Seeing the Light

I have a bit of a tendency toward thinking about the morbid. As I type this, my black lacquered nails tap the keys furiously.

This morning I found out that a friend is in very critical condition. I’m thinking about death and about losing two legs and how the unconscious self recognizes the shearing off of self.

This all started with reading Stephen Mitchell’s translation of Rilke’s “Requiem for a Friend”. Upon reading this poem for the first time, I felt such a deep resonance with its direct addresses, its wanting to speak of the usually unspeakable. There is an intimacy and childlike pleading that occurs within its confines that plucks me like a string. Its beauty is tragic in a loss that feels without bottom. I am taking my time re-reading it and want to invest the time to get into the poet’s perspective of life after several months of not having that person in it. What does the five month mark look like? The 12 year mark?

As my father put it so eloquently, you get to a point where death is seen as a positive option. When you’re young, there is an interesting dichotomy of reckless immortality mingled with the delicacy of not being fully formed yet. You think or know you will get a chance to experience everything that is ours to enjoy before the final closing of the eyes. You think.

Poetry speaks to those unknowns; it blankets the chill of the uncertain by giving voice to the scary truths and possibilities that for some echo in the deepest chambers and for others are on the cusp of the line of vision, dictating how their steps play out.

This translates to how faith works itself out, for me personally. I have a quote by Lesslie Newbigin on my desk that drives it home for me:

“I do not want to suggest that faith is easy. There are black hours when faith seems to die, when illusions seem true and the truth seems an illusion. But I know that they will pass, not because I have a firm grasp of Him, but because He has His grip on me and I know that I cannot evade Him. He is the living Lord, who was dead and is alive forevermore and has the keys of death and hell. I believe in Him: I can do no other.”

And so the best that I can come up with is to live in the potential of the day. To drill down in the poetry we need to fully realize this life. Rilke included.

A change a comin’

I have 80% decided to publish a one-time journal. 80% rather than 100% because I am still in the exploration phase and analysis phase, but I have an idea, a poetry comrade who’s interested in helping and a gnawing curiosity that is pushing this nearer to closing the 20% gap. Stay tuned.

Bad Habits Put to Bed

With the arrival of June is the stark realization that half the year is gone. Never to be seen again. And what do I have to show for it? Deepening love for one character of a guy and a lot of travels (minus a now defunct trip next week to NYC).

The writing has not been in hibernation, but in a state of germination. It’s as if waking from the haze of academia is just taking its sweet time. You know those kids who would cry when they left home and call their parents every single day from camp? I never was one of those kids. Instead, when I returned home, I would pine away alone in my room mourning the cacophony of sound, kids and activity that now gave way to silence. And while post-graduation has been no malaise, I have allowed the other parts of my life to begin eating away at the time that for two years was obsessively inhabited by poetry.

But no more.

I had this quirky last minute opportunity to go to France in a part-work / part-leisure excursion. Some people have places that evoke a spiritual connection for them and France has been it for me for some time. The circumstances around this trip happened so quickly and came together so well that I couldn’t help but see and wonder what His design might be or what He wanted to convey to me.

Enter waking up at 4 a.m. No jetlag roused my sleeping form into the vertical position. A poem (or two) did. And they came so quickly. Urgently, as if tiny eggs hatching to produce the small vibrant creatures of poetry. I felt a rush in being back in my right mind again. Living with “poetry mind” calls a certain mindfulness to replace the typical zooming through life that is my modus operandi. And this is where France typically is my biggest reminder to slow down. Sip the wine, so to speak, rather than the slurp.

I took some ridiculously long walks in Paris, through the light rain and felt at home in the San Francisco-like climate. While listening to an original score of electronica music with grey skies framing the beauty, I walked with camera in hand, letting the road take me forward. My self-direction for the 2 days in Paris consisted of taking my time, not rushing, getting a little lost if need be and soaking in the touristy spots (which I would often counter is so unlike me) but I’d never had THAT Paris experience, so it worked out well. And amazingly I never got lost. We fear the failure of the almost perfect experience, which I think sometimes tends to cause the inertia of not trying at all. By allowing myself freedom, I discovered haunts over the course of my jaunt that would have remained hidden. A question for you, “Do you ever feel like you’re living your life too safely? OR Do you ever feel you’re living your life for someone else?”

My reading companion during the Paris leg, “Art and Fear” is a must for any working artist (or struggling one). Written by a photographer and a painter, they talk about the issues that drive artists to create and the things that keep them from creating. It continued the unraveling epiphany for me. God and I walk. It’s what we do to connect and I felt His presence very strongly over my little forays in Paris and Cannes. It felt good to feel Him again as the winter seems to be finally closing. But this next season, who knows what it will bring? It does not appear like anything I’ve ever encountered with Him before, but does not dissipate His proximity. As grey skies roil above, the questions come and not from a place of incertitude.

Artistically, since my return from France, I have continued writing poetry and other projects. This time, working on a book review and considering a new project that will keep me busy for some time to come.

Though New York is eluding me right now, as a friend said, “You always have Paris.” And a few orangettes from Fauchon tucked away for a rainy day.

Bridge to Hope

My friend Todd committed suicide November 17, 2005. He and I met volunteering at a coffeehouse for homeless street kids what feels like an eon ago. He sparkled and could make any kid feel at ease. A few of us including Pam and Darren raised money for suicide prevention a few months after by walking 18 miles in the Out of the Darkness walk. It was a small effort on our part but somehow helped us remember him and honor him.

Thursday night was the Maundy Thursday service at church. This commemorates the Last Supper Jesus spent with his disciples. We ate soup and hunks of bread. We sang songs and read passages from the Bible. There’s this one point in the main passage preached from John that says Jesus in the fullness of His understanding of who He was, full of power wrapped a towel around his waist and proceeded to wash the feet of the disciples. It seemed a good time to me to go home and watch my current Netflix that had been waiting for the right time.

“The Bridge” chronicles the lives of several people who commit suicide by flinging themselves off the Golden Gate Bridge. It also discusses the allure that this bridge painted International Orange has for those wanting to end their lives. This documentary feels at moments like a re-enactment. But that’s the thing, the shock of it, as well as the tentative walking across the bridge multiple times plays a trick on the brain accustomed to violence in movies or television. Instead what you’re seeing is the last moments of these peoples’ lives. What you’re hearing is the perspectives of the people around them trying to trace the road leading to the Golden Gate.

Again, I was burdened with the weight of inexistence toppling that of existence. Thinking about Jesus knowing He was going to die and praying into his moments before arrest. Grateful that He chose to go through with a death that was nothing if not painful. If not solitary. Because only through this could death lose its sting. Life beyond life.

Recently, the same friends, Pam and Darren gave birth to a baby boy named Samuel Todd…

A discipline of poetry

Involves lying in the grass on a Sunday afternoon. Consists of playing bocce or throwing the ball for the winemaker’s dog. Pertains to chasing black chickens and colorful roosters across the lawn separating the tasting room from the vintner’s house. Includes the chubby little fingers of the vintner’s daughter, Pepper, reaching on top of the cheese table and pulling grapes off their stems before popping them into her little mouth. Is poured in a glass and tastes like sunshine smiling on grapes. Or it especially works well if you just came from a poetry reading at the main library in San Francisco from Copper Canyon press.

A day reserved for the earth is like a month reserved for poetry. So while April is known as Poetry Month, what I like best about it is how a few friends and myself have chosen to try and upload original poems on our facebook pages throughout the month. That’s a good way to stay in touch and also see what everyone else is thinking about. So however you choose to find the poetry in your days, share it with someone you like or maybe even love.

March-on-the-move

I have been traveling. A lot. And even as I was filling in the blanks of what March would hold in my calendar several months ago, I knew this would be a rip-roaring time. So the blogging fell to the wayside. As did the writing to some extent (two new drafts notwithstanding comment).

On the leg of the flight from Chicago to Denver, I sat next to a man who I presumed was a Berber. Instead he just possessed that great from anywhere persona. After a moment of sitting in the seat and some back-and-forth banter, he told me, “I willed that seat to you.”

What ensued was an interesting conversation about spirituality and travels. Two of my favorite topics. He asked me to read him a poem and wondered aloud that traveling usually is the right space for writing until I described my March- what I could call “March-on-the-move”. After which he replied, “Oh, give it six weeks. The writing will come.” And I know he’s right even in the midst of an unimposed sabbatical I seem to be taking, but I crafted a color-coded “schedule” on the Denver-San Francisco leg of the flight helping me “see” what my time and life could look like. Schedules are more guides than anything else…

During this trip I took along Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own”. Below is a quote I appreciated from the revisit of the book for you:

“Women, then, have not had a dog’s chance of writing poetry. That is why I have laid so much stress on money and a room of one’s own.”
- Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

So I left my flights further amped up on the necessity for the new space in which I am dwelling at home; the necessity of working to provide finances that further artistic freedoms and a good reminder that we women are so much more on the move than ever before. And that’s a good thing. As is staying still for the month of April.

Cooking through the Pantry- a Communal Experiment

I’m moving in a month. Instead of packing the random ingredients and what-nots from the pantry, I’ve chosen to whittle it down to the basics- spices and accoutrements. Here’s where you come in: I took several photographs of the items in question and I would love your suggestions of how you think I can cook with these ingredients so as to bring smiles to the faces of friends or co-workers and deplete their stock on the shelf. I look forward to your ideas…

A Trip to France

Doesn’t that sound nice? Hob-nobbing with Msr. Sarkozy and walking the Champs-Elysees after picking up a warm baguette and cafe au lait to go. I’m cleaning up years of accumulated paper in preparation for the move, which is to say, years of collected words. Why else would anyone have boxes of paperwork laying around the house? I stumbled upon a favorite old poem by Victor Hugo that used to hang in my school dorm room. I must remember to retrieve my bilingual Baudelaire when in Texas again. At one moment in time, I actually even knew this by heart. Enjoy avec un croissant in hand.

Demain, des l’aube
Victor Hugo

Demain, des l’aube, a l’heure ou blanchit la campagne,
je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la foret, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixes sur mes pensees,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbe, les mains croisees,
Triste, et la jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyere en fleur.

valentine- from me to you

There’s something priceless and dear about having so many people who bring you joy in one room. It is a gift of temporality that shimmers. Jean Valentine’s collection “Little Boat” features these beautifully compressed poems that are so spare and full of air in the form of spacing and interesting syntax. I remembered enjoying dissecting “Moose and Calf” at our last residency. There is an earthen gravitas that suspends in the air, where the reader can enter at multiple points. I want to be a writer who invites multiple entries into my work. From me to you, the poem is ours. And tonight it’s Valentine’s.

How will you/have you prepare(d) for your death?
Jean Valentine

quiet ready
the wires inside the walls

and when no wires
and when no walls

- with you it wasn’t flesh & blood, it was under:
I know you brokenheart before this world,
and I know you after.

up late with seifert

I owe the mad rush of energy working its way out of my fingertips to the drummer from the Over the Rhine concert tonight. He had me tapping my palm, my thigh, knee and just when I thought I couldn’t get more amped up, they ended with some lovely ballads. So it was a good evening to have a nightcap with Jaroslav Seifert, Czech poet extraordinaire. Enjoy.

To Be a Poet
by Jaroslav Seifert, tr. George Gibian

Life taught me long ago
that music and poetry
are the most beautiful things on earth
that life can give us.
Except for love, of course.

In an old textbook,
published by the Imperial Printing House
in the year of Vrchlicky’s death,
I looked up the section on poetics
and poetic ornament.

Then I placed a rose in a tumbler,
lit a candle
and started to write my first verses.

Flare up, then, flame of words,
and soar,
even if my fingers get burned!

A startling metaphor is worth more
than a ring on one’s finger.
But not even Puchmajer’s Rhyming Dictionary
was any use to me.

In vain I snatched for ideas
and frantically closed my eyes
in order to hear that first magic line…