Summer at the Circus: A Political Poem

We spent summer at the circus
riding carousels all day.
We saw elephants parading
and donkeys prance and bray.
Clowns shot themselves from canons.
A strong man swallowed fire.
One threw knives at women
while singing sweetly of desire.
Women dressed in spangled tights
careened above our heads.
Blue dogs jumped through hula-hoops.
The lion roared from his sick bed.
We lived on cotton candy,
Italian ice and chewing gum.
The big tent band played ragtime,
on trumpets, sax and drum.
The ringmaster stood before us.
tipped his hat and made a quip,
then declared the circus over.
as he smiled and cracked his whip.
Drunk on noise and color
we went home, our stomachs sore,
relieved that we were going
back to work once more.

Red Shoes

You stood there
in the dappled light,
dark dress and jacket,
body slight.
You smiled - at me -
though years and miles
had separated us
from college lives.
You were sixty,
modest and well-bred
yet the shoes you wore
were crazy-apple red,
like our joy
each time we met,
bubbling into mirth
that so often went
untempered by
a proper etiquette:
we danced in rain
and sang duets
across the meadow
hemmed with trees
where you now sleep.
We jumped in leaves
and slid down
snowy graveyard hills,
shivering, exultant,
laughing still.
When, on that lucky day,
we meet again,
I expect red shoes and
laughter in the rain.

Pictures and Poems

Lately I’ve been checking out some other blogs, particularly the “Blogs of Note” selected by Blogger Buzz. I’m not sure why these particular blogs are chosen. Nor do I aspire to have Shifted Light added to the list, but I was curious to see what other people do with their blogs, and then I grew interested in what makes a blog “noteworthy.”

The answer was not what I expected. It seems that noteworthy blogs don’t need to have many words. About half of these blogs of note are dominated by large artistic photographs, explained or commented on by a few lines of text. It’s a pleasure to look through them – some of them are very polished, and I’ve even found a few that I’m now enthusiastically following. Though these photo blogs sometimes stimulate my creative juices, their written content is rarely meaty.

The photos in these blogs are often stunning. Some make me smile. Some remind me of places I’ve been or people I’ve known or things I’ve made. Some make me want to visit places I’ve never seen or try something I’ve never done.

This may be a sign of the times. We are surely a culture in the midst of change. Yet I find it a bit odd that so many of our most noteworthy communications are mostly visual. That the written word frequently serves as an annotation to a photo, not the other way around.

Yesterday evening while I was chopping green peppers and tomatoes for a salad, I listened to a man on the radio read a short poem by Kenneth Rexroth. It was a poem about love and death and the passage of time and there was so much truth and beauty in it that my eyes filled with tears.

I can’t remember ever seeing a picture that was so true it made me cry.

Uniquely New England

One of the joys of writing historical novels is doing the research. In fact, it can be so engaging that it hinders the actual writing of the novel. Lately I’ve been investigating the Great Migration, the massive influx of (mostly) Puritans into Massachusetts Bay Colony in the 1630’s. Some of my ancestors were among these people, so the research fascinates me on several levels.

One thing that especially intrigues me is the commitment that Massachusetts Bay Colony had to building and supporting community. Migrants came to New England not only to acquire land but also to live in towns. These towns were organized by religious congregations. Every town in the colony had to first “gather” a church, so there was no town without a church. Nor was there any church without a town. The town, like the church, consisted of a group of people covenanting together.

Settlers weren’t allowed to simply fan out over the countryside and pick any site that looked promising. They had to be granted that land by the governing body of the colony, called the General Court. With the importance of community firmly in mind, the colony required New Englanders to settle in towns. Land was granted not to individuals but to a group of “proprietors,” who agreed to take on certain responsibilities in exchange for the privilege of dividing up the land in specified “allotments.”

Before anyone was allowed to settle in a town, the land had to be surveyed and roads laid out. This was the responsibility of the proprietors who, as a group, received the land grant. This land only became profitable when people settled there. Land was essentially worthless unless it was “productive,” in other words, cleared and farmed, which was labor-intensive work. So the proprietor’s next task was to attract new settlers to the town.

Once people arrived and agreed on the town and church covenants, the proprietors divided up the land, balancing the needs of individual freeholders with the needs of the community. They had to make sure that every family had sufficient land to sustain them so they wouldn’t become an economic burden for the town. In most towns the proprietors held much of the land in reserve for allocation to future generations.

This system effectively limited the number of settlers in each town. Proprietors established criteria for town admission, usually requiring settlers to be pious, God-fearing Christians. After the initial allocation, more settlers were allowed as needed, but they rarely stayed in that town because the latecomers weren’t entitled to any say in the future division of land.

So there was economic incentive for the latecomers to move on and become proprietors of new towns, where they could control land distribution. This meant that many families moved around a few times before permanently settling in a town. Typically, colonists would arrive in summer, spend a few weeks in the town where their ship had landed, and sought admission into a nearby town before winter. But they often didn’t stay there for long, preferring to find a place where they could become proprietors in a new town, where they would have a say not only in land allocation but in the selection of the town’s minister and selectmen.

The Puritan family I’m writing about in my novel followed this pattern. John White and his family landed in Salem and lived there for a few years before he became a proprietor in the new town of Wenham. After several prosperous years there, he moved his family yet again to the “frontier” town of Lancaster, where, as a proprietor and because of his status and wealth, he became the largest landholder in town.

In each place, he and his family were integrated into the community, supporting and supported by neighbors and friends who lived nearby. They worshipped together, met together in town meetings, and shared the particular challenges and blessings of each place. The colony’s ideological commitment to community was realized in nearly 70 towns before King Philip’s War.

The archetypal image of the picturesque New England town, where church-going neighbors help each other and work out their differences in town meetings has its roots in a history that stretches back to the Puritans. While it’s a nostalgic and for the most part outdated image, there are still daily reminders of that tradition. No one has to request the blessing of town proprietors before moving here, but the church on the common still rings out each hour for everyone to hear, the fire siren still shrieks when a neighbor’s house goes up in flames, and we spend hours at town meetings debating how to use town land. Whether we realize it or not, we’re still trying to balance our individual needs and desires with the welfare of the community in which we live.

Dark Mischief

I woke at two

and heard the north-

east wind come down,

whistling like a boy

with nothing else to do

but kick the leaves around.

Vacations

For as long as I can remember I’ve spent a week in the summer vacationing with my family. When I was a child, I camped with my parents and brothers in Vermont or Maine. When I grew up and married, my husband and I continued the tradition by vacationing with our four children, sometimes camping and sometimes renting a cabin. Now that our children are grown, our vacation week has become a sort of family reunion, Every year we pick a different location in northern New England. Whether oceanside, lakeside or in the woods, these places are always enchanting. No matter the weather, we spend what seems to me an idyllic week, reading, hiking, talking, laughing, playing board games and soaking up the details of our surroundings.

This year we rented a cabin on the coast of Maine, a stunning location right on the water, overlooking rocks, a short walk away from a small sand beach. All day and all night we were bathed in the sounds of the tides; we watched terns and cormorants and canvasback ducks fishing. (I was stunned at the speed of the terns as they dived headfirst into the water. I wondered why they didn’t break their necks.) We watched lobster boats circling off the rocks, and sailboats weaving among the islands. We saw huge tankers gliding north along the horizon. One day we watched a tall ship to the south navigate out to sea and back again. We saw the full moon rise on the water, and I even got up before dawn one morning to watch the sky turn from purple to pink to palest lavender to gold.

As always, the week proved too short, and towards the end of it, I found myself wishing I could stay longer. I imagined taking up permanent residence there. I thought I’d like to see what it’s like in fall and winter, to witness the emergence of spring, to spend summer after summer in the same beautiful spot.

This year, when I got home, I began to think about what this sort of vacation does to me. I thought about how I experience a bit of a jolt as I reenter my ordinary life. Enjoyable as the vacation was – perhaps because it was so enjoyable – it makes the “real world” feel a little bumpier, a little more uncomfortable, than it did before.

We live in a world and a time when vacations are considered not only fun but necessary. They’re so thoroughly integrated into our lifestyles that some of us live from year to year for our vacations. And, of course, many people make their living on other people’s vacations. In some places, including the state I grew up in, tourism is the biggest sector of the economy.

Yet, for most people in the world, and certainly most people in human history, taking a vacation is an alien concept. That doesn’t mean that all these people experienced their lives as unbearably grim. Perhaps they knew something that I don’t.

For years I’ve searched for a way to take the essence of vacation and marry it to everyday life. What I’m really doing, I think, is yearning to make the unfamiliar familiar.

I would like to think I can learn to enjoy my familiar surroundings in much the same way that I enjoy the unfamiliar ones of a vacation. It will certainly take mindfulness, a conscious attending to the details of my environment. It will require a new sort of receptivity, a trust that beauty is all around, even – perhaps especially – in the most ordinary details of life.

Familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt. It can breed a new sense of wonder, a renewed immersion in joy. Sometimes it can even breed love.

Love Story

I grew up in a small Vermont town. In the early 1960s it boasted few retail establishments, but there was a drug store with a soda fountain and a handful of tiny neighborhood stores that sold bread and other “sundries.” (In those days milk was delivered to the doorstep in glass quart bottles.) I regularly visited the store in our neighborhood by going cross lots through the back yards of four neighbors, along a path of my own devising that brought me to a set of creaking wooden steps and a screen door. The store was actually just a room on the back of the proprietor’s house, a room crammed with shelves of canned goods and racks of candy.

Because the town didn’t have a grocery, hardware or department store, we made weekly family trips to the nearest city, eleven miles away. With a population of about 18,000 at that time, Rutland had a bustling shopping district, featuring several turn-of-the-century four and five story buildings. There we bought groceries, clothes, hardware and other things we might need for the coming week. We also stopped in to see my aunt and uncle and cousins who lived there. It was an all-day visit and it was pretty much mandatory. Though there came a time when I resisted, and claimed I preferred to stay home, my memory is that it was a largely pleasant excursion and an enjoyable break in the weekly routine. It widened my horizons the tiniest big and imprinted images in my psyche that still crop up in my dreams.

For me, the high point of these trips was the family visit to the Rutland Free Library. The brick and stone building was situated on a hill that was sometimes treacherous to navigate in winter, but once inside, I felt as if I’d entered a sanctuary.

Though our town was justly proud of its small library and I spent many of my high-school-age hours volunteering there, the Rutland Library was a three-story wonderland. The high Victorian interior – dimly lit and appointed with heavy, dark furniture, reading tables and massive lamps – contained shelves and shelves of books - more books than I could ever read. I loved nothing better than to browse the stacks in search of treasures, opening any book that caught my eye and sampling a page or two. I stayed as long as I could, as long as my family had patience, and I checked out the maximum number of books allowed. To this day I vividly recall coming out of the library and walking down the front steps carrying a stack of books that reached from my waist to my neck. I felt contented and happy, anticipating the hours of reading that lay ahead. In my arms I held unexplored worlds, pages and pages of experiences, a magic doorway to other places and times of my choosing.

I sometimes sampled no more than a few chapters before putting a book aside and trying another. When I found a book that drew me in, that insistently called me to turn page after page, I devoured it. The next week I was back in the library, looking for more.

I no longer live in small-town Vermont but my library habit lives on. Though my home is filled with books, I still regularly check books out of local and area libraries. I still browse the stacks, sampling a few pages, looking for treasures. I still take home more books than I can possibly read. But the truth is I’m hopelessly addicted. My habit is long-standing and compulsive. I fell in love with books early and the romance has lasted a lifetime.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Creative Procrastination

Yesterday morning, instead of working on my novel, I pruned the shrubs in front of the house. It was satisfying in a divide-and-conquer sort of way. My husband commented on my unusual industriousness and he apparently meant it as a compliment. Maybe he didn’t realize that I can accomplish a great deal in the service of not-writing.

Ordinarily procrastination is not one of my vices. When I have papers to grade, I read them promptly. When spring comes and taxes loom, I get them done well before April 15th. I like to get tasks taken care of, out of the way. I like the freedom of feeling unburdened time lying ahead of me.

Except when it comes to writing.

When I’ve cleared an entire day to work on my novel, I become the queen of procrastination. I read the newspaper, even the sports pages; I scrub the kitchen sink and sweep the floor; I check my email and my facebook page. I make appointments and return phone calls. Sometimes I do a little more research, just to “get in the mood.” There are days when I don’t start actually writing until mid-afternoon.

Professional writers are supposed to be disciplined. It doesn’t matter whether they feel inspired; they write every day. At the same time every day. That’s supposed to make the writing easier, and keep the writer from getting rusty.

I am disciplined. I make time to write every day, except Sundays. But the unfortunate truth is that it doesn’t get easier. If anything, it gets harder. Each day I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to screw up the courage to jump into the ocean. And though I’ve done it thousands of times, I’m afraid that, this time, I might drown.

I’ve thought about this a lot. Why is writing so difficult? Is it the critical demon that sits on my shoulder and tells me my work will never be “good enough?” Is it because I’m basically lazy? Is it because there’s something fundamentally terrifying about putting words on a page? (Many of my students seem to think so.) Is it because I can’t evaluate the value of what I’ve written until long after the fact?

I suspect the creative task is more demanding than others partly because it makes me feel vulnerable. It requires me to expose myself in ways that make me uncomfortable. It’s just one step away from exhibitionism.

I think writing also forces me to see – in black and white – my own limitations. The dream of the novel – the novel I want to write – is never matched by the novel that comes into being as I pile up actual words and paragraphs and pages. The realization of how far it falls short is often discouraging. Sometimes so discouraging that it cripples the impulse to write.

I’ve sometimes suspected that this is very much the way God feels about humanity – that creation has fallen far short of what might have been. But God apparently hasn’t given up on us yet. So maybe God’s patience could be a model for my own.

Each morning is the beginning of a new day. Another chance to write, to try to move my novel on paper closer to the novel in my imagination. And so this morning I’m sitting at my desk instead of taking my clippers out into the overgrown back yard or scrubbing the bathtub tiles.

Wish me luck.

Ticked Off on Cape Cod

The black and white sign at the beginning of the trail was easy to overlook, except for its blood red triangle. I stopped long enough to see the word TICKS and noticed the insect graphics, but I didn’t bother to read the three or four paragraphs – the font was small and I was eager to get walking.

The trail itself was wide and well-maintained. It was easy to avoid the thick plots of poison ivy and I didn’t brush against the marsh grass, or wander off the path into the woods. The sun was shining and the cool air was invigorating. I walked beside a kettle pond and through a tidal marsh over a wooden bridge. I passed white cedars and black oaks, decaying fences and apple trees, relics of a long-abandoned orchard. I learned that the area had once been farmland where marsh grass was harvested and transported in wide wooden boats.

There were few other people on the trail – an elderly man walked an overweight Boston terrier on a leash. A young couple in shorts power-walked side by side. A tall middle-aged woman in jeans and a cranberry-colored sweatshirt approached me going the other way. As she passed, she warned me to be on the lookout for ticks. I nodded cheerfully – I had seen the sign and was being careful to stay on the path. Besides, I couldn’t fathom how I would be able to see any ticks – they’re tiny and they certainly don’t visibly leap onto your clothes.

Not that I take such warnings lightly. Deer ticks are responsible for the spread of Lyme disease, which is most prevalent in the northeastern United States. I know a young woman who has Lyme disease – she’s had several heart attacks and has spent too much of her young life being rushed to emergency rooms.

The tide was in and filled the tiny inlets and canals. Clumps of knotted wrack swayed just under the surface. The air smelled of salt. I watched a pair of Canada geese swim the length of an inlet. I turned around before the trail entered the woods and retraced my steps, noting how landmarks I had noted on the way appeared so different from the new angle.

It wasn’t until that evening, back in the hotel room, that my back began to itch. I reached to scratch it and scraped away something very small – a bit of sand perhaps? When I looked, a tick was crawling on my finger. A deer tick. I’d seen deer ticks before, some no bigger than a pencil dot. I knew I’d better check myself and my clothes thoroughly. A half-hour’s rigorous search turned up eight more ticks on the inside of my shirt and jeans. Fortunately, none had yet attached themselves to me.

The next morning I invested in some DEET and when I went hiking later that day I not only sprayed my clothes but followed the tick-avoidance precautions to the letter, even tucking my jean cuffs into my socks. I felt paranoid and freakish compared to the other, more smartly-dressed, hikers I met. But I remained tick free, and that was a blessing I was no longer going to take for granted.

City on a Hill

Ronald Reagan was fond of quoting from John Winthrop’s seventeenth century lecture, “A Model of Christian Charity,” in which Winthrop called on the Massachusetts Bay Colony to be “as a city on a hill.” and reminded his fellow Puritans that “the eyes of all people are upon us.” But the popular symbol of America as a shining beacon of freedom for the world is a long way from Winthrop’s original concept. The city he envisioned was one in which community – not freedom – was the dominant theme.

“We must delight in each other,” Winthrop said, “make other’s conditions our own, rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together.” The city on a hill was one in which people put the common good before their own desires and ambitions, “that every man might have need of others, and from hence they might be all knit more nearly together in the bonds of brotherly affection.” They were more concerned with their dependence on each other than with independence from any authority. (Yes, even including the Church of England.)

The Puritans who came to these shores in the 1630s believed they were bound in a covenant with God. If they failed to keep their end of the bargain, they should expect to be punished – not individually but as a community. “If we deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken,” said Winthrop, “we shall be made a story and byword through the world.” In other words, they would be a public humiliation, a scourge upon the earth. The city on a hill metaphor was intended as a warning as much as a promise. Keeping that covenant put the Puritans under specific obligations.

It required them to be charitable to each other. “There is a time when a Christian must sell all and give to the poor,” Winthrop insisted. “There is a time also when Christians (though they give not all yet) must give beyond their ability.” They were to let no one go hungry or without shelter. They had a duty to visit the sick, and to comfort those whose loved ones had died. They were supposed to watch out for each other. “Mutual watch,” they called it, and they took it very seriously.

If “mutual watch” sounds comforting, we should remember that it has a dark side. It’s the uncomfortable part of living in community. It means that if you beat your wife, you should expect to be reported to the authorities. Your absence from worship will be noticed and if you miss enough services, you will be reprimanded. If you get drunk and insult your neighbor, you’ll have to apologize for it - in public.

Anyone who’s lived in a small town has experienced this to some extent. If you grew up in a town under 2,000 people, chances are you haven’t ever quite lost that sense that everyone knows your business. And you know everyone else’s. You learn that everything you do and say will likely be recorded in someone’s memory and played back to someone else. You learn to mind what you say and what you do. You learn to take care of your reputation, because once you lose it, you can’t get it back.

The “mutual watch” was a duty, and it went way beyond sharing information. It required doing whatever was necessary to relieve the suffering of others in the community. Winthrop spoke of a “double law” that regulated all their relationships: “This law requires two things,” he said. “First, that every man afford his help to another in every want or distress. Secondly, that he perform this out of the same affection which makes him careful of his own goods.”

This understanding of each person’s responsibility for the well-being of everyone else was integral to life in the “city on the hill." Not exactly what Ronald Reagan had in mind.

In fact, the Puritans were as wary of personal freedom as we are entranced by it. Their commitment was to community. They understood its costs and its perils. They knew that community wasn’t easily accomplished; it was a difficult and often frustrating undertaking.

They also knew that freedom, unharnessed to a self-reflective humility, was a dangerous thing. It had the potential to loose the demons of greed and corruption, to elevate self-righteousness, and ultimately to destroy community itself.

America has come a long way from the Puritan dream. Few of us would want to go back to it, even if we could. But have we perhaps forgotten something life-affirming and necessary in our national journey? Does personal freedom, when taken to an extreme, have a way of isolating us? Even in crowds, we often find ourselves alone as we listen privately to music on our mp3 players or carry on cell phone conversations as we walk down the street. We often feel anonymous, just numbers on a social security or credit card. We receive phone calls from robots. We spend hours sitting alone in our cars, commuting to work and driving to shopping malls. We try to fill our need for community with characters from television shows or by joining special interest groups, or instant messaging. Yet we still feel oddly unconnected, and so we chase our dreams across the globe, but they’re never quite within our grasp.

Community makes demands on us. It is hard work – life-changing, world-changing, hard work. It intrudes on our personal space and requires us to relinquish some of our own freedom for the good of all. But it is through these sacrifices that we become part of something greater than ourselves. “Love,” claims Winthrop, “is the bond of perfection.” In this bond people “partake of each other’s strength and infirmity, joy and sorrow, weal and woe.” This is the city on a hill that Winthrop envisioned: true community, a beacon not of freedom, but of love.

Practicing Optimism

Yesterday afternoon, as I was having my blood drawn prior to seeing my oncologist, I mentioned to the technician that my husband and I had recently celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary. In her musical Cayman Islands accent, she asked me if I thought I’d live until my fiftieth. The question rocked me, especially in that setting, since personnel at the cancer center have been uniformly optimistic. I mumbled something like “I hope so.”

I take to heart comments and questions about cancer and mortality these days, since these issues are no longer theoretical for me. Occasionally I’m blindsided by one that sends me spiraling into depression, but most of the time I try to put them behind me. As I gradually learn how to live in the present, they’ve become less painful; their sting doesn’t last as long. They’re like those little stones thrown up by truck wheels that ping off your windshield. Fortunately, most of them bounce away without causing any damage.

As insensitive as her question seemed, I suspect it was benign, for she then launched into a long description of a fiftieth anniversary celebration she’d recently attended in which the couple had renewed their vows. “They dressed up in wedding clothes and acted like they were still sixteen,” she said. She’d clearly enjoyed the event and apparently found it meaningful enough to advise me to think about it for our fiftieth.

I know wedding vow renewal ceremonies have become popular in recent years, but so far I fail to see their attraction. It seems to me that the point of wedding vows is that you give them once, with the intention that you will keep them throughout your lifetime. I have the sense that renewing them oddly undermines the original vows. Certainly, forty or fifty years into a marriage, a couple can make their vows with a deeper, more mature understanding of what the words signify. But isn’t part of the mystery of marriage exactly that “not-knowing,” that blind leap into a future you can’t see? That naive tumble into adventure?

I was appallingly naïve when I made my wedding promises forty years ago. I was twenty-one, fresh out of college, a child of the idealistic sixties who was caught up that era’s romantic optimism. Like most girls, I was raised on Cinderella, happily-ever-after stories.

I remember very little of the specifics of our wedding ceremony. But I do know that the words “’till death do us part” rocked me at the time, with their gravitas and intimations of mortality. They rock me still. That my husband and I have vowed to stay together until death parts us means that our story, ultimately, will not have a happy ending.

All of which suggests that the story is not actually about the ending, but about the middle – the day to day living of it. Marriage seems to be as much a mysterious advenutre as life itself.

What I’m cultivating now is a different kind of optimism than I had forty years ago. A practiced optimism , an optimism that is not subject to the whims of fortune, but focused on waking up each day, grateful that I’m alive. Focused on being truly alive throughout the day.

Will I live to see my fiftieth wedding anniversary? I sincerely hope so. But right now I’m going to celebrate this day.

Today I’m awake. I’m alive. Praise God.

Immersion

Yesterday afternoon I attended the reading of a novel-in-progress. It was a good reading and a good novel; the voice was strong and the narrative well-paced, infused with vivid, telling details. In the question and answer period after the reading, there was some discussion of the novel’s theme, and the process the author used to discover the theme. One person wanted to know if the author had gone back and thematically revised the manuscript. Then the author was asked to name her themes and when she responded by explaining how she had woven the moon and the woods throughout the narrative, someone pointed out that those were images, not themes.

The exchange started me thinking about the difference between theme and image, which led me to consider the differences between the fiction writer’s task and the task of the literary critic. A theme, of course, is an idea – basically an abstraction, a compressed thought that expresses a particular point of view – presumably the author’s. Images, on the other hand, are the stuff of the life of the novel. Images are where you find the theme.

So how exactly does a novelist go about establishing a theme? How necessary is it that the writer intentionally shape a story around a theme? For some time I’ve suspected that the best writing is more intuitive than intellectual, and that the writer experiences the emergence of the theme exactly as the reader does – slowly, through immersing herself in the images.

We humans are story-telling creatures. For thousands of years, people shared stories in which images were the primary expression of meaning. Our ancestors were comfortable with metaphor and mystery. Then something changed, and I’m not sure exactly how or when, but it seems that now, in the western world, we’ve become so enamored of “facts” that we are no longer comfortable in the world of symbol. Maybe it’s science, or academic or the media, or a mixture of many factors. But it seems that we want to nail down – exactly – what something means. We are driven by the need to be unequivocal about ideas, from politics to science. We want to precisely explain the meaning of an event or a story. We “deconstruct” fiction, or have it deconstructed for us, so that we can understand it correctly.

But an image always contains more than a single, identifiable meaning. A metaphor is a window onto more than one landscape. A gesture is both more mysterious and more complete than an idea. We know we’re loved not because someone has told us so, but because we’ve been embraced.

Robert Frost was once asked to explain the “hidden meaning” of his poems. He said, “If I wanted you to know I’d had told you in the poem.” Finding the hidden meanings, finding the theme, isn’t the job of the writer. It’s the job of the literary critic. It’s akin to the task of a fisherman –who must drop a line or a net over the side of a boat and pull a fish into the air. But the novelist’s task is a different one, at once more visceral and more dangerous. The novelist can’t stay in the boat; she must jump all the way in, completely submerge herself in the water. She must swim with the fish.

Carpe Diem

Today was the first short-sleeved-weather day of the season. It was summer come early: all bright sunshine and warm air and flowers. The forsythia’s yellow shoots are lining the streets and roads; maples are beginning to flower; the magnolias and weeping cherry trees are in full bloom. It was too nice to stay inside.

I opened the windows and the smell of fresh air came into the house. It was the smell of my childhood summer mornings, of clean sheets that had been dried outdoors in the sun all day. It was the smell of vacation. It reminded me of the summer days a decade ago, when I used to take a blanket out back and lie on the lawn writing verses. I used to share them with a friend; we called them “blanket poetry.”

Everything about the day seemed to beg me to go outside, have fun, celebrate the fine weather. But I had papers to grade. So I sat at my desk and tried to read them and make plans for next week’s classes. I fidgeted and daydreamed, as distracted as my most bored student. I watched the clock and checked my email and added a couple of paragraphs to my novel. I tried to convince myself that English composition was important and that transitional sentences really mattered.

Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and in the middle of the afternoon I took the dog out. I tossed the ball for her until she got tired and lay down by the lawn chair. I walked around the yard. The area under the maple trees was blanketed with yellow dog-tooth violets; a row of bright double-daffodils lined the fence between our neighbor’s house and ours. The grass was greening up, encouraged by last week’s rain. The insects were out, too. Tiny black gnats danced in clouds. I watched a bumble bee couple copulate in the air. A small white butterfly fluttered among the budding bluebells. A garter snake slid beneath a thicket of raspberry shoots and smoothly disappeared.

I sat down on the chair and did nothing, thought nothing, for awhile. The sun lay like a friendly arm across my shoulders. I looked at maple seedlings coming up on the lawn, scattered among the few remaining blossoms of Siberian squill. I reached down and stroked my dog’s black and brown side.

It occurred to me that for the first time that day I was doing exactly what I should be doing. I felt centered, still, that my heart was full and satisfied.

The ancient Greeks talked about kairos ­– the ripe time, the opportune moment. It’s akin to knowing when fruit is ripe and ready to be picked. I am slowly learning to fine-tune my awareness of time, so that I can detect its ripeness, its fullness. And so that its ripeness will be reflected in me.

Gray Days

When we talk about spring we usually focus on flowers and sun-warmed breezes. We tend to forget the gray days. Days like yesterday when the sky was the color of aluminum and the wind had an icy edge to it. Days like today when the clouds are low and it’s drizzling rain and there’s a general gloom outdoors. Even my neighbor’s hedge of forsythia seems to have a dreary cast this morning. The weather forecast calls for thunderstorms and perhaps the falling barometric pressure is partly responsible for my gray mood.

Sometimes gray days are just days we have to get through. It’s best to settle down and ride them out. But sometimes they can offer us new and unexpected perspectives. The rain nourishes and charges the soil with nutrients for fledgling plants. Thunderstorms remind us that we’re vulnerable to forces beyond our control. Life is not sustained by sunshine alone.

This time of year our back yard is graced by a forsythia bush. It’s overgrown and unpruned and some might call it unsightly, but I like the graceful disorder of its branches. Sunday afternoon I stood awhile and watched the wind blow through the forsythia. The long shoots bent and rose in a kind of supple dance. The blossoms shook, but did not collapse; they did not let go. Though I’m fond of taking still pictures with my camera, I was reminded that nothing is static, nothing is still, least of all life. There are sunny days and windy days and gray days and we can bear them all. If our spirits are supple enough to dance.

Another Woman's Garden

Another woman’s garden grows in mine:
here her daffodils, my bluebells, her white columbine,
my narcissus jumbled with her trillium,
her trout lilies confusing my rosarium.
Though I would not know this woman by her face,
my garden gives her vision honored space.
Each spring my order’s changed by her intent,
sure sign hegemony is not what nature meant.

Grace

Last night, out of the blue, I received a phone call from the daughter of my best friend who died in a traffic accident a year and a half ago. Because my friend and I lived on opposite coasts, we exchanged pictures but rarely saw each other’s children. So even though her daughter is my daughter’s age and they attended the same college, I really didn’t know her or her younger brother. But now here she was, smack in the middle of an April evening, telling me her plans and her brother’s whereabouts, as openly as if we’d talked many times before. Though we touched briefly on how hard it is to cope with the sudden death of someone we love, we talked more about the present and the future than the past. We promised to keep in touch.

After I hung up, I thought about our conversation. I thought about how unexpectedly this young woman had come into my life on an otherwise ordinary day. I thought about how my maternal feelings had kicked in when I talked with her, how similar our conversation was to phone conversations with my own adult children. I thought about how her speech cadences had reminded me of her mother’s. I thought about how I felt blessed in the same way I used to when I got off the phone with her mother. It wasn’t the same as talking with her mother, but it was the next best thing. It was grounding. It was healing. It was a gift.

The siberian squill have come out now and they are everywhere, carpeting the woods, creeping out onto lawns, creating a vast blue carpet the same deep hue as the April sky. Although I've lived here long enough to expect them, every spring when they emerge I'm astonished again by their beauty. I suppose a scientist would say that the squill have their own reasons for covering my woods and lawn in such glorious color, and no doubt that's true. But I think they're also a sign of God's surprising extravagance, otherwise known as grace.

In spring it seems especially easy to perceive these signs of grace in our lives. But grace comes in all seasons, and assumes many guises. What's characteristic is that grace always surprises us. It reminds us that life is a mystery. Encountering grace leaves us knowing that, in some small way, we have been made whole again. We know for certain we have been blessed.

Easter Mysteries

Last Thursday night at our church’s tenebrae service I sang sorrowing hymns with the congregation and choir, hymns that commemorate the suffering and death of Jesus. On Sunday morning I sang with them the joyful Easter hymns of resurrection. I’ve been singing these hymns for so many years that I know all their verses by heart. The danger with knowing a song by heart, of course, is that the words can get lost in the music. And the same is true of the Easter story: familiarity can swallow meaning.

I have heard this story every year for as long as I can remember. I know it so well I no longer appreciate its shock value. I say that Jesus was crucified, died and buried and on the third day was raised from the dead but forget that it’s a declaration that makes no sense. By all rational measures, it’s absurd, (as Paul writes in 1 Corinthians.)

Added to that, the risen Christ is a very mysterious figure. The gospels are clear about only one thing: that He rose from the dead. After that, the story gets pretty hazy. People don’t seem to recognize Jesus at first. He appears unexpectedly and vanishes without warning. Even his friends, who you’d think would know him the instant they saw him, have no idea who he is. They believe he’s a stranger until they’re cued in by his voice or his actions.

The truth is I don’t fully understand what we celebrate at Easter. I rejoice in a faith that is, by its very nature, beyond understanding. I sing the glorious, triumphant hymns. I recite the familiar liturgy: Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! without being stunned.

But I should be stunned. I should be reeling in my pew. The hair on the back of my neck should be standing up straight. I should feel as if the world has been picked up and shaken. I should feel as if my life has turned inside out.

Because it has.

April Birthdays

Recently it occurred to me that several of my friends have April birthdays. I don’t know if this curiosity is in any way significant, but I’ve spent some time pondering it in the last few days. April is a transformational month here in New England, so perhaps it’s noteworthy that most (though not all) of these friends were born here. It seems like a pretty good time of year to have a baby, since the chilly temperatures and starkly barren earth will soon give way to warmth and flowers. Birthdays, after all, celebrate life. And a friend’s birthday celebrates a particular life, one that has shaped and marked ours in important ways. If life is a tapestry, then our friends are surely its brightest threads.

In the last few years, two of my friends with April birthdays have died, both victims of traffic accidents. One of them was my lifelong college best friend. Her passing has left a ragged tear in my life that cannot be mended. The happiness I felt when her birthday rolled around each April – a day which I celebrated with her for over forty years – though too often from afar – is now sorrow-stained. Yet I still celebrate it, for her death has not diminished the impact of her life on mine.

I suspect that the commemoration of a birthday is a celebration not primarily of our own life but of our connection to the lives of others. Our celebration is actually less about our own individuality than about the “ties that bind.” We celebrate not the thread, but the tapestry.

Close Up

Today the landscape looks raw, scraped gray by the rigors of winter. Shoulder-high piles of branches lie by the roadside, remnant fences of last winter’s big ice storm. On my drive to work, I pass forests shorn by that ice; broken trees poke jagged shafts toward the sky but they look hostile and menacing, like the trees in a horror movie. Winter litter still lies along the roadside: errant plastic bags, beer cans, mashed cardboard boxes, the mysteriously shredded tires of eighteen-wheelers.

But it is spring, and the daffodils are up. They're unassuming little splashes of color, except where some imaginative gardener has massed them in large patches or spread them in wide ribbons along a walkway . Mostly they nod and bob alone in the cold gusts of wind, take lonely bows under the hard rain.

Close up, though, each daffodil is a golden world, a buttery promise of warmth to come. Sunshine in a cup.

Bad Days

I’ve had two bad days in a row. Not dreadful days; not terrifying days. Just days when things don’t go well, when I felt a bit like a car that’s not running on all cylinders. Over the years I’ve learned to be cautious on such days. I try not to make important decisions. I try not to compensate for my off-kilter feelings by pushing myself harder. I try to remember that I’ve had bad days before and they don’t last forever. I listen to music: the Bach Cell Suites and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and my son’s piano improvisations. I sing hymns: Amazing Grace, Softly and Tenderly, and Precious Lord. Music always helps.

Bad days are like thunderstorms. They diminish the light; they threaten; they stir us to seek shelter. Sometimes they startle us with sudden flashes of light; sometimes they shake the ground beneath our feet. Sometimes they drench us. But, like thunderstorms, they pass. The dark clouds roll away and the sun shines again.

This morning it’s foggy again and it’s raining. I had bad dreams last night. There are thunderstorms in the weather forecast. But right now there are robins all over our lawn, singing their spring hymns.

April

This morning the world is etched in shades of gray and white. A cold fog drifts along the ground, muting the colors. The lawns are brown; in the woods old leaves mat the ground.

The snowdrops are still in bloom, unobtrusive, close to the ground, as if they’re still half-snow. They’re hard to see from a distance, though they’ve spread themselves in fat clumps under the bigger trees out back, and I can spot them from my study window if I know where to look.

Siberian squill have popped up all over the back yard, but they haven’t unfurled, so they don’t yet look like a blue carpet. The crocuses have bloomed and folded and have now collapsed under yesterday’s rain. They lie flat, pressed to the ground.

This Sunday is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week. In church we’ll sing hymns and wave palm leaves and ponder the mysteries of life and death. We’ll think about joy in the face of suffering and sacrifice. We’ll talk with each other at coffee hour after the worship service. It’s our own kind of clumping together and showing ourselves, a bit like the snowdrops.

Yesterday I saw daffodils in bloom.

Awake

Awake at 4 AM and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Thinking about mortality, which often plagues me when I’m sleepless in the middle of the night, and especially as we inch toward spring. I guess I’ve had a lot of losses in fair weather. Maybe I should convene a Spring Grievers group.

We had sunshine today, after yesterday’s rain. Deep blue sky and fluffy clouds. Our five crocuses are up, staggering across the little strip of lawn between the house and the driveway. I don’t know how they got there. Do voles rearrange the underground furniture?

The snowdrops are fully open now, looking like tiny white skirts in the afternoon sunshine. They won’t last much longer. Already the siberian squill are starting to poke up nearby. In a few weeks they’ll carpet the woods in blue.

That spring is a season of hope is a cliché, but like most clichés, it’s generally true. Perhaps the only surprise is that it becomes more true as one gets older. This spring seems to me both more encouraging and miraculous than last spring. Perhaps it’s because with each passing year I’m more aware of my mortality - and the astonishing fragility of life.

Snowdrops

Snowdrops have come up in clumps in the woods out back, poking up through the mat of last fall’s leaves. They’re hard to see at first. I have to stand still and look around. They most often appear near the bases of trees where I assume the soil is probably warmer. They’re unassuming little flowers, easy to miss. They’re well-named; except for their bright green stalks, they look like droplets of snow. I’m struck – not for the first time – by how much of what belongs in a woodland setting is camouflaged, initially invisible. This, in contrast to the visual noise of human environments, where so much is designed to compete for our attention in ostentatious display. It requires a shift in perspective to notice what’s going on when I'm out in the woods. A patient quieting of the mind, a willingness to embrace silence. A friendship with wonder.

Red-Winged Blackbird

The blackbird calls from down by Axtell’s Brook,
confirming advent of our long-awaited spring.
His melodic chrrr prompts me to look
for tell-tale crimson blaze along a wing
but all he shares with me is song.
I have heard that some count bird song less
tune than dominance. But they are wrong
for this arpeggio is surely poetry of yes.

Anticipation

March brings the first kiss of spring – in the increased light, in the warmer air, the thawing earth. The sun sets directly behind the house now instead of at a slant behind our neighbor’s. At the edge of the woods, the snowdrops have popped up through the matted leaves, and the patches of snow are almost gone. All that remains is a dirty pile at the end of the driveway – leftover thanks to the plow after our snowstorm two weeks ago.

It’s mud season. The back yard is spongy and wherever I take a step a slick mud print appears. The dog romps in winter’s detritus, pouncing on sticks and tossing them into the air, tracking the erratic flight of squirrels from tree to tree. Yesterday she surprised a gray squirrel in our garage and instantly morphed from my companion to a predator.

No one anticipates more eagerly than a dog on point. Every muscle quivers with attention; she lifts her paw. She waits.

Evidence

Yesterday’s mail brought Evidence, the new volume of Mary Oliver’s poetry. I read through it too quickly, as if I might mine the richest gems without the sweat of digging. But I will go back, and often. Oliver’s work never disappoints. She tunes me in to wonders too easy to forget: the goldfinch’s flash of color reflected in a puddle, the dogged faithfulness of a beating heart, the miracle of trees. She writes of grief and hope, of cheerfulness and dying. These poems, as all her work, are filled with animals. I plan to savor them one at a time, like prayers rising. And so here is another mystery – how can another person’s words speak so truly what is locked away in my own soul?

Turtle Questions

What does a turtle know of death
who buries herself in mud
all winter and does not eat
or move or take a breath
but lies with legs and head and tail
outstretched, to welcome cold?
What does she dream, ice-sealed
in six-month long exhale,
her heart slowed nearly still?
What thoughts disturb her
glacial tomb? What pale
needle of light directs her will
to rise and breathe and breed?
What resurrection talent prompts
her surfacing in June, resolute,
on cue, to lay her eggs and feed?
What fear has she of butcher’s knife
who gives herself to dark for
half the year, then swims toward light?
What does a turtle know of life?

Spring Snow

It snowed again last night – a wet, spring snow that stuck in clumps to the smallest twigs. Snow has painted long swaths up the northeast sides of the tree trunks. Each branch is outlined in white against this morning’s crisp blue sky. Gray squirrels have made tracks across the driveway. Spring birds are caroling now when a month ago all I heard were crows and chickadees.

Underneath the snow the ground is still soggy from last week’s thaw. This snow will be quick to melt and the snowdrops will appear on the back lawn.

A spring snow is whimsical and bright, a reminder that we’re leaving winter behind. Like joy, it amplifies the light.

The Subnivian Zone

All winter under the snow
meadow voles make love
and feast on maple bark.
In March snow packs
down to crystal,
letting in bubbles of light.
The voles sleep fitfully in
their small grass nests.
Beneath them wild flowers
begin the long climb
toward the surface
and their bright
proclamation of spring.

Staying Alive

Experts know that technique is less important than attitude when it comes to survival. People who are lost in the wilderness sometimes die not because they’re starving or dehydrated but simply because they give up. Laurence Gonzales, who has written extensively on the subject, states, “Being lost, then is not a location; it is a transformation. It is a failure of the mind. It can happen in the woods or it can happen in life.” The greatest challenge each lost person faces is coming to terms with how the world has changed. He or she must remap the world.

Currently I’m remapping my world after cancer. My first instinct, once the treatment was done, was to try to leave the cancer (and the fear) behind me. I tried to go back to normal, to return to the world as it was before.

I’m slowly discovering that there is no “normal.” I can’t “go back” to the same life because it isn’t there anymore. The landscape has changed. My task now is to really see the contours of my world as it is, to carefully remap it and to go about the business of living in it.

As Gonzales writes, “I could not change the world; I could only change myself. To see and know the world, then, was the key to surviving in it. I had to accept the world in which I found myself. I had to calm down and begin living.”

The Shape of Grace

Dorothy C. Bass, in a book titled Receiving the Day, reminds the reader that the ancient Hebrews saw darkness as the beginning of their day. The Sabbath begins at dusk and ends at dusk. Bass points out that this creates an important perspective on God’s time. During the first part of the day, God is at work while we sleep. We wake into the midst of God’s activity. We join it; we don’t initiate it. The day begins in grace.

I think it will take some time to begin thinking this way – to start seeing the ending of the day’s light (which has always made me sad) as the beginning of a new day. To see morning as my chance to plug into what’s already going on. To experience grace in this new shape.

Dazzled

Yesterday’s foot of snow is dazzling in this morning’s sunshine. Even when everyone else I know is tired of winter, the new ground cover rejuvenates me. Last week our back yard was soggy; in places my boots sank two inches into mud. Our dog bounds through the snow, pushing her nose into drifts and throwing up powder just for the fun of it. When I throw her ball it disappears instantly, but she’s very good at finding it.

Sifted Light

After some time
the years grow softer.
They sift down through my pleated skin
and sink to bone, accumulating there
as pollen collects in spring on a still pond.
So many hours given up to dreaming!
All those bright days gone, like stars
reflected in black water, fading.
I could have built a long stone fence
that climbed the hill out back and
ran around the summer orchard.
I could have made a deep porch swing
and set children there for laughter.
I could have formed a life of use,
at least possessing grace, instead of sitting
in the wind and rain, a gray rock thrown up
in a farmer’s broken field, watching
lichen crawl across my face,
waiting for something interesting to happen -
a change in weather, maybe,
or a new phase of the moon,
perhaps the falling of some final dark,
tender as snow.