

when your time has come.

--Parker J. Palmer

Visiting Catherine and Ben

He's 90, full of wit and good cheer.  She's 89, no longer

clear who she's with or what's happening.  Before we

go in, he explains, "She'll ask the same question time

and again.  It's hard, of course, but she remains her

same sweet self and we love each more than ever."

Today she wants to know, "When was the last time

we saw each other?"  "Last year at this time," we

say, "right here in your lovely home.  It's so good

to see you again!"  "Oh, yes!", she says, with her

whole heart.  Five minutes later she asks again.

"Would you like cheese and crackers?", she asks,

"Sounds good," we say, and I ask if I can help.  He

warns me off with a shake of his head, quietly saying,

"She can still do a few things like this--they help

her feel more in control of her life."

She returns with a tray--cheese, crackers, napkins

and small plates carefully arranged--stopping

in front of each of us until we take our share.

"This is communion," I think, "the bread of life,

the wine of love, and our cups floweth over.  Never

has a cathedral seen a moment more holy than this."

--Parker J. Palmer

[Photo of John and Gladys Toop with great grandchildren.]

Welcome Home

Alone in the alien, snow-blown woods,
moving hard to stay warm in zero weather,
I stop on a rise to catch my breath as the
setting sun—streaming through bare-boned
trees—falls upon my face, fierce and full of life.

Breathing easier now, in and out with the earth,
I suddenly feel accepted—feel myself stand
easy, strong, deep-rooted as the trees,
while time and all these troubles disappear.

And when (who knows how long?) I trudge
on down the trail and find my ancient burdens
returning, I stop once more to say No to them—
not here, not now, not ever again—reclaiming
the welcome home the woods have given me.

--Parker J. Palmer

The Winter Woods

The winter woods beside a solemn
river are twice seen—
once as they pierce the brittle air,
once as they dance in grace beneath the stream.

In air these trees stand rough and raw,
branch angular in stark design—
in water shimmer constantly,
disconnect as in a dream,
shadowy but more alive
than what stands stiff and cold before our eyes.

Our eyes at peace are solemn streams
and twice the world itself is seen—
once as it is outside our heads,
hard frozen now and winter-dead,
once as it undulates and shines
beneath the silent waters of our minds.

When rivers churn or cloud with ice
the world is not seen twice—
yet still is there beneath
the blinded surface of the stream,
livelier and lovelier than we can comprehend
and waiting, always waiting, to be seen.

--Parker J. Palmer

Appalachian Autumn

No, I'm not as old as the hills

that rise around me as I rest

amid the tawny grasses of this

holler.  But here in late October

of my seventy-third year, they

feel like age-mates to me.  The

greens of spring and summer

are long-gone from the trees.

Leaves of crimson, burnt

umber and amber flare against

the darkening sky, defying

with beauty the soon-to-end

cycle of one more round of

life and love in this long-

time landscape of suffering.

The ancient earth takes it all in,

compassionate and indifferent

in the same breath.  This is how

I want to live, my failings and 

lost opportunities forgiven

as they are under this sun--

released in their triviality,

resurrected as new life--

en route to dying with

thanks and praise and no

mind-begotten regrets.

--Parker J. Palmer

[Photo of Wallingford, VT]

Why Should I Ever Be Sad?

Why should I ever be sad,
knowing the aspens are
always here dancing along
this trail, slim as willowy
girls, swinging their arms,
tossing their hair, swaying
their hips in rhythm with
the mountain wind? Above
the aspens, intensified sky,
a dream of blue seen only as
cities fade from view. Below
them a rocky slope covered
with clotted clumps of leaves
and fallen, rotted branches,
laying down a love bed where
Indian Paintbrush and white
violets grow amid a flourish
of green. All of the tumbled
boulders and rocks have found
their angle of perfect repose,
so why should I ever be sad?
All of this waits for me when
at last I stumble and fall,
waits for me to join in this
dance with all that turns and
whirls—a dance done to the
silent music of our dappled,
singing, swaying world.

--Parker J. Palmer

A Hidden Wholeness

Afraid that our inner light will be extinguished or our inner darkness exposed, we hide our true identities from each other. In the process, we become separated from our own souls. We end up living divided lives, so far removed from the truth we hold within that we cannot know the “integrity that comes from being what you are.”

...Wholeness does not mean perfection: it means embracing brokenness as an integral part of life. Knowing this gives me hope that human wholeness — mine, yours, ours — need not be a utopian dream, if we can use devastation as a seedbed for new life.

...Here is the ultimate irony of the divided life: live behind a wall long enough, and the true self you tried to hide from the world disappears from your own view! The wall itself and the world outside it become all that you know. Eventually, you even forget that the wall is there — and that hidden behind it is someone called “you.”

--Parker J. Palmer (excerpt)