There is no going back

No, no, there is no going back. Less and less you are that possibility you were. More and more you have become those lives and deaths that have belonged to you. You have become a sort of grave containing much that was and is no more in time, beloved then, now, and always. And so you have become a sort of tree standing over a grave. Now more than ever you can be generous toward each day that comes, young, to disappear forever, and yet remain unaging in the mind. Every day you have less reason not to give yourself away. ~ Wendell Berry ~ (Collected Poems)

Ode to Joy

Friedrich Schiller called Joy the spark of divinity

but she visits me on a regular basis,

and it doesn’t take much for her to appear—

the salt next to the pepper by the stove,

the garbage man ascending his station

on the back of the moving garbage truck,

or I’m just eating a banana

in the car and listening to Buddy Guy.

In other words, she seems down-to-earth,

like a girl getting off a bus with a suitcase

and no one’s there to meet her.

It’s a little after four in the afternoon,

one of the first warm days of spring.

She sits on her suitcase to wait

and slides on her sunglasses.

How do I know she’s listening to the birds?

--Billy Collins

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

--Mary Oliver

Welcome Morning

There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry “hello there, Anne”

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.

All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

in a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter of the morning,

lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,

dies young.

--Ann Sexton

Threshold

It has happened.

You thought you had some control

of your life

and that you were in a place

you understood

in a time that moved

from a past you knew

to a future that followed

in a more or less straight line.

But here you are at the edge

of a shore, the shallow waves

washing over your feet

taking the sand you stand on

away and suddenly you wonder

if all the ground beneath you

is disappearing.

You have stepped through the threshold.

The door closed and locked behind you.

You are on the other side.

You try to forget it, distract yourself,

but nothing works.

You check your messages.

The doctor’s office left a number

on your phone.

Is it a blood test result,

survival rate for treatment,

or days left to live?

Now you are alone.

After the panic subsides you stand there

looking around.

Everything is fresh,

colors are vivid,

you can smell scents,

even subtle ones,

and your hearing is sharp.

You feel the breeze on your skin

and the tickle of hairs moving

across your brow.

You are pierced through

with the inexplicable joy

at having nothing.

The sand forms around your foot

and the water wipes out all traces of your path.

Everywhere you turn there is something new

and the space around you

holds you gently

as it spills out and becomes

a part of the expanding world.

So many things are remarkable now.

Here is the freedom that always frightened you.

You have forgotten your name

and it does not matter.

--Newton Smith

You don't want to hear the story

of my life, and anyway

I don't want to tell it, I want to listen

to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.

And anyway it's the same old story

a few people just trying,

one way or another,

to survive.

Mostly, I want to be kind.

- Mary Oliver, from Dogfish

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

-Mary Oliver

What the Heart Says

The mind may leap five steps ahead,

devices pinging with new messages,

alerts, alarms. But the heart says,

There is no emergency. That muscle

wanting to unclench, aching to flex

as free as the monarch nectaring

on a Mexican sunflower at the cusp

of autumn. Don’t we all long for

space to pause and draw sweetness

from each bright thing in our path?

Don’t we crave the slowness of that

butterfly perched on orange petals,

coming alive in a way it never can

while in mid-air, wings folding and

unfolding their own form of prayer?

—James Crews

Wellness Check

In any moment,

on any given day,

I can measure

my wellness

by this question:

Is my attention on loving,

or is my attention on

who isn't loving me?

--Andrea Gibson

Friend, you are who taught me 

that a difficult life is not less 

worth living than a gentle one. 

Joy is just easier to carry than sorrow, 

and you could lift a city

from how long you’ve spent holding

what’s been nearly impossible to hold. 

But this world needs those who know

how to do that. Those who can find 

a tunnel with no light at the end 

of it and hold it up like a telescope 

to show that the darkness contains 

many truths that can bring the light 

to its knees. 

Grief astronomer, adjust the lens, 

look close, tell the world

what you see.

--Andrea Gibson 

August Afternoon

The backyard bugs are sparks

of afternoon sun as a white

butterfly wobbles up and

over the fence and visits

dandelions at random and

how can it exist? So fragile

and bright and alone in the world.

These warm August days are as

fleeting as those bright wings,

eluding every touch until you finally

sit still and let them land.

--James A Pearson