The Trail to the Past

On Saturday mornings I read a poem from a collection by Czeslaw Milosz. This has been providing a lot of inspiration for me.

Over the past couple of weeks I have been working through a long poem called "Lithuania, After Fifty-Two Years."  The poem is about his visits to various places he knew in his home country, as he works through memories and remarks on changes.  Last week he caused me to write about a place I visited many times during the years 1977-1978. When I returned in 2008, the place had so completely changed I barely recognized it.

Today's section of his poem is entitled "A Certain Neighborhood."  It took me to a different place from my past.  Here is what I wrote:

He speaks of a neighborhood he
knew well, how different all
the ponds and rivers had become,
the disappearance of the swamp.


And I thought of my beloved Metroparks,
the places there that mean so much
to me, the places shared with 
all the other Cleveland West Siders
who know the Hitchcock Tree and
the Green Barn and Cedar Point
Hill and the lagoon where I saw
my first dragonfly.

And I think of walking those
places a few years ago, how the
woods by the lagoon seemed
different than my memory, but the
lagoon the same.  How some things
had been altered, but only slightly.
Bridges instead of fords.

And that green space that opened
for me, the trees how they shimmered,
inviting me in, and I, in alive aloneness
that felt necessary and cleansing, 
entered that opening. It was there 
I found the trail that led me 
to the past.

Shapes

It must be the influence of my friend Annmarie who is currently in Oregon sending back all kinds of unusual nature photos. Today I needed some blue space, and headed to Bunche Beach where I was greeted with shapes!

Yes, shapes!

Every tree, every rock, every mark in the sand seemed to speak to me today. There were scads of birds, and they were pretty awesome, too, in their mating regalia.  Not that any of the females were interested in courting. There was a lot of chasing going on.

But...the shapes.  I don't even have words today.  I just have shapes. Enjoy.

Four Cartons of Milk

My friend Kelley Kaminsky wrote a blog post, offering up a mentor text to help us do some writing to start the healing process from our recent storm.  The blog and mentor text can be found at https://teachwritenow.blog/2017/09/16/recovering-from-irma-through-writing/

 This is my offering to the cause:

Four Cartons of Milk

We had been hearing the warnings, and now it was time to

get serious about supplies. My husband took the car, and I

gave him important instructions: “Just get one carton of milk

at Publix. Don’t buy the Costco three-pack. It will be too much

milk to deal with if we lose power.” So Jim went to Publix and

got the milk, then he sat in a long line waiting to get into Costco,

getting into a fender bender in the parking lot with Big Truck Man

who threatened to rip his head off, and so when my husband got

into the store he saw the milk was dated in October, and he

bought the three-pack, because, you know, it will last a long time

I was not too happy, as you can imagine, not just about the dented

car and that some jerk threatened my husband, but the fact that

I now was the caretaker of four cartons of milk, way too much

with a storm coming and power most likely to go out. Which it did.

Our neighbors let us hook up to their generator, snaking a cord

out our kitchen window and into theirs. I knocked on their door

and gave them a carton of milk for the grandchildren living there. 

And then my nephews ended up living her after the storm, when our

power returned and theirs did not, using the milk with cereal and Nesquik.

It is a week later, a week after Irma ripped our town apart, and

this morning I opened the final carton of milk to pour on my Cheerios,

happy it was here, happy that we were alive and well, happy that I

could share, happy that we took care of each other even with

something as simple as a carton of milk.

9/17/17

Waiting and Believing

We are ready, and the long wait for the hurricane to arrive has begun. I have been contemplating what kind of space I am in, and it is clear to me that although it feels like some kind of weird gray space, that isn't the case at all. We still have the sky, even when cloudy and volatile. We still have the greenery around us and now in the house, as our outdoor plants now grace the wall of the living room.  Waiting for a hurricane is a whole new way to understand blue space and green space.

Today, once again, I was highly inspired by the poet Czeslaw Milosz -- this time his poem called "Report."  I wrote my own, using his first and last lines.

O Most High, you willed to create me a poet

And I can see the world no other way.

My house feels full of joy for those who worked to protect us. 
I am strong and unafraid. I have mighty helpers,

not the least is this writing I do, my daily poems, seeing life
as express-worthy, being the one to find the words.

It feels to be a flaw at times, this focus on the best of us.
Some might call me delusional.

But I believe in miracles -- they replace all fear.

I believe I live in a time of strife because I have something to offer.

I pray. I meditate. I contemplate.

I practice gratitude and compassion.

At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night
and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.

Shortly after writing the poem, I came across this photo on Facebook.  I felt it confirmed all I had written.  Some may say I'm naive to believe the way I do. But I trust there is a sacred presence; and that makes everything better.

"Everything passes through us, transformed"

Today while getting ready for a major storm, the biggest of my life, I read a poem called "Paper Wasp" by Nick Flynn. I used the word transform for an acrostic, something that has been on my mind, and the minds of so many of my friends and family here in Southwest Florida. 

May we be well.

TRANSFORM

Today you may not be looking closely enough at how the world is changing.

Revolutions are small; they happen in the heart. They will not be televised or

Advertised; they occur in a moment. Like miracles. You may

Not be aware that the winds swirling around us have swirled before,

Someone somewhere has already suffered what you are suffering. Get a grip.

Freedom comes when you know it is your heart that changes the form.

Our hearts. This energy passing through is the only thing that causes transformation.

Remember your part. Don't take it lightly.  "Be the change" as the famous quote goes.

Miracles are nothing more than this.

What did you do with your life, what did you do?

Recently my friend Iris sent me a book of translated poetry of Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz. Getting to know this writer has been one of my weekly joys, as I cycle through various poets.  Saturday is Czeslaw day.

Today the poem was "Capri." He begins with memories of his First Communion and innocent days, and soon enough has this line which drew me right in:

What did you do with your life, what did you do?

I read the rest of the poem, which took up nearly three pages.  He writes in short bursts about seeing his country torn apart, about his memories of the rivers of childhood and how sad it is to get attached to things that people will come in and destroy.  He finishes with reflecting on his current life, flying in a plane instead of taking a carriage, visiting Capri where everything is beautiful. He had witnessed a great deal in his life, and this poem encapsulates visuals of blue space, green space, rivers flowing, and yes, even underlying the darker moods of this ever-shifting poem. I found it very moving.

(For bio on Milosz, check this link)

There were many golden lines in this poem to get me started on my own, but I kept coming back to the line above.  So, here is what I wrote today.


What did you do with your life, what did you do?

Did you reach into the heart of another and find a place for yourself there?

Did you follow the traditional path and find it wanting?

Did you recall that most of our daily stresses mean nothing in the
long run, that what seems important now is really just dust?

Did you pull yourself back from the brink of despair by
remembering your own divinity?

Did you find a place in nature that gives you all you need?

Did you take that chance, say those words, travel to that place that
most reveals who you are?

What did you do with your life?

What did you do?

Word Parts

 Sometimes space both blue and green is found in the simplest things.

Word Parts

I’m a Reading Teacher now, so when

I read a poem and I see words like

endless

unseen

transform

impossible

within

I’m thinking words parts. I’m thinking

of prefixes and suffixes and

base words. It delights me in

a weird way, this focus on words

and how they come together.

It’s a bounty for me. It is breaking

the world in little pieces and putting

it back together again. It’s awareness

of what is. It’s a puzzle sometimes,

and a way to get better at noticing

the small things that make up the

large things.

I never thought I’d be poetic about

word parts, but this is the road I’m on,

the road between things.

(9/1/17 inspired by Nick Flynn’s “Blind Huber (vii)”)