quotations and poetry

Let evening come

This poem was scrolling through my thoughts as I ran yesterday, and as I wrote about the elegaic quality of January’s light. It epitomizes for me the resignation and sadness that inhabit a January day’s 4 o’clock glorious golden light. And, in truth, the resignation and sadness that are inextricably intertwined with life’s great triumphs and joys.

Jane Kenyon, Mary Oliver, and Sharon Olds are my favorite poets right now. They write about simple things, about ordinary days, in a way that elucidates the grand themes of love and loss, life and death. I wasn’t going to post this poem, but Jen’s words today at Momalom convinced me to do so. Coincidences don’t happen: there must be a reason I’m thinking of this beautiful poem now.

Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
– Jane Kenyon

Rusty bent old tools

It’s funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience.  But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools – friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty – and said, Do the best you can with these, they will have to do.  And mostly, against all odds, they’re enough.

-Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

An Instrument of Peace

Danielle posted this gorgeous video of Sarah McLachlan singing the Prayer of Saint Francis. I watched it this morning in the darkness of my bedroom and am tremendously moved. This prayer, along with May the Road Rise to Meet You and Reinhold Neibuhr’s famous words asking God to grant me the serenity often moves through my thoughts as though unbidden. This happens to me a lot – fragments of a poem, or a prayer, or a song will suddenly be in my head. I can’t quite tell if I hear the words or read them in the space of my mind. Either way, they tend to present themselves, unasked-for but insistent, the meaning of their arrival often unclear in the moment and vividly apparent after the fact.

Saint Francis’s prayer is lovely and wise, compelling in its simple call to be of service. I have been to Assissi twice, and both times found it a place with palpable power. There is a deep spirituality in the air in Assissi. Side note: this is not just because it has a gorgeous cathedral: I grew up going to so many sites like this that my sister and I would moan about ADC [another damn cathedral]. For me at least, there is something particularly special about Assissi.

The first visit was right after I graduated from college, and I have a strong memory of descending into the basement of the cathedral and being overwhelmed with something that I could not name or put words around. It was as though something inside my chest cracked, and I found myself mute, staring blankly in the dim, incense-scented space, tears streaming down my face.

The words follow, but do listen to Sarah McLachlan’s haunting rendition of them. I can’t get it out of my head.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;

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The day that takes the most faith

Seems a day for the words of others.  Meg Casey’s thoughts on the solstice make me weep and feel a surge of wild hope at the same time.

But mostly, what I crave, more than anything is to be alone. Its the solstice and I feel the yin, dark, quietness and want to stay here. Some journeys are to be taken alone. I will continue my never ending quest to empty my life of clutter, of the unnecessary, and hope that maybe the magic of the winter solstice will make this clearing easier. I want to empty, empty my brain of thoughts, empty my closets of junk, empty my life of what is no longer needed. Maybe the clearing is the way through the darkness.

The ancients believed this is that day that requires the most faith. Before modern astronomy taught us about predictable orbits, only the most unshakable real trust would do. I wonder what it takes to touch that faith.

prayer

I wish you quietness, and the kind of rest that has you wake up feeling calm. And warm feet and glowing embers, and shortbread cookies or latkes and rosy cheeks or whatever sustains you. And tears if you need them, wet and cleansing.

These words render me mute by being all that matters.

And so I pass them on, and nod to you.

From Kate at sweet/salty. Beautiful.
As she alludes, there is nothing more to say (I think).