A Poem & Two Friday Gifts for You Weary Ones
It has been over five years since my dear friend, N, died after a three-year battle with stage-4 breast cancer. We loved to speak of gardens, and I think she would love our garden now, though she might gently point out that I could do a lot more with vegetables and permaculture!
*
Clearing the Garden
Spring 2017, to N
Yesterday, under a heavy white sky,
I finally stepped into the garden
and felled brittle black-eyed susans,
wheat-colored snapdragon stalks,
skeletal foxgloves.
I worked as an icy snow fell.
I worked until the black earth
showed the green tips of tulips.
Yesterday I thought of nothing but the task
and only later I remembered you,
how I'd finally stepped into your garden
months after they buried you in soft upturned earth.
I went then to remember you,
to clear spent leaves from the irises you loved best.
Remember the basil stalks, blackened with winter?
When we broke them, they released a wondrous scent.
*
So. . .I have a few resources for you that will delight you and carry you through the weekend and beyond. I know I tend to toot the same horns over and over again, but I can't help myself. I have my favorites! Both of these are from Krista Tippett's amazing On Being blog.
The first is a post by John Metta (originally published on Medium): I'm Done Drinking the Draught of Despair. Maybe, like me, you've found yourself glued to social media and the news lately--or at least incredibly distracted by what seems like an endless horror show. I love how Metta combines common sense, humorous self-reflection, and practical suggestions in this article:
The next gift I want to give you is from (you guessed it), On Being again--from the amazing, gentle, truth-teller and lovely person, Parker Palmer. On Being is wildly fortunate to have Palmer penning a whole series of posts for them, all posted at their website. At the top of the list, you'll find a wonderful one about aging, named "Withering Into Truth" (after a William Butler Yeats poem). I wish I could print half a dozen quotes from it here (including a beautiful passage about death and what may come afterwards), but here's one to wet your appetite and take you to the source:
*
Clearing the Garden
Spring 2017, to N
Yesterday, under a heavy white sky,
I finally stepped into the garden
and felled brittle black-eyed susans,
wheat-colored snapdragon stalks,
skeletal foxgloves.
I worked as an icy snow fell.
I worked until the black earth
showed the green tips of tulips.
Yesterday I thought of nothing but the task
and only later I remembered you,
how I'd finally stepped into your garden
months after they buried you in soft upturned earth.
I went then to remember you,
to clear spent leaves from the irises you loved best.
Remember the basil stalks, blackened with winter?
When we broke them, they released a wondrous scent.
*
So. . .I have a few resources for you that will delight you and carry you through the weekend and beyond. I know I tend to toot the same horns over and over again, but I can't help myself. I have my favorites! Both of these are from Krista Tippett's amazing On Being blog.
The first is a post by John Metta (originally published on Medium): I'm Done Drinking the Draught of Despair. Maybe, like me, you've found yourself glued to social media and the news lately--or at least incredibly distracted by what seems like an endless horror show. I love how Metta combines common sense, humorous self-reflection, and practical suggestions in this article:
I hacked up a few bits for you (above), but you really should read the whole post (it's not very long) HERE.Looking inward, I will be focusing on things that increase my energy and strength, rather than drain them.One of those things is writing. . . .I can only write strongly for the resistance if I am not writing cleverly for tweets.Another thing I’ll be focusing on is my family. I don’t want to miss my kids’ childhoods while I’m constantly checking on destruction caused by President Trump. I also need to focus on walking that balance between allowing them to have a good and fun childhood while simultaneously turning them into the soldiers of civil rights I want them to be. . . .The last big thing I’ll be focused on is local organization. . . .
The next gift I want to give you is from (you guessed it), On Being again--from the amazing, gentle, truth-teller and lovely person, Parker Palmer. On Being is wildly fortunate to have Palmer penning a whole series of posts for them, all posted at their website. At the top of the list, you'll find a wonderful one about aging, named "Withering Into Truth" (after a William Butler Yeats poem). I wish I could print half a dozen quotes from it here (including a beautiful passage about death and what may come afterwards), but here's one to wet your appetite and take you to the source:
Who will I be when I can no longer do the work I love that’s helped me hang onto a sense of self for the past half-century?
I won’t know the answer until I get there. But on my way to that day, I’ve found a question that’s already giving me a new sense of meaning. I no longer ask, “What do I want to let go of, and what do I want to hang on to?” Instead I ask, “What do I want to let go of, and what do I want to give myself to?”
The desire to “hang on” comes from a sense of scarcity and fear. The desire to “give myself” comes from a sense of abundance and generosity. Those are the kinds of truths I want to wither into.But wait, there's more. I stumbled upon an entry from March 2014, and embedded in the post was a golden poem that stopped me in my tracks and made me hold my hands out, palms up, in thanks (well, actually, I was at a coffee shop, so my reaction was less demonstrative, but certainly that was the reaction of my soul). It's by a poet I've never read before, Lynn Unger. Here's just a small bit of it. Read the whole thing, though (by clicking HERE)--it is just lovely and will be water for your parched, hurried soul on this Friday in February.
And you—what of your rushed
and useful life? Imagine setting it all down—
papers, plans, appointments, everything—
leaving only a note: “Gone
to the fields to be lovely. Be back
when I’m through blooming.”
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