Beginner's Heart

Beginner's Heart

a case for poets ~

When you think of people who are useful, poets probably aren’t high on your list. After all, who needs poetry? (Well, I do, but that isn’t typical, I realise :) ) And yet, when there is sorrow, or great joy, or tragedy, or high emotion of almost any kind — a birth, a death, a marriage — what do we want? Words. In the right order. Poetry…

My sisters are always talking me in to things. I have three, which means I’m often over my head in one thing or another. Today, it’s poetry. And yes, I know all my education is in poetry(most of it, anyway). But despite the common perception, poets don’t really write much ‘occasional’ poetry these days.

It used to be that poets were commissioned at all rites of passage. The celebration of birth, the grief of loss. Personal & political, poetry served them both.  War beginning? The poet pens a blessing. War over? Another sings in joy. Part of any self-respecting poet laureate’s job was to write poems for every occasion.  Hence the term ‘occasional poetry.’ :)

We don’t do that so much these days. Unless you’re my family, where death is marked with words. Too often mine. Let people hear you’re a poet, and lose a loved one, and you begin to have value. At least of a sort. :) Besides, when it’s your sister’s childhood friend’s brother (not as tenuous a connection as it may appear), from the family that lived once upon a time in your own empty house, how can you refuse?

So here I am: trying to fit words to the shape of a stranger’s life. A man whose life is as  unfamiliar as the shores of death. I don’t know how, really, to pay respect to the unfamiliar dead. My own dead were hard enough to mourn. It took me years to write about my father, my mother.Wondering why words always fail when we need them most.

Tomorrow, I will be offering my own far too inadequate voice for the inchoate grief of a family I have not known in many years. But today, I am thinking — as I discard one hesitant line after another — of the thousands of years poets have sat at words, written on clay, papyrus, scroll & stone. Bearing up to the occasion. This one so very sad.

 

a cat, a ribbon, & meditation ~

Why can’t I focus on my meditation like I focus to play with my cat? Sitting in my chair, pulling a red bookmark ribbon sloooowly across my lap desk, I watch as she pounces. I pull the ribbon through her claws, then let it ‘die.’ She prods and I pull it into life.

From the sofa to the left, my dog watches the cat watch the ribbon. I watch both. And we do this for 10 minutes, as I make the ribbon snake across the desk, and the cat follows it.

Ten minutes is interminable when you’re sitting. At least, it can be. It can go quickly, some days, like the quick pounce of the cat. But most days, it moves at snail speed. Far slower than the breaths I count.

Sitting in a chair, w/ all my attention centred on a cat’s sharp claws and the scarlet ribbon between them, time is as mutable as warm wax. It draws out almost infinitely, even a simple moment.

The cat & I can play this game at length. Perhaps tomorrow, as I focus on my breath, I’ll pretend it is a scarlet ribbon. And my skittish mind a cat, watching ~

time & transience ~

Yesterday, we thought we might be godparents to a skein of goslings — tiny yellow-grey fluffballs hatching from the goose we hoped was nesting, not resting, in our front yard. (Note: Canadian geese — at least in our neighbourhood — give new meaning to the term ‘silly goose’ when it comes to nesting in front yards,)

Instead, the wild honking my husband heard late yesterday afternoon was not a celebration of eggs but the last dirge of a dying bird. Perhaps a car hit her — he saw two young men turn around in their car to drive back by her as she flopped into the hollow of the yard. Perhaps, like a sparrow that fell from the sky  onto my windshield one cold day, she simply died. But today, he wrapped the limp body, wet from last night’s rain, in a garbage bag and set it on the curb for dead animal pick-up. There will be no goslings.

Today a dear friend called to tell me he is moving out from his 15-year relationship, into an apartment of his own. The couple I thought would be together until death do us part — even w/out benefit of clergy — has cracked into brittle halves, jagged shards of pain all around them.

And tomorrow, we will drive 90 miles to discuss the sale of my father-in-law’s dreams: the farm he bought piece by piece with the thin savings from two jobs. The house he designed the plans for, and contracted himself. Dad is gone, Mom is a drowsy shadow of her former vibrance, and the farm is no longer anyone’s dream.

Life is full of hairpin turns, a road that may end up anywhere. Love melts like sugar candy in the rain, and even wings can be stilled. Dreams fade like brittle photographs. There is nothing that is permanent.

This is what the Buddha tells us. DukkhaSuffering is how we translate dukkha. But it isn’t that simple. The pain the goose felt as she died? The pain my friend feels at the slipping away of his relationship? The loss of a large part of my husband’s childhood? These are all dukkha. Physical pain, impermanence, dependence. Each one part of a word that doesn’t really fit into English. But that moves like a scarlet fissure through our lives…

Tonight, I breathe for a dead goose, feathers soft & beaded with raindrops. I breathe for my friend, and his partner. And I breathe for my husband, his childhood, the parents I love perhaps as much as he does… And I bow my head to dukkha…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lent for Buddhists & non-Christians ~

You don’t have to be a non-Christian to be a Buddhist. Or a Unitarian. There are Christian Buddhists (some famous ones, in fact: I think of Thomas Merton). And (probably) Christian Buddhist Unitarians. But what can Buddhists get from Lent?

I love the idea of Lent. I love the Lenten Rose — hellebore. And the communal commitment to a better future. Like Ramadan, that other Abrahamic holiday of empathy, Lent requires us to go without. As so many in the world do, daily. It sharpens our empathy on the keen point of ‘without.’

I still plan to do Ramadan. Last year, the year I was all prepped to go for it, I was ill for most of the month. This year, it begins in July, when I will be helping my son, daughter-in-law, and new grandson move cross-continent. So I may not do Ramadan completely this year, either.

But I am doing Lent. And in the spirit of the endeavour, I am trying to give up something that is meaningful to me. Don’t laugh — I’m giving up FaceBook, where I connect w/ the many friends I have throughout the country. It’s my window on a diverse and messy world, and I love the way it strings strands between each of us, like the web it inhabits.

I was committed to doing this even before I read, in a discussion of Lent, that you get Sundays off. Hence the 40 days period: it allows for 5 Sundays off, plus the week before Easter.

So Sundays — when Christians are supposed to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus – are forbidden to fasting or other forms of self-denial and abnegation. Which means that you are welcome to ‘indulge’ in your sacrifice (even encouraged), to feel happy about the resurrection.

How cool is that? As Buddhists would say, Moderation in all things – even, occasionally, moderation. Don’t go nuts over being self-sacrificial; it’s not healthy. Nor celebratory, certainly. :)

I’ll still Twitter occasionally (so many cool things to share, like poetry!), and read FB on Sundays, but only in moderation. Because it’s good to realise that nothing is ‘given’ us, only lent through our good luck. I have the great good fortune to have a college degree, a husband w/ a college degree, and the income two degreed professionals have managed to save. So we have computers, iPads, Internet. And FaceBook . :) But I don’t take that for granted — too many years spent in countries far poorer than middle class Oklahoma.

Tomorrow will dawn, and I’ll check email after coffee or tea, as usual. But I won’t turn then to FaceBook. Will it make the world a better place? Bring peace & plenty? Of course not. But it will help me  remember — daily — to count my many blessings.

 

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