May It Be So

Almost exactly one year ago we dropped Seth off for his first year of college. As for any parents of a freshman, it was an exciting time for us all, with lots of unknowns and anticipations. As I look back on the year, I think we all did a rather tremendous job at letting go and being let go of. As he enters his sophomore year, Seth feels more strongly than ever that he made the right choice for himself with his college pick, and as anyone with a kid can tell you, a contented child is pretty much all a parent asks for.

One of the things that appealed about PLU to me personally was that it is not a secular campus. Of course I'm completely aware that kids will find what they are drawn to (secular, sacred, and the whole spectrum in between) at any school, anywhere in the world. But knowing that it's a part of the culture, and that speaking to vocation and a higher calling outside of self was something that I appreciated.

When we were oriented as parents and then gently separated and sent away (well, it was a bit more subtle than that, but not much), there was a student-welcoming ceremony that parents were able to observe, prior to the actual convocation that started the school year. During that service, the campus chaplain (I think?) read the following poem. (I know, right? Publicly-shared poetry? Of course Seth has found the right place for him! Ha.) I fell in love with it and have been meaning to share it ever since. It has all the hallmarks of any "new beginning" declaration--new year calendar-wise, or new year school-wise, what does it matter?

May It Be So
May the year bring abundant blessings--
beauty, creativity, delight!

May we be confident, couragous,
and devoted to our callings.

May our lives be enriched with education.
May we find enjoyment in our work
and fulfillment in our friendships.

May we grow, may we have good health.
In darker times, may we be sustained
by gratitude and hope.

May we be infused with joy.
May we know intimacy and kindness,
may we love without limit.

May the hours be enhanced with music
and nurtured by art.
May our endeavors be marked by originality.

May we take pleasure in daily living.
May we find peace within ourselves
and help peace emerge in the world.

May we receive the gifts of quiet.

May reason guide our choices,
may romance grace our lives.

May our spirits be serene,
may we find solace in solitude.

May we embrace tolerance and truth
and the understanding that underlies both.

May we be inspired with vision and wonder,
may we be open to exploration.

May our deepest yearnings be fulfilled,
may we be suffused with zeal for life.

May we merit these blessings
and may they come to be.
May it be so.

Note: "May It Be So" and its Hebrew counterpart are abecedarian poems, a type of acrostic in which the initial letters of key words appear in alphabetical succession. Abecedarians were a popular form of piyyud (liturgical poetry) composed for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, typically to delineate sins or to enumerate God's attributes. These new English and Hebrew abecedarians express wishes, hopes and blessings. Source. (Go back and read it again, now that you know the abecedarian nature of the piece. I have, many times, and appreciated that additional layer.)

As I've reread it over the past year since I first heard the words, I am struck by all that is so simply articulated, and how much of all of our lives it applies to--not just students, but certainly them as well.

My heart is full as we send the young man off for another year of learning and growing. May it be so.

Friday night grateful moment

What does a week hold? So many things, when you think about it: joy, hope, sadness, love, peace, discord, sleep, work, delicious food, pretty ordinary food, prayer, happiness, tears, laughter, music, noise, silence, cursing. This week was no exception.

And of course, this week held gratitude. Gratitude to be a part of this world, this life, living with the people I get to call family and friends and colleagues, and contribute to all that makes the world go 'round.

An old family friend posted a video on Facebook by the Maccabeats, and being the acapella junkie that I tend to be, I had to go find more music by them. I liked many of their songs, but this one stood out as reflective of my current mood.



Last weekend we were fortunate to have my brother and his family here to visit and spend time together. We did all the usual things--ate, napped, went for a glorious walk in the sunshine, visited around the firepit while roasting s'mores, ate some more, and waved goodbye as they all-too-quickly whisked back over to the other side of the state. I was grateful for our time together and look forward to our next visit. Soon, hopefully!

I have a little before-bed habit of browsing Instagram for #maryoliver. Her words do calm my spirit, and life me. Here are a few of the ones that stayed with me, this week.

"Everything will be everything else, by and by." Love those words.

Wishing you a peaceful weekend, wherever you are.

Midweek reminder: My need of God absolutely clear

Absolutely clear
Don’t surrender your loneliness
So quickly.
Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you
As few human
Or even divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight
Has made my eyes so soft,
My voice
So tender,

My need of God
Absolutely
Clear.

-Hāfez (1325–1390)

Small stone: Jan. 27

I feel loss
or the threat of loss
pressing in
on all sides.

My heart lodged
in my throat for hours
today, beating, thumping,
I choked on the sweet and steady
drumbeat. Alive alive alive.

I feel loss
or the threat of loss
pressing in
on all sides.

#smallstone

Small stone: Jan. 20

Missed a day of small stone writing (Saturday), but rather than trying to make it up, I'm calling it a lost small stone. Some day I'll find it, I'm sure.

For today:



Flat, gray, somber,
winter Mondays stretch
out, hour after hour, Eeyore plodding
through Hundred Acre Wood.
Where's the sunshine bouncing
off my walls, energy
to spare? Where is Tigger
to see me through to spring?

#small stone

Small stone: Jan. 19

One day it occurs to me: Old emotions
are just that, ancient. Decrepit thoughts
I'm amazed can still be dredged up.
I clean up, then, sweeping out the dust of tired tears,
Breathing in the fresh air of right now,
this minute. Present to myself.

#smallstone #imalittleslow #emotionalgrowthishard

Sept. 29: Celebrity Sher!

Today's blogging challenge: If you were ever to become famous, what would it be for?

Well, it's rather an oxymoron but here it is: If I were ever to become famous, I would want it to be for writing. Writing poetry, to be specific.

And how many famous poets do you know? (You can stop laughing now.) I suppose, in their own circles, there are levels of celebrity, but in a more global way, it's pretty much not what makes someone famous.

But if there were a way to somehow become famous for writing poetry, I'd take it. There's only one caveat--even I'm laughing now--and that's the fact that I am not fond of the idea of doing readings. I would like people to read my poems to themselves and be happy, or moved, or whatever. But, maybe I could hire a professional reader to go out and read for me...? Yeah, that's not happening.

So, I guess that's pretty much the final nail in the never-going-to-be-famous coffin. Sigh. And here I was already packing for the Today show. Ha.

What would you like to be famous for?

Jen and I are blog challenging throughout September. You can catch her blog over at Stuff Jen Says. We're almost done. Are you excited for us?! I think we are!

A-Z blogging challenge: Z is for Zest

How about ending the A-Z blogging challenge with a dual meaning word?

Zest: The outermost part of the rind of an orange, lemon, or other citrus fruit, used as flavoring.

zest

Zest: Spirited enjoyment; gusto.



Jessica has spirited enjoyment and gusto, eh?

Zest is also something you can find in words... I am prone to zest via exclamation mark. Many times I go through an email or something else I've written and take out exclamation marks all over the place, thinking, "You can't really be *that* excited about it, Sher!" (See, I couldn't resist dropping one in there.)

I appreciate zest--in my food and my life--and enjoy zest when others bring a little to the party as well.

I found zest in this poem:

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
-e. e. cummings

May you bring zest to all you encounter today!

I can't believe this is the last post of the A-Z blogging challenge. Thanks for sticking with me throughout, and to those of you who commented and became new followers--THANKS a bunch! Your patronage is appreciated, more than you know. 

A-Z blogging challenge: P is for Poetry

If you've followed this blog for any period of time, you know that I love poems, poetry, poets. There is so much within poetry--the cadence of the lines, word choices, images that are conjured--that contrive to inspire me.

I was thinking recently of the very first poets I discovered, or whom discovered me: Langston Hughes, Robert Frost, and the poem below, by John Greenleaf Whittier. I have very fond memories of the school year (8th grade English?) where I memorized this poem and made a little illustrated booklet of it, cutting corresponding pictures out of Ideals magazines.

In School-days
Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are creeping.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initial;

The charcoal frescos on its wall;
Its door’s worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves’ icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled:
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;—
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand’s light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

“I’m sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell,—
“Because, you see, I love you!”

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life’s hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her,—because they love him.

Such a sweet poem, and quite easy to memorize--at least that's how I remember it!

I went on to fall in love with many other poets over the years, from Margaret Atwood, Galway Kinnell, Sharon Olds, Denise Levertov, Mary Oliver, William Stafford, Li-Young Lee...

It's been a long time since I memorized a poem--probably college, when it was required in a poetry class--but remembering this poem from my childhood makes me want to take on that challenge again... maybe I'll start small--a haiku? Ha.

Who are your favorite poets? Have you ever memorized a poem, and if so, which one(s)?

What's this A-Z business about? Check out my kick-off post. And stay tuned for the random joy and nonsense I concoct during the month of April!

Midweek reminder: While you hold it you can't get lost

I loved William Stafford from the first reading of his poetry, way back in college. To me, he had a voice filled with the Pacific Northwest; his natural life themes were refreshing as I came out of my Margaret Atwood phase. (Don't judge. Most people who find poetry compelling have a similar "poetry as cause" period; you know you did.)

Hearing Mr. Stafford read his work live was a real treat when one of my professors was able to entice him to the college I attended, in 1990 or '91... it's a long-ago blur, now. But my memory of his voice has not faded; he had a cadence to his speaking and reading that was very reassuring, solid. I recently found a clipping of a poem with his obituary from 1993 in the front of a book of poetry, and his voice came back to me in a flash.

One of the facilitators at the nonprofit conference I was at in January decided to start the morning session with the following Stafford poem. From the first line, I knew I was in the right room.

The Way It Is
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
-William Stafford

Midweek reminder: You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake

had the ridiculous notion, once upon a youthful time, that I could (and should) live a life without regret. Lo,* these many mistakes later, I have thankfully disabused myself of that idea. And though I'm not a fan of the 3 a.m. wide-awake-and-pondering-the-past moments, they are useful from both a learning perspective as well as a gratitude perspective. For me, this poem has just the right amount of grit for 3 a.m., and just enough hope for when the sun comes up.

Antilamentation
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it.
Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
-Dorianne Laux

If you'd like to listen to the poem, go here.

*Lo does not get used enough in common language, in my opinion. I am a fan of lo.

Mid-week reminder: What batters you becomes your strength

Let this darkness be a bell tower

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

-Ranier Maria Rilke
Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29

Midweek reminder: Pursue the authentic

Advice to Myself

Leave the dishes. Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic—decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in through the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.
-Louise Erdrich

There is no friend like a sister

For there is no friend like a sister
in calm or stormy weather;
to cheer one on the tedious way
to fetch one if one goes astray
to lift one if one totters down
to strengthen while one stands.
-Christina Rossetti

I am fortunate to have two such lovely sisters, but only one is celebrating her birthday today! Happy birthday, dear Kim. Hope your day is filled with lovely things. You are a blessing to our family, and I'm so glad you're in it.

Just remember, you are to lift me when I totter down... (that might come sooner rather than later). And in more us-speak: I appreciate so much being able to pick up the phone and share and rant and rave and laugh. Now, we just need to work on diminishing the miles between us...

Midweek reminder: It's August!

efore summer arrived, a schedule was hatched that has Seth with us for August (and a lot of June) but none of July. This was agreed to by all, and though I knew it might prove challenging at times for everyone concerned, it seemed worth the effort to give it a go.

As we wind down--or is it up?--to his return on Sunday, fresh from jazz band camp at EWU, I am pleased to say it's been doable. Not better than that, but not worse either. 

This poem started in my brain quite a long time ago, and has been on "paper" for a few months now, in some form or other. Weeks of time with Seth at his dad's is the way we've lived for about nine years. Not what I would have wished for, ever, for any of us, but the unfortunate cost of an irreparable fracture. I could wax on about the benefits outweighing the costs (they do) and how we've all gotten so good at managing the transition (we do better some weeks than others), but the simple fact is that it just is.

For me, this poem is a marker, something tangible to to stick in the ground of my memory to say, "I was here, this was real, it matters." Not a ploy for sympathy (please, no!), not a banner to wave over the difficulties of life (missing a child at some point is fairly universal, after all), but a note to myself--and you now too--that progress is possible and reframing even the most minute details can cast a situation into a new, more constructive light.

Undone
Reminders of his absence litter
the house. I will stretch moments across days, tracing
the unintended scavenger hunt--a lone
sock, an iPod, a book by the bathtub,
the colorful cereal bowls where apple slices and grapes
once piled. In no hurry to tidy
the remains, I take my time returning
the books to their shelves, bowls
to the sink, sock to the laundry hamper.

He will return, and by then, each sock,
each crumb of breakfast, each pencil
and scribbled note will have found a home
in a drawer or proper place of keeping,
only to be undone by his returning.

There was a time, I would wander
the house a bit bereft, held hostage
by the sway of weeks, the shift, the absence.
Barren for days, then full with his presence;
the fullness never enough, always a craving, still.
Lately, miraculously, I am able to see
these small celebrations of him,
and be comforted; by handwriting,
socks, the wet towel on the bedroom floor,
talismans all.

Even as I mumble and shake my head,
I smile, anticipating the undoing
that his arrival home brings.

Midweek inspiration: Every stone on the road precious to me

The Layers
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written,
I am not done with my changes.
-Stanley Kunitz

Haiku spring break

aiku is a form I haven't written since college (and not very much, then, either). I remembered how challenging it is, but had forgotten (or maybe never knew?) how much fun can be had in the challenge.

While at the coast this past week, I wrote one for each day we relaxed...

Friday
Road trips go quickly
these days, electronics help
miles zoom; who needs talk?

Saturday
Extra zzzzzs, we snore.
Rain drizzles, wind shifts to north;
dog yawns, vacation.

Sunday
Sunshine hits the hills,
Rain sprinkles 'cross sandy dunes;
I'm inside, content.

Monday
Quiet, peaceful me,
listening to the second hand.
Willing time. to. slow.

Tuesday
Relaxed, close to bored.
He's fifteen, so we savor
every minute, sweet.

Wednesday
Bliss through filtered green.
I walk, quick, for images
to capture, hold fast.

Thursday
Chief pulls at his leash,
eager to sniff, lick, paw, pee.
He's wild for fresh air.

Friday
Miles drag their feet, slow.
Trip back, we snack, talk, daydream
we're home already.

Such great memories of our time away, and now that a new week is upon us, it's like it was a month ago already!

Midweek inspiration: The air is dry and sweet

source

This poem reminds me of The Lovely Bones. If you've read it, you might agree, a little?

Friday night grateful moment

The Net of Gratitude

iving thanks for abundance
is sweeter than the abundance itself:
Should one who is absorbed with the Generous One
be distracted by the gift?
Thankfulness is the soul of beneficence;
abundance is but the husk,
for thankfulness brings you to the place where the Beloved lives.
Abundance yields heedlessness;
thankfulness brings alertness:
hunt for bounty with the net of gratitude.

-Rumi
as translated by Kabir Helminski and Camille Helminski

Midweek inspiration: The wind blew in and woke the deep

the wind blew in and it took no time to take it all, to take what’s mine

the wind blew fierce
took my youth
what I used to love
what I used to do

and all things haunted
by wrong and right
by time that moves and endless nights
a violent rescue, a brilliant feat
the wind blew in and woke the deep

woke it up and set it free

i thought it bad when first it blew
but when i saw the truth i knew
that all the winds of change can't scatter
is all that really, really matters

so from the form of rules and things
toward the breath of which God sings

I stood in awe and watched it blow
quicken my blood and wake my soul

the wind blew in and woke the deep
woke it up and set it free
-Summer Mayne 

When I first read this poem, I loved the meter and rhythm best; I read it again and fell in love with the words. Now, of course, I love both aspects.

I've known Summer for a number of years, through my brother and sister-in-law, and her energy is infectious. And her yoga teaching is legendary; if you're in the Seattle area, you should check her out! Thank you, Summer, for sharing your words.