Sabbath Thoughts: The Practice of Joy

©Greg Ferrell

             
                "If you keep a green bough in your heart, a singing bird will come."

Bad news!

There is much to cause despair in the world around us, whether it is a result of some human tragedy, the decline in the culture of our modern times, or some other such dire cause.  Most of us live out our lives affected to one degree or another by fragmentation or pain, either ours or that of loved ones.

Living in the “real” world is tough.

How do we lift our hearts above the surrounding circumstances?  How do we find the cloudless night beyond the tempest, the calm beneath the turbulence of the sea? 

In Galatians 5, within a context that could easily describe much of what we face in modern life, we are offered the possibility of a different prospect— that we could bear in our lives the fruits of the Spirit in spite of anything going on around us.  The first two promised gifts are Love and Joy, but upon reflection we can see that whether or not we are able to experience those two is more often than not dependent on the presence or absence of the other seven, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.  Oh, but these remaining ones look more like disciplines to be practiced rather than wonderful gifts or fruits which are easily plucked from the tree.   And we know how hard it is to discipline ourselves. 

The poet Mary Oliver in the quote below describes the mixed bag of our situation.  But if you reflect a bit, somewhere in her words you will find a key.  

“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate.  Give in to it.  There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be.   We are not wise, and not very often kind.   And much can never be redeemed.   Still, life has some possibility left.  Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world.   It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins.   Anyway, that’s often the case.  Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty.  Joy is not made to be a crumb.” ~Mary Oliver

What tip is she offering us?  Where is the place to start?

Perhaps we begin by understanding that Joy is not “made to be a crumb,” not a mere emotion to transport us temporarily above our circumstances.  Joy too is a discipline to be practiced, and from that disciplined practice will arise a transcendence, a lifting of our hearts in spite of anything we might be going through.  And I believe that there is a profound reason that the first fruit listed is Love.  You don’t work your way through the other fruits of the Spirit to arrive at Love as the grand prize . . . no, you are able to bear the other fruits in your life because you begin with acts of Love.  Acting in love leads to Joy, whether anything else is going entirely right for you at the moment.  

And the “good news” is the promise is that the Joy of the Lord is your strength” (Neh. 8:10), the strength you will need to practice peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control, all of which work together to change circumstances and offer hope.  

Let me remind you of a story you may know, one told by Mother Teresa who had taken food to a Hindu family that had not had anything to eat for days.  She had only a small amount of rice to give them, but she was surprised by what the mother did.  She divided the rice equally and took half to a Moslem family living next door.  When Mother Teresa asked her why, knowing that the mother wouldn’t have any left for her own family for the next day, the mother explained, “But they haven’t had any food for days either!”  An act of love on the part of Mother Teresa begat an act of love on the part of the Hindu mother . . . and can you imagine the Joy in the hearts of both that mother who gave and the Moslem mother who received?  And for a moment, they transcended suffering, through the giving and sharing of Love.  

“. . . Weeping may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.”  -Psalm 30:5

“Your words were found, and I ate them,
and your words became to me a joy
and the delight of my heart,
for I am called by your name,
O Lord, God of hosts.”   -Jeremiah 15:16

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A Lover of the Meadows and the Woods

Tiny green shoots of daffodils are beginning to emerge in my garden!  And I saw some crocuses!  

It triggered memories of swathes of daffodils in early Spring in England and my thoughts turned to William Wordsworth, whose poetry I love.

 Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold

Is full of blessings.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

[Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey,

On Revisiting The Banks Of The Wye River

During A Tour. July 13, 1798.]

William Hazlitt, English writer, essayist, and philosopher, said of Wordsworth: 

"His style is vernacular: he delivers household truths.” Hazlitt explained that Wordsworth had faith in “the healing power of plants and herbs and 'sky influences'  . . . his poetry is founded on setting up an opposition .  . . between the natural and the artificial . . ."  and we know that such tensions between opposites should cause us to pay attention and reflect on deeper meanings.

Also, he felt that reading Wordsworth’s poetry would "teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel . . ."  To be sure, I well remember what reading Wordsworth’s poetry in my teens did for me, and I sigh that great poetry is not widely read by young people today.

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Ancient Stones

the deserted village of Slievemore on Achill Island, Ireland  ©A.Rutherford

In many, many places all across Ireland, out of all the dreaming, planning and building, living and loving in a place, only the stones remain.

Slievemore is one such village on Achill Island, off the northwest coast of Ireland.  Achill is one of the best places to just go and be in Ireland.  The remains of the village are perched high upon the south slope of  Slievemore (Sliabh Mór) mountain, and consists of the remains of about 100 stone cottages set along what must have been a pathway or road that extends for about a mile.  These cottages at one time would have been thatched, and would have housed a thriving community.  For generations these people lived out their lives amongst the spectacular scenery of this place, until something happened.  No one is quite sure, but the consensus is that the Great Famine of 1845-49, created by the potato blight, caused the villagers to slowly die off from hunger or disease.

Despite its tragic history when you go there today, there is an overwhelming sense of peace.  The village is far from any neighboring towns, yet it is not a lonely place.  It is a place I return to because it is a blessing to me.  For me, Slievemore is one of those “thin places” the old ones in Ireland used to speak of . . . those places in the landscape which are sort of thresholds where two worlds meet . . . the temporal and the eternal . . . the inner and the outer . . . the spiritual and the physical . . . the past and the present.  

The aspect of patience conveyed by the stones and the sky strikes a chord with me.   It's like the earth is saying, "I've got all the time in the world. Be here with me now."   And to connect to that timelessness is either healing and invigorating, whichever one is in need of at the time.

The Deserted Village 

I have come here to this place to be alone,

And for my restless spirit seek some calm.

I lay my hand to rest on ancient stone

And feel the captured sun upon my palm.

My fingers trace the crevices and moss,

The tangled vines speak like some ancient braille.

The softly moist breezes play and toss

Time’s curtain to the side like a veil.

I see mystic forms flit along the lanes

That mark the intersections of their lives.

I hear empty echoes of their joys and pains,

These stones their only vestige that survives.

Ruined houses sit in order row by row,

As if some meaning once was there,

But now between the cobbles grasses grow

And leave the world no trace of their despair.

Each morning mists rise from atop the mountain

Which sheltered life and love along these lanes.

Each evening mist rolls down again,

To rest like a blessing on what remains.

With benediction too I leave this place,

And carry with me memories as a grace.

                                                               ©.A.Rutherford

The Irish poet William Butler Yeats took an old stone ruin near Galway, a square, four storied Norman castle keep, and restored it to a place where he could settle and write, but still be in touch with the continuity of Irish history.  I guess you could say he built his own “ivory tower.”

He created this inscription which was placed on the front wall:

I, the poet William Yeats,

With old millboards and sea-green slates,

And smithy work from the Gort forge,

Restored this tower for my wife George,

And may these characters remain

When all is ruin once again.

That's becoming part of the flow of history, to be sure . . .

Of course, for people of Faith there is a more sure foundation . . .

Psalm 118:22-24 

 22 The stone that the builders rejected
      has now become the Cornerstone.
 23 This is the Lord’s doing,
      and it is wonderful to see.
 24 This is the day the Lord has made.
      We will rejoice and be glad in it.

Isaiah 26:4 
 4 Trust in the Lord always,
      for the Lord God is the eternal Rock.

And yeah, I gather stones from various places I visit as mementos . . . I guess no one looking at them sitting on my shelves would know where they "belong" or what memories they “contain,” but that doesn't matter to me.  *smile*

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In Search of Stones

on the beach at Cleggan, Connemara, Ireland ©A. Rutherford

All my life I have had an inexplicable affinity for stones, some sort of visceral response to rocky places, whether mountain side or shore line. Craggy cliffs both enchant me and provoke me to deep thought. As I am a very tactile person, I enjoy their texture and temperature under my hands, and am often prompted to touch them or move my hands across their surfaces.

I think there is something of Eternity in stones.

Beach Boulders at Cleggan

Do they protect the land or hedge the sea,

These ancient rocks that lie along the shore?

Tumbled there through Time, what might be

The mystery they invite me to explore.

Rapport with rocks, such an absurdity,

But something strikes me at my very core,

Some message here for which they hold the key,

So I walk alone amongst them there once more.

Though lying mute through the ages, they speak as silently

As pages filled with words that answer what I quest for.

No, I have no explanation for the stones' connection with me,

But I know there’s something missing they restore.

As Time eddies in and ‘round them, they rest secure,

And bear witness to my heart, it too shall endure.

                                                                               ©A. Rutherford

Of course, at the risk of a very bad pun, Ireland is a "field day" for people who are enamoured of stones . . . stone cottages, stone walls, stone ruins of abbeys and castles, stony cliffs. So many "rocky places" to explore and experience, from the mystery of the earliest Celtic burial dolmens to the vast vista of the Burren to the cozy cottages nestled under their thatched roofs.

Others have responded to Ireland's stony story as well.   John Betjemen, an English poet laureate, describes the stark landscape so well in the second half of his poem "Ireland with Emily."

Stony seaboard, far and foreign,

Stony hills poured over space,

Stony outcrop of the Burren,

Stones in every fertile place,

Little fields with boulders dotted,

Grey-stone shoulders saffron-spotted,

Stone-walled cabins thatched with reeds,

. . .

Click photo to enlarge

And they bicycle on together until . . .

Till there rose, abrupt and lonely,

A ruined abbey, chancel only,

Lichen-crusted, time-befriended,

Soared the arches, splayed and splendid,

Romanesque against the sky.

 . . .

Sings its own seablown Te Deum,*

In and out the slipping slates

Todd Davis is a well-received Mennonite poet who teaches creative writing and environmental studies at Penn State Altoona. His poetry emphasizes the importance of place. 

Here are some of his thoughts on making poetry out of stones:

“One of my earliest memories takes place in Connecticut at my maternal grandparents' home. I'm playing on an old stone wall that borders their backyard. A row of cedar trees grows across the way. The green seems almost unbearable when I remember it today: both of my grandparents dead, my own parents growing older. I spy a rose-colored piece of granite three stones from the top of the wall. At this age, I don't understand the way rock latches to rock, holding back the weight of the sky. I slowly wrestle this hard rose from the gray thorns that surround it. Several large stones crash down when I finally pull my prize free, and my index finger is crushed, leaving an indelible impression about the price of beauty. 

Wrestling with words is an equally dangerous act as removing a stone from a wall. Each word precariously balances upon the other, and like a stone wall, the words take on another life when placed together, standing for something that they could not stand for alone.”

But he goes on to say:   

“As most writers will confess, however, I am more than willing to risk the pain in building poems because of my desire to touch others with what I have seen.” 

He speaks of the light that he received from other poets he read and studied:

"whose work spilled out before me like light shining through the canopy of leaves in a maple. With the help of this light, I began to select stones from my own life, carefully brushing away the mud so I might see all of the blemishes and imperfections that make such stones unique and worthy of telling. Soon poems began to appear, their structures unfolding out of the natural world where they were born.  

    Of course, there are still many days when I cannot find the light. I am part of the earth, and the rhythms of sky offer days of cloud, as well as days when sun and moon hang together into late morning. On gray mornings, I try to remind myself of the blessing found in all days - the kind of light that sifts slowly down through cloud and fog - and then begin my work with words. Some mornings this means waiting in silence, but more often I find in the silence some memory breaking in like a fallen branch snapped underfoot, white bottom of a doe flashing back into the undergrowth."

To read the essay from which these excerpts are quoted, go to

Looking for the Light: Making Poems from the Improbable

Nota Bene:  One reviewer said of Todd Davis:  

“I love the integrity, sincerity, and wisdom of Todd Davis’s poems. He is unafraid to write out of a deep faith—both religious faith and faith in the natural world. In a poetic landscape that often seems biased toward the cynical and clever, Davis’s poems unapologetically strive for the mountaintop. They make clear that the natural world still has a few things to teach us, or remind us of things we once knew but have forgotten. They sing with imagistic intensity, and their hard-hitting rhythms accentuate the world’s natural pulse. The restraint and humility of these poems belies their underlying passion and commitment. They are pure and sharp, so sharp they cut.

                              -Jim Daniels, author of Show and Tell, 

Winner of the Brittingham Prize

*Te Deum -The Te Deum is an early Christian hymn of praise.   The title is taken its opening Latin words, rendered literally as "Thee, O God, we praise."  The text has been set to music by many composers, among them Haydn, Mozart, Verdi, Dvorak, Britten, and John Rutter.

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Our Thought Life

taken in the Chalice Garden, Glastonbury, England ©A.Rutherford

Being alone is something we are not accustomed to in this day and age, and solitude is not something that we consider to be desirable or useful. I wonder how many of us ever talk to our children about the delight of being alone.  Or provide opportunities for them to experience “set apart” time and give them guidance in how to use this time beneficially to gain self-reflection or practice “contentment with small means.”   I think not.  And that is a huge failure on the part of modern parents.

Consider this quote from Indira Ghandi: “We must learn to be still in the midst of activity and to be vibrantly alive in repose.”  Then think about how modern young people, and adults as well, rush to fill any void in their time with almost anything, even if it’s destructive, because they have never learned to appreciate stillness or to be vibrantly alive in repose.  In fact, for most people this idea no longer “computes.”

Of course. if we are alone not by our own choice, but through the choice of others, we may very well experience loneliness, or even self-pity, fear, and angst.  If we are thinking negatively, being alone can be likened to being outcast, and so we avoid it.  But on a smaller scale, we moderns also avoid like the plague the very possibility of being bored.  However, for a culture that considers boredom the kiss of death, our lives are often filled with ennui, and boredom is our great national complaint.

Whenever students have asked me if I ever get bored, I smile and tell them, “No, I have a self-amusing thought-life.”  And I don’t mean one that is necessarily humorous or fun.  I have a rich interior life with rooms filled with many treasures stored away, which I can visit at any time.  I can place myself back in a green field leaning against a stone wall, listening to the rhythmic chewing of a cow slowing munching grass, feeling the soft breeze blow my hair against my cheek.  I can pull my light jacket closer around me against the slight chill of this April day on the west coast of Ireland.  And I can do this and enjoy the experience again and again because I paid attention that day ten years ago when it was happening.  I memorized the experience, so to speak, and can call it up at any time and live it again, even while waiting for someone in a crowded mall if I need to.  Or I can revisit a great book I’ve read, or think about a poem I’ve memorized, or see a painting in my mind, or recall a pleasant conversation with a friend.

But I was raised in the country and I spent long periods of time lying on my back, watching the clouds change patterns in the sky.  I had early “training” in the art of reflection, even before I knew what reflection was *smile*

So when we are alone, we can choose between contentment or angst.  And when we emerge from our aloneness, we can be better people.  Of course, modern thinking rejects the idea of contentment or grace as a product of solitude.  But listen to Lord Byron in this verse from “Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" (Canto III. XC):

“Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from self:  it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony.”

In solitude, where we are least alone! How wonderful is that?

We tune our souls to the Eternal harmony in our periods of Solitude.

A reading from Anam Cara, by John O’Donohue on our thought life:

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Sabbath Thought: Stillness

watercolor from a photo taken on Silent Lake, Ontario ©A.Rutherford  

"Be still and know that I am God."  Psalm 46:10

It's Sunday . . . the Sabbath.  I've been thinking about the whole concept of Sabbath, perhaps because I have been taking a sort of sabbatical with my life.

Worth thinking about the way God ordered the time of our lives . . . to have a "set apart" time of rest and re-creation every seventh day.  I'm sure the benefits were to be spiritual as well as physical, yet the sad story is that more often than not our Sundays are as frantic as our weekdays.  We have substituted the modern concept of "leisure" for true physical and spiritual rest, and re-creation has become recreation, which we pursue so actively.     Hmmm . . .  so much was lost when that little hyphen is dropped, not the least of which is a natural rhythm to our days, a measured way of experiencing our lives like the ebb and a flow of the tide,  or a turning round and round of our time rather like a dance.  

"Be still . . ."   Stillness is a special sort of silence . . . an attentive silence not merely the absence of sound.

O'Donohue in his book on Beauty says:

      "Stillness is the canvas against which movement 

       can become beautiful.  We can only appreciate 

       movement against the background of stillness.  

       Were everything kinetic, we could not know 

       what movement is.  As sound is sistered to 

       silence, movement is sistered to stillness.

Maybe that's why we fail to see the movement of God in our lives.  We are rarely truly still.  Maybe that's why we too often fail to see and truly experience each other at our depths, the kind of depth it takes to have real relationship.

‘“This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: ‘Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved. In quietness and confidence is your strength. But you would have none of it.’”  Isaiah 30:15

“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still."  Exodus 13:14

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

                      -Mary Oliver

I suppose the “blue Iris” is the symbol or metaphor for perfection.  It doesn’t have to be the “blue iris” to deserve your attention.  The prayer doesn’t have to be perfect . . . sometimes you only need to “be still.”

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Making a Space for Solitude

the Lake Isle of Innisfree, County Sligo

Making a space for Solitude is difficult . I'm finding that there is a distinct difference between having time for solitude and making a space for solitude.

Over the years of being deeply committed to my teaching career,  I created a pile of things for "when I have more time," I am now, of course, carving out more and more time in a day for the things I need or want to do . . . . one of which is having more interior time, but it’s easy to forget about all the "stuff" you have to hack through to carve out a meaningful space inside yourself.

I am visualizing it as a quiet bower deep in a forest, a lovely retreat but surrounded by undergrowth which keeps quickly regrowing so that every time you try to enter that bower, you have to hack your way in again.

Reminds me of Yeats' poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”—

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; 

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, 

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, 

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; 

There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day 

I hear the water lapping with low sounds by the shore; 

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, 

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Gosh, how I had always romanticized that poem. So a few years ago on a trip to Ireland, when I was in County Sligo, I ferreted out the location of this island of the poem and hired a local man to row me across to the middle of the lake and leave me on the island for an afternoon. 

At first I had been disappointed that it was so small and overgrown, but after I climbed to the top of the small hill in the middle of the island and had sat there a while amongst the waist high ferns, listening to the water lapping against the shoreline, delight came over me and I thought to myself this is just big enough *smile*   Of course, this experience has become for me a wonderful metaphor for the place inside yourself where you can retreat, surrounded by the "moat" of silence.  It doesn’t take much interior real estate to be just enough.

In Anam Cara,  John O'Donohue uses an interesting word to describe solitude, ascetic (page 141).  I looked ascetic up to see if there was more to the word than what I knew . . .

              The adjective "ascetic" derives from the ancient Greek term askēsis (practice, 

              training or exercise). Originally associated with any form of disciplined 

              practice, the term ascetic has come to mean anyone who practices a 

              renunciation of worldly pursuits to achieve higher intellectual and spiritual 

              goals.

Hmmmmm ....."disciplined practice"..."higher intellectual and spiritual goals"  . . . all that sounds kinda heavy .......... when what I am after is an "unbearable lightness of being" ........ sure that's intellectual in a way and certainly spiritual ......... but it's joyous too ......... a place/space where my heart sings.

Although O’Donohue says ascetic solitude is difficult, just like all things that require self-discipline are, yet he argues for its necessity, especially in our modern culture.  Listen as he explains it here:

_
Nota bene:  Anam Cara is the Gaelic for a friend of the soul, not in the modern meaning of soul-mate, but rather a special connection between two people that is formed on a mutual deep understanding and trust.  It is a bond in which each nurtures the other and cherishes the other more highly than oneself.

John O'Donohoe, who is a poet, a philosopher, and a Catholic priest, explains the anam cara relationship this way:  "You are joined in an ancient and eternal union with humanity that cuts across all barriers of time, convention, philosophy, and definition.  When you are blessed with an anam cara, the Irish believe, you have arrived at that most sacred place: home."  And if you have ever had that person or those persons who are indeed a friend of your soul, then you surely know what a blessing the anam cara friendship is.


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Solitude

Cleggan, County Mayo ©A. Rutherford

Read an interesting thing today—the word alone is derived from the Middle English phrase for "all one."   So when you are alone, you are all one . . . you are with yourself.   The point would be to be able to be in harmony with yourself . . . to be balanced in such a way that being alone (all one) would not produce anxiety or angst in you, as solitude so often does in people, but rather would produce a creative tension which was both useful and meaningful.

Then the question arises, why is it that people go to such great lengths in this modern world to avoid being alone with themselves and their thoughts and their gifts in their place in the world. 

A facet of the path of pilgrimage which might be the hardest is that it will necessarily require a lot of solitude.   However, finding the comfort and the richness that solitude offers is one of the goals that I'm after.

I've been reading the books of a favorite Irish writer John O’Donohue again to see what he has to say about solitude and finding it very helpful, almost like a roadmap for such a pilgrimage.   O'Donohue is reminding me of what a gift solitude has been for me in the past.

Over the past week or so I have been reading aloud again to myself, something that I used to do quite often . . .

Why do I read to myself?     'cause right now there's no one else to do it  . . . LOL

Seriously, I’ve also been doing a lot of research which I hope to share on the history of reading, when oral reading stopped and silent reading began, and I’m finding it very interesting.

As for me, reading aloud to myself strengthens my resolve to get past the struggle to enter my interior space.  Reading aloud is kind of like making a promise or a commitment to myself not to give up too soon.   I have found that it helps me to resist the temptation to take the easy path and not do the work of concentration on the text, to not delve deeply enough into what I am reading to reach the kind of understanding which can cause growth to happen.   Also reading aloud, especially poetry, increases the pleasure of the experience,  giving you a rich enjoyment of the music of the passage as well as the content.

O'Donohue has written in Anam Cara,

. . . there is a place in the soul that neither space nor time nor flesh can touch. This is the eternal place with us. It would be a lovely gift to yourself to go there often— to be nourished, strengthened, and renewed. The deepest things you need are not elsewhere. They are here and now in that circle of your own soul. Real friendship and holiness enables a person to frequently visit the hearth of [his or her] solitude.

So please allow me to read a bit from Anam Cara for you, accompanied by some of my photography in Ireland.
I would be interested in your thoughts on Solitude or on the experience of reading aloud.

Taking Wing

Starlings in Winter

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard.  I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbably beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

                                                                 ~ Mary Oliver

Isaiah 40:31 - “But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar on wings like eagles . . .”

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Nota Bene:       It’s interesting how poetry works by compression— the careful diction, the nuance of the well chosen word that has multiple layers of meaning . . . the one word that if thoughtfully listened to has clues to so much more that is going on inside the persona of the poem.  For example, notice in the next to last verse . . . 
“I feel my boots trying to leave the ground.”  Why boots?  Why not simply “feet” or even “shoes”?  But “boots” connote something heavy and cumbersome, something that is weighing the person down, something totally incongruous with taking flight, with lightness of spirit.  But there is hope that with the rising of the person’s spirit, the heavy boots will be shaken off, and he or she will rise above whatever circumstances are keeping them earthbound.

Are there other words in the poem that can yield multiple layers of meaning within the context of the poem?   Any thoughts on that?

The Great Lover

            © Greg Ferrell

Today is St.Valentine's Day, the day to celebrate Love.

Love expands the heart, as the poet Rupert Brooke knew full well:

I have been so great a lover: filled my days

So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,

 . . ..

  

These I have loved:

White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,

Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;

Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust

Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;

Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;

And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;

And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,

Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;

Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon

Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss

Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is

Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen

Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;

The benison of hot water; furs to touch;

The good smell of old clothes; and other such—

The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,

Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers

About dead leaves and last year's ferns.... 

                                    Dear names,

And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;

Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;

Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:

Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,

Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;

Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam

That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;

And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold

Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;

Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;

And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;

And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—

                            All these have been my loves. 

A litany of little things that, if attended to and thus appreciated, provide daily blessings.

We draw to ourselves the goodness of all that we appreciate.

Luke 12:34— "For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."

Don't give your heart away to unworthy things.  

Colossians 3:1— "Since you have been raised to new life with Christ, set your hearts on things above."

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