Favorite words...

It's been a while since I've done a Favorites Fridays post, but this week, when I read this poem, I knew that it was time for another one.

I've made no secret that Rainer Maria Rilke is my favorite poet. The more of his writing-both poetry and letters- I read, the more I love them. The first time I walked into the Rodin garden in Paris, France and saw his name on the plaque on the museum wall, it was like running into a friend in a place where never would have expected to find one.

Like G.K. Chesterton, I feel like Rainer and I would have been friends, had history and geography been kinder.

This poem is from 'A Year with Rilke: Daily Readings from the Best of Rainer Maria Rilke', one that I am reading this year. I could gush and tell you how wonderful it is...but I think that is what this whole post is anyway!

Here is the poem...

A hunger drives us.
We want to contain it all in our naked hands,
our brimming senses, our speechless hearts.
We want to become it, or offer it—but to whom?
We could hold it forever—but, after all,
what can we keep? Not the beholding,
so slow to learn. Not anything that has happened here.
Nothing. There are the hurts. And, always, the hardships.
And there's the long knowing of love—all of it
unsayable. Later, amidst the stars, we will see:
these are better unsaid.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, from the Ninth Duino Elegy

waiting...

I don't think there is anything in life that actually prepares you for one of the children in your life to be sick. That being said, I think my brother and sister-in-law are handling Jayden's illness, and the roller coaster of emotion and information as well as anyone ever could.

The waiting, however, is the part I could do without.

Loralie, my sister-in-law wrote a great post on Jayden's CaringBridge website about patience. She sums the virtue up brilliantly.

And while I wholeheartedly agree, there are times in life when I wish the road of faith wasn't so darn slippery, shifting, unpredictable and unknown. But, I suppose, that would like wanting water to not be wet.

Apparently wishes do not need to be rooted in reality.

I read this poem/prayer from Walter Brueggemann's brilliant book, Prayers For A Privileged People last week, and knew that there would be a time when I would need it. Today is that day.

Waiting and Longing
—Walter Brueggemann, Prayers For A Privileged People

God of the seasons,
God of the years,
God of the eons,
    Alpha and Omega,
    before us and after us.

You promise and we wait:
                          We wait with eager longing,
                          we wait amid doubt and anxiety,
                          we wait with patience thin
                                                and then doubt,
                                                and then we take life into our
                                                                            own hands.

We wait because you are the one and the only one.
We wait for your peace and your mercy,
    for your justice and your good rule.

Give us your spirit that we may wait
    obediently and with discernment,
    caringly and without passivity,
    trustingly and without cynicism,
    honestly and without utopianism.

Grant that our wait may be appropriate to your coming
        soon and very soon,
        soon and not late,
        late but not too late.

We wait while the world groans in eager longing.

spring things...

Threshold of Spring
—Rainer Maria Rilke, Uncollected Poems

Harshness gone. All at once caring spreads over
the naked gray of the meadows.
Tiny rivulets sing in different voices.
A softness, as if from everywhere,
is touching the earth.
Paths appear across the land and beckon.
Surprised once again you sense
its coming in the empty tree.

When it comes to poetry about the seasons, Spring is definitely the prom queen of the four. Poets seem to see Spring as the most mystical and magical of all the seasons, and I suppose it is for good reason. No other season has that beautiful, resurrection quality, where after the long, cold, dark months, Spring brings us back flowers and birdsong, convincing us that life will go on, that winter won't prevail forever... that even though it has felt like it, there is life after snow.

One of my very favorite spring things is going to St. Jacobs, both the farmer's market and the town with my small group... which is what we are doing tomorrow!



Whatever you find yourself doing, I hope you have a happy, happy weekend!

beauty of poetry

I have always been fascinated by spoken word poetry. It's something that I have often thought I would like to try, but don't think I have been brave enough.

Or maybe that is just a fancy way of saying that I have been afraid.

This morning, I watched this TED talk video. Dave Gibbons tweeted the link, and as I listened to this poet, she has inspired me to begin writing poetry again. It's long, a little over 18 minutes, but it is well worth it.



I'm honestly not sure why I stopped writing poetry in the first place. Perhaps because in the glare of everyday life, poetry sometimes seems frivolous. But can beauty every truly be frivolous? And for one who is embracing and exploring the idea of beauty this year, could poetry be overlooked in this journey? Sitting here in the quiet morning, I don't think so.

Perhaps, given that fact that recently I have begun reading the works of more poets—Christina Rossetti, Luci Shaw, Emily Dickinson, Rilke—I am now ripe to begin again for myself. To start the journey, and see where it takes me.

I guess we'll find out...

grace & poetry

There are days when it is easier than others to be grateful.

Some days, I find that I cannot write my gratitude gifts down in my Field Notes booklet fast enough. Other days, it seems that the blank page taunts me.

What I have learned, however, is that the days when nothing comes easy, those are the days that I most need to be grateful, that I most need to remember the good.

This week, with the advent of great news {see #62-64}, there is much to be grateful for. One of those things is a little poetry book I've been reading that simply makes my heart happy. And it fits perfectly in with this day of giving thanks...

Psalm For The January Thaw, Part 2.
—Luci Shaw, Harvesting Fog, p. 14,15

Glory be to God for changes. For bulbs
breaking the darkness with their green beaks.
For moles and moths and velvet green moss
waiting to fill the driveway cracks. For the way
the sun pierces the window minutes earlier each day.
For earthquakes and tectonic plates—earth's bump
and grind—and new mountains pushing up
like teeth in a one-year-old. For melodrama—
lightning on the sky stage, and the burst of applause
that follows. Praise him for day and night, and light
switches by the door. For seasons, for cycles
and bicycles, for whales and waterspouts,
for watersheds and waterfalls and waking
and the letter W, for the waxing and waning
of weather so that we never get complacent. For all
the world, and for the way it twirls on its axis
like an exotic dancer. For the north pole and the
south pole and the equator and everything between.

More grace gifts... {#60-78}

60. friends who come and sit and laugh and eat chocolate cake with you when you are down.

61. finding the perfect pair of jeans—on sale!

62. a lunch time phone call that brought good brilliant news.

63. tumors on Jayden's spine, breastbone and skull are gone... and the two that remain are smaller!

64. bone regeneration in his little body—even during chemotherapy!

65. that God thinks about me. {Ps. 40:17}

66. getting to hear what God is saying to the people I work with every Wednesday.

67. planning a Welcome To Spring party.

68. turning the last page on a book that has been nothing but a blessing.

69. a comfortable, albeit messy home, to rest in when one is not feeling well.

70. english breakfast tea in a beautiful cup.

71. a full house at Starbucks that forced us to have coffee at the place we usually reserve for special occasions.

72. heating pad on cold days.

73. a hand massage.

74. the trilogy that reminds us that no matter how much bad happens, good will win in the end.

75. beginning a book I have long wanted to read.

76. herbes de Provence olive oil.

77. peanut butter and homemade strawberry jam on toast.

78. the friend whose birthday it is today. {happy, happy day, Merrilee!}

gratitude...

Happy Monday!

It was a good, but relatively quiet weekend in my world. There was a good deal of reading, some not enough writing, and my first two whole nights of sleep in almost a week. That alone is enough to have made this a good weekend!

As we live our lives through these days that at times seem so very long, yet are passing by so briskly, I have yet again found myself in one of Rilke's poems. How grateful I am for the wisdom and beauty with which he wrote...

Knots of Our Own Making
{Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours II, 16}

How surely gravity's law,
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of even the smallest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world.
Each thing—
each stone, blossom, child—
is held in place.
Only we, in our arrogance,
push out beyond what we each belong to
for some empty freedom.
If we surrendered
to earth's intelligence
we could rise up rooted, like trees.
Instead we entangle ourselves
in knots of our own making
and struggle, lonely and confused.
So, like children, we begin again
to learn from the things,
because they are in God's heart;
they have never left him.

#31-59 of my One Thousand Gifts...

31. postponed plans that give the gift of time.

32. an unexpected conversation with a stranger at the laundromat.

33. getting to chat with one of my brothers, even if only for a few minutes.

34. blog comments that encourage and make me smile.

35. the beginning of Lent, and the yearly physical reminder that Easter is coming.

36. having friends that i can email to ask to pray for Jayden's tests.

37. the friend who emailed me back to say i could count on her to pray & that she loved me.

38. another friend's sweet response that brought tears to my eyes.

39. and another beautiful friend.

40. and another.

41. and another.

42. all the amazing, encouraging, beautiful friends that God has blessed me with.

43. tests done in good time, a hungry little boy & a trip to McDonald's.

44. the unusual ability to keep my mouth firmly closed when nothing but sarcasm was going to come out.

45. the blissful peace of a Friday night at home.

46. turning the first few pages of a Cara Black Parisian mystery novel.

47. finishing that same book the next day.

48. getting a dreaded chore done before 10:00 am

49. homemade potato cheddar soup.

50. finally getting an entire night's sleep.

51. re-reading a book and being more moved and challenged the second time.

52. trusting that no matter what news this week brings, God is still God, still in control, still love.

53. overripe bananas that sacrificed themselves to become banana praline pecan biscotti and blueberry banana bread.
54. reconnecting with a friend through laughter and tears.

55. being able to share some of my stupidest moments and knowing my friend will still love me.

56. birds singing in the tree outside.

57. my parents.

58. Rilke's poetry.

59. the grace to begin again.

favorite thing {literary edition}

i have wanted to get back to doing favorite things friday posts, but have had a hard time deciding on which favorite things. this morning, when i woke up with a poem in my head, it all became so clear.

i originally encountered this poem back in 2007. i don't remember the original meeting place, but it's become such a part of me, it feels like i've known it forever.

when you get to the second line, you will see what initially drew me to the poem, but it is the defiant nature, the refusal to settle for an ordinary existence that has made this an instant favorite.

it is one, like Rilke's work, that i carry with me everywhere in my favorite Moleskine, and one that at this point, i mostly know by heart.

i won't waste anymore time...

Monet Refuses the Operation
—Lisel Mueller

Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

contentment

it seems that everyone has a season, or a time of year that makes them wish for another. for many, it is winter, and the desire for longer days, more sunshine, and less cold becomes the cry of their heart.

for me, it is summer. i find the heat draining, not just physically, but emotionally and creatively as well. so my tendency during these hot days is to dream of fall, of sweater weather, of walking accompanied by the crunch of brightly hued leaves underfoot. of pumpkin pies to be baked. of...

but the truth is i cannot live in the future. and even though right now my mind can conjure up almost exactly how a pie would smell if it were baking in the oven right now, it is not what is before me. what is before me, is a thursday in july. and even though, temperature-wise, it probably won't be my favorite thursday of the year, this is where i must live.

i love this poem by Wendell Berry, and how it helps me to remember that i am here, not in october, and that it's not a perfect world that i need to live in, but a better way of looking at the one i find myself in.

What We Need Is Here
—Wendell Berry

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

poem

it's been a while since i shared any of my favorite poems with you, or gushed on about my favorite poet, Rilke. to be honest, i may have shared this one before, but given that its author is brilliant, and the poem is perfect, i think it's worth the risk.

Ignorant before the heavens of my life | R.M. Rilke

Ignorant before the heavens of my life,
I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness
of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still.
As if I didn't exist. Do I have any
share in this? Have I somehow dispensed with
their pure effect? Does my blood's ebb and flow
change with their changes? Let me put aside
every desire, every relationship
except this one, so that my heart grows used to
its farthest spaces. Better that it live
fully aware, in the terror of its stars, than
as if protected, soothed by what is near.

happy birthday, lanston hughes!

today i wanted to celebrate the birthday of writer, poet and essayist Langston Hughes with one of my favorite poems written by him.

Dreams
by Langston Hughes

hold fast to dreams
for if dreams die
life is a broken-winged bird
that cannot fly.
hold fast to dreams
for when dreams go
life is a barren field
frozen with snow.

home

today, at 5:55 pm i am flying to calgary, alberta.

i have never lived in calgary, nor anywhere west of windsor, ontario actually. but since the parents, the three brothers, and their families have migrated their lives distinctly westward, this place where i have never lived is the home in 'i'll be home for christmas'.

there is a slight weirdness whenever i am asked when i am going home, since for the last eleven years, i have lived in mississauga, effectually making here home as well. when i am tired at the end of the day, this address in streetsville is my last stop at night.

and yet, tomorrow, westjet airlines gets to take me home. to see mom and dad. the siblings. the niece and all the nephews. to laughter. to friends.

home.

wherever you find yourself over the next few days, i wish you much peace, joy, laughter and love as we celebrate the arrival of a tiny baby who left his home, so we could ultimately be at home with our Father.

i found this beauty of a poem by g. k. chesterton that i didn't even know existed. enjoy!

the house of christmas
by g. k. chesterton

there fared a mother driven forth
out of an inn to roam;
in the place where she was homeless
all men are at home.
the crazy stable close at hand,
with shaking timber and shifting sand,
grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
than the square stones of rome.

for men are homesick in their homes,
and strangers under the sun,
and they lay on their heads in a foreign land
whenever the day is done.
here we have battle and blazing eyes,
and chance and honour and high surprise,
but our homes are under miraculous skies
where the yule tale was begun.

a child in a foul stable,
where the beasts feed and foam;
only where he was homeless
are you and i at home;
we have hands that fashion and heads that know,
but our hearts we lost - how long ago!
in a place no chart nor ship can show
under the sky's dome.

this world is wild as an old wives' tale,
and strange the plain things are,
the earth is enough and the air is enough
for our wonder and our war;
but our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
and our peace is put in impossible things
where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
round an incredible star.

to an open house in the evening
home shall men come,
to an older place than eden
and a taller town than rome.
to the end of the way of the wandering star,
to the things that cannot be and that are,
to the place where God was homeless
and all men are at home.

merry christmas eve!

almost

tomorrow is get on a plane day.

i'd like to be able to say that i am packed and ready to go. it would be super to tell you that there are not still two empty suitcases sitting on my bedroom floor, or that i've already gotten out my passport and everything else that will be necessary for the journey.

but that would be a lie.

so, after work tonight, i have got some things to do.

but while i have ignored the practical side of my life, my advent reading journey has continued. this gem from WinterSong: Christmas Readings made my heart smile, and i hope it does the same for you...

the first-born light
by madeleine l'engle

the Maker's hand flung stars across the night
with angels bursting forth from galaxies
new music singing from the spheres in harmonies
that blessed the dancing of the first-born light.

and then the light was darkened by an earth
dimmed by torn dreams, saddened by shrill pride.
stars faded, lost their story, and died.
the dance distorted in strange lies and anger.
love's hand again was lifted. in a manger
again the Maker of the stars gave birth.

merry christmas eve's eve

unreasonable

for the most part, i think i am a fairly reasonable person. or at the very least, i fancy myself so.

but after reading this poem from WinterSong: Christmas Readings i have to wonder if my reasonability leaves room for the miraculous and the wonder-filled.

after annunciation
by madeleine l'engle

this is the irrational season
when love blooms bright and wild.
had mary been filled with reason
there'd have been no room for the child.

merry christmas eve's eve's eve

still waiting...

the beginning of the week of christmas always seems like the longest of the year for me, this year especially so.

here we are on monday, still three days, ten hours and 42 minutes until i get on a plane and head towards the family, still four days until christmas itself, and i get to see the whole family, and these few days feel like an eternity.

it's not like i don't have anything to do over these next few days... there are some rather demanding projects at work that will clamor for my attention. some unwrapped presents for little ones are still waiting to be wrapped. friends i want to celebrate the season with over a caramel brulee americano. one present that i am still waiting for {gulp!} not to mention the two very empty suitcases sitting in my bedroom.

as i said, so much to do, and yet all i can think of is finally being with all my family on christmas day.

and so, i wait.

this advent season, i have had the great joy of being accompanied by the words of two women that i have admired for years. madeliene l'engle and luci shaw's WinterSong: Christmas Readings has been a gift, and, truth be told, is helping me wait in beauty.

this poem, by madeleine l'engle, i read last night, and is perfect for both the season, as well as this winter solstice day...

Into the darkest hour
by madeleine l'engle

It was a time like this,
war & tumult of war,
a horror in the air.
Hungry yawned the abyss—
and yet there came the star
and the child most wonderfully there.

It was a time like this
of fear & lust for power,
license & greed and blight—
and yet the Prince of bliss
came into the darkest hour
in quiet & silent light.

And in a time like this
how celebrate is birth
when all things fall apart?
Ah! wonderful it is
with no room on the earth
the stable is our heart.

merry christmas eve's eve's eve's eve

waiting

it is advent again. the season of waiting. this year it seems as though i am feeling the things i am waiting for much more acutely than others.

waiting for a friend to heal and finally be able to leave the hospital after over two months. waiting for promises that somehow seem to never be fulfilled. waiting...

but what i am most waiting for is for 5:55 pm on thursday, dec 24, when i will get on a plane and finally be on the way to see my family, most of whom i have not seen since i got on a plane in calgary 340 days ago. it has been a very long year, and i am waiting.

less than patiently, to be honest.

why it is waiting seems easier when we realize we are not alone in it?

* * * * *

we wait for you to ache

with the energy we have,
we begin the day,
waiting and watching and hoping.

we wait,
not clear about our waiting.
but filled with a restlessness,
daring to imagine
that you are not finished yet —
so we wait,
patiently, impatiently,
restlessly, confidently,
quaking and fearful,
boldly and daring.

your sovereign decree stands clear
and we do not doubt.
we wait for you to dissolve in tender tears.
your impervious rule takes not prisoners,
we wait for you to ache and hurt and care over us
and with us
and beyond us.
cry with us the brutality
grieve with us the misery
tremble with us the poverty and hurt.
attend to us — by attending in power and in mercy.
remake this alien world into our proper home.

we pray in the name of the utterly homeless one,
even Jesus.

amen.

~from awed to heaven, rooted in earth: prayers of walter brueggeman

october

happy october!

october is perhaps one of the happiest of months, as it is the entryway to all things fall and orange and gold and dark red and pumpkin.

to celebrate this joyous month, here is a poem capturing the essence of my most favorite of seasons.

october
by robert frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the wall.

speak

there are some books that can only be read over time. Walter Brueggemann's Prayers for a Privileged People is just such a book.

this morning, i read the poem entitled, Salvation Oracles, and felt compelled to share its brilliance with you.

Salvation Oracles by Walter Brueggemann
on reading Isaiah 43:1-5

there is a long list of threats around us:
terror,
cancer,
falling markets,
killing,
other unlike us in all their variety,
loneliness,
shame,
the list goes on and we know it well.

and in the midst of threat of every kind,
you appear among us in your full poers,
in your deep fidelity,
in your amazing compassion.
you speak among us the one word that could matter:
"do not fear."

and we, in our several fearfulnesses, are jarred by your utterance.
on a good day, we know that your sovereign word is true.
so give us good days by your rule,
free enough to rejoice,
open enough to change,
trusting enough to move out of new obedience,
grace enough to be forgiven and then forgive.

we live you your word. speak it to us through the night,
that we may have many good days through your gift.

evening

it's been a long time since i've shared some rilke beauty. given that the sky is darkening perfectly right now, i think tonight might be the night...

evening

the sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven, one that falls;

and leave you, not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternity with the passion of what becomes
a star each night, and rises;

and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternately stone in you and star.

~by Ranier Maria Rilke
translated by Stephen Mitchell

lent

for the first time in many years, i have chosen to participate in the Lenten season by giving up certain things. i know that fasting as a spiritual discipline is a vital and necessary part of a Christ follower's journey, but this year, i felt compelled to return to this practice. perhaps my Catholic roots run deeper than i thought.

on saturday evenings, when our infamous movie nights are not happening, i like to spend some reflective time in preparation for the next morning's worship service. and since i got walter brueggemann's book prayers for a priviledged people, i like to use one of the prayers in that as my springboard. sadly, though, i do not do this as often as i would like to.

but tonight, i did, and my new friend walter has not disappointed me.

sustained by angels
on reading Mark 1:12-13

maybe we have not thought much about satan,
either in glib self-regard,
or in rejection of such silly speculation,
or in a way more urbane and benign
than to imagine such a character.

except that as we begin our strenuous Lenten trek,
we are aware
that the power of resistance is at work in our midst,
that the force of negation is alive and well,
that our best will is contradicted
by stuff that surges
against our best selves,
that we, even we, are prone to our
several addictions that render us helpless.

so we pray in the Lenten season,
give us primative freedom to
take full stock of satan and the power of
evil still among us in our prosperity and
wealth and sophistication,
and give us primitive openness
to your ministering angels
who are present with care and gentleness
and great nourishment.

in the Lenten season, give us freedom
to reconfigure our lives
as a testing field between the force of satan
and the food of your angels.

enter our lives with power for newness,
deliver us from a sense of naive mastery,
and give us honest contact with our vulnerability.

enter the deep places of our life and claim us for your purposes.
we would be more free than we are,
more bold than we dare,
more obedient than we choose.

we wait for the gift of your large gift of life
that will wrench us away from death
to the miracle of Easter joy.

i think this is enough to think about for tonight... and exactly what i needed to hear.

you, darkness

everyone always thinks me a heretic when they find out that i am not a huge fan of light. i was very excited to originally find out that my new office at the church would be windowless. and, to be honest, i was a little disappointed to discover that my actual new office has not one, but two windows! {disclaimer: given that there are those who desperately wanted windows and did not get them, this is in no way a complaint of any sort.}

but, after reading this poem, i think rilke would have understood me...

you, darkness
by ranier maria rilke

you darkness, that i come from
i love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone
and then no one outside learns of you.

but the darkness pulls in everything-
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them! -
powers and people-

and it is possible a great presence is moving near me.

i have faith in nights.

good night, my friends.