the limits of longing

"Go to the Limits of Your Longing," by Rainer Maria Rilke (Book of Hours I, 59)


God speaks to each of us as he makes us, 
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear: 

You, sent out beyond your recall, 
go to the limits of your longing. 
Embody me. 

Flare up like a flame 
and make big shadows I can move in. 

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. 
Just keep going. No feeling is final. 
Don't let yourself lose me. 

Nearby is the country they call life. 
You will know it by its seriousness. 

Give me your hand. 

I felt this was important

(and since the screenshot is blurry, here it is written out:) 

Nothing Tastes as Good as Skinny Feels

Unless you count your grandmother's

cake, hand mixed while she waits for the 

sound of your breath at the door. Or if 

you consider the taste of the sea, arms

raised while you enter, salt at your lips. 

Or maybe you've forgotten the taste of 

a lover, your mouth on his skin. I ask-

have you ever tasted the cool swill of

freedom? The consuming rush of a 

quiet, radical love. 

--by Kate Baer. 

"God goes, belonging to every riven thing he's made
sing his being simply by being
the thing it is:
stone and tree and sky,
man who sees and sings and wonders why

God goes. Belonging, to every riven thing he's made,
means a storm of peace.
Think of the atoms inside the stone.
Think of the man who sits alone
trying to will himself into a stillness where

God goes belonging. To every riven thing he's made
there is given one shade
shaped exactly to the thing itself:
under the tree a darker tree;
under the man the only man to see

God goes belonging to every riven thing. He's made
the things that bring him near,
made the mind that makes him go.
A part of what man knows,
apart from what man knows,

God goes belonging to every riven thing he's made."

--Christian Wiman, "Every Riven Thing"

Where prayer has been valid

If you came by day not knowing what you came for, 
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for 
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfillment. There are some places
Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, 
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--
But this is the nearest, in place and time, 
Now and in England. --T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

One of the highlights of this trip was traveling to Little Gidding en route to Cambridge with Sam and Neil.

Little Gidding is a very, very small chapel in a very, very small hamlet in southern England. It was part of the inspiration for the last part of T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. All of us (Sam, Neil, and I) love "Little Gidding" and Eliot's words for similar and different reasons. So to have a small moment to pray in that tiny chapel and silently read Eliot's words in complete stillness (except for the buzz of junebugs) was very special to me.

You are not here to verify, 
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel 
Where prayer has been valid. 

I love that concept--the idea of places where "prayer has been valid." I don't have the time or energy to write my entire series of thoughts on this idea. I'm still thinking and developing that idea. But that idea has run through my head and heart this trip--"you are here to kneel//where prayer has been valid." And I have thought about places where prayer has been valid and efficacious in my life. Times when I really prayed. Times when I really meant it. In my childhood bed. In a small corner flat in Cambridge, England. In a dirty kitchen floor in Donetsk, Ukraine. On the cigarette butt-littered streets of that same country. Kneeling by my bed in Oxford. On a balcony in Provo, Utah. In the canyons of the Rocky Mountains.

And it is a beautiful experience to go back to where prayer has been valid--both for myself and other people. In chapels, on rivers, in homes.

Like I said. Still have a lot of thoughts percolating about this subject. And sometimes it's just better to get some thoughts out than none at all. So there's a taster. 

me, myself i've got nothing to prove.

"Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: 

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; 

Selves--goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, 

Crying What I do is me: for that I came." 

--"As Kingfishers Catch Fire," Gerard Manley Hopkins

The last couple weeks I have been gently reminded of the quiet beauties of life. 

That there lives, as Gerard Manly Hopkins says, "the dearest freshness deep down things." 

And that life manifests itself in many forms. 

Not always loud. 

In fact, usually not loud. 

The stillness of a bending river 

or the gentle formation of roots 

carves life 

and creates changes 

in ways that a supernova could not fathom. 

There is power in moving forward. 

A release of tension and heavy clouds

to trust in yourself enough--

and trust in God more--

to allow yourself to be unsure. 

I might not know what tomorrow will bring

or the next six months. 

But I can trust enough--

hope enough--

that there will be forward progression. 

And although we never know--

we can never know--

exactly what the future will hold, 

there's no need to be stuck in the past 

or in pretension. 

Mistakes don't have to define you. 

They shouldn't define you. 

If I were to describe the way I feel right now, 

I'm not really sure what I would say. 

Sometimes there really are no words to describe life. 

Perhaps it would be that I am starting to feel unburdened. 

Some of this is because it's the end of a week 

and almost the end of a term 

(which has been incredibly, incredibly busy--I'm still not entirely 

sure if I will make it to next Monday). 

But some of it is because I'm relearning 

that I don't have to do it alone. 

(I seem to have to relearn this lesson at least once--if not twice--every month.) 

But that there is a beauty--

one of those quiet beauties

that you never see

like roots spreading their tendrils 

through thawing soil 

or the slight change in pitch 

as the melody changes keys--

but a beauty 

in spending time with others. 

Letting them see into your soul, 

even for a little bit, 

and allowing them 

to unpack their heart as well. 

A window to a soul 

like driving past a house at twilight

with their blinds open and lights on 

and you see a man

a woman 

a child

chopping tomatoes by their kitchen sink

or sitting at a piano

or laughing at some joke you will never know. 

Those windows into lives that you cannot fully understand. 

Distanced from you, 

yet sharing a connection

a connection we all share 

by simply being human. 

By simply living. 

No one is alone. 

No one needs to be alone.

I cannot have myself without yourself. 

And in those others' faces, 

we see ourselves. 

"For Christ plays in ten thousand places, 

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces." (Hopkins, "As Kingfishers Catch Fire") 

"lovely in eyes not his." 

and we are. 

made lovely in eyes 

that are not our own. 

and--hopefully--others 

made lovely 

in mine. 

Love bade me welcome

In honor of Valentine's Day (and in honor of Valentine's Day falling on a Sunday this year), I'm posting a favorite love poem of mine.

Love (III) by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked anything.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here":
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.

I gave a sermon today in church, and I quoted this poem. I thought it was appropriate for Valentine's Day.

I could say more (I probably should say more), but I am tired and think I'll just end with this song which has been running through my head all day long.





No more a stranger, nor a guest . . . but like a child at home.

little by little

We've experienced some bright, cold days in Oxford recently. But this morning dawned rainy and grey with a touch of melancholy.

[holywell street.]

Which, naturally, makes me think of Pablo Neruda poems. Because what better to recite to yourself on a gloomy January morning? 

If you Forget Me 

I want you to know 

one thing. 

You know how this is: 

if I look 

at the crystal moon, at the red branch

of the slow autumn at my window, 

if I touch 

near the fire

the impalpable ash 

or the wrinkled body of the log, 

everything carries me to you, 

as if everything that exists, 

aromas, light, metals, 

were little boats

that sail 

toward those isles of yours that wait for me.  

Well, now, 

if little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you little by little. 

If suddenly 

you forget me 

do not look for me, 

for I shall already have forgotten you. 

If you think it long and mad, 

the wind of banners that passes through my life, 

and you decide 

to leave me at the shore

of the heart where I have roots, 

remember

that on that day, 

at that hour, 

I shall lift my arms 

and my roots will set off to seek another land. 

But

if each day, 

each hour, 

you feel that you are destined for me

with implacable sweetness, 

if each day a flower 

climbs up to your lips to seek me, 

ah my love, ah my own, 

in me all that fire is repeated, 

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 

my love feeds on your love, beloved, 

and as long as you live it will be in your arms

without leaving mine. 

we'll be present at the birth of old faith looking new

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind; 

--William Wordsworth, "Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood"

[Kirkstall Abbey.]

Because romantic poetry and abbeys go together like bread and butter. 

the black river of loss whose other side is salvation

thoughts for the day: 

Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

---In Blackwater Woods, by Mary Oliver                                                                                                                    [via] song of the day: i can let go now, nathan east, featuring sara bareilles

Out of the best books

I've been on a Mary Oliver kick recently.

So, for your Sunday refinement, here is a beautiful poem and a pretty picture:

Mysteries, Yes
by Mary Oliver

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Happy Sabbath.

I still love Anna Akhmatova

Remember how I fell in love with Anna Akhmatova's poetry last semester?

Yeah. Still in love.

And I think (know) I always will be.

Kind of like I will always love Tolstoy and Robert Frost and maps of the world.

One of those loves that never dies.

Because it speaks to your soul in a way that nothing else has.

Of course translation does not do her verse justice. But it will have to do, I guess.

I rarely think of you now
Not captured by your fate, 
But our insignificant meeting's trace
Has not vanished from my soul. 

I purposely avoid your red house, 
That red house on its muddy river, 
But I know I bitterly disturb
Your sunlit heart at rest. 

Though you never bent to my lips, 
Imploring love, 
Never immortalized my longing 
In verse of gold--

I secretly conjure the future, 
When evening shines clear and blue, 
And foresee the inevitable meeting, 
A second meeting, with you. 

I just love her way with words.
And how she describes those "insignificant meetings" that make an imprint on our souls.
Those meetings with people--who come and go--
and we never quite know how they will influence us.
Or how we will influence them.
Love won, love lost.
Friends made, friends forgotten.
We say that we don't care; say it doesn't matter.
But doesn't it?

what kind of heart doesn't look back? 

Here's the original Russian for those lucky enough to know this beautiful language.

«О тебе вспоминаю я редко…» Анна Ахматова

О тебе вспоминаю я редко
И твоей не пленяюсь судьбой,
Но с души не стирается метка
Незначительной встречи с тобой.

Красный дом твой нарочно миную,
Красный дом твой над мутной рекой,
Но я знаю, что горько волную
Твой пронизанный солнцем покой.

Пусть не ты над моими устами
Наклонялся, моля о любви,
Пусть не ты золотыми стихами
Обессмертил томленья мои,—

Я над будущим тайно колдую,
Если вечер совсем голубой,
И предчувствую встречу вторую,
Неизбежную встречу с тобой.

A stream of words

sometimes you just need to do a stream-of-consciousness post. with all the conventions of a e.e. cummings poem. because sometimes life is just too much and there are so many thoughts and feelings and words allwrappedintoone and you just have to get it all out, you know? you know.

we are all going a bit crazy in our apartment. it's that time of the semester. aka the last full week of classes, which means for us humanities majors that it is the week of terror because everything--final papers, final projects, our firstborn in the wilderness--is due on monday. we've made a new hashtag for when everything is going terribly. it's called #apartment210. it's been trending frequently this semester, and now there is a hashtag symbol right by our apartment number on our door. because it's one of those weeks. good thing we've got each other. and good thing we're good at thinking up clever hashtags. especially ones with alliteration.  

there are four of us graduating this semester and we have no motivation to do anything. like, anything at all. but don't make us talk about graduation. because we don't want to talk about how we are leaving each other. and we don't want to talk about change and about uncertainty and those fears of entering the great, big world. "sister, remember that we're leaving in two weeks?" "sister, i don't want to talk about it." so we don't. avoidance is always the best policy, right?

you never know what you'll find around provo this time of year. hard boiled eggs from easter egg hunts. forgotten frisbees. lilacs. i love lilacs, did you know? they are some of my favorite flowers. i love their scent. i love their color. i love that they sing of spring. i love lilacs. i also love tulips. especially orange ones. spring and autumn. my two favorite seasons. seasons of transition and life. "your voice is the color of october gold." i am an october soul who loves the spring.

looking from life at both sides. moons, and junes and ferris wheels--that dizzy, dancing way you feel--as every fairy tale comes real. i've looked at love that way. but now it's just another show. you leave 'em laughing when you go. and if you care, don't let them know. don't give yourself away. i've looked at love from both sides now. from give and take and still somehow it's love's illusions i recall. i really don't know love at all. opposition in all things. knowledge of good and evil. life and death. love and hate. despair and hope. doubt and faith.

my daughters will read books with strong female characters. jane eyre. pride and prejudice. middlemarch. their eyes were watching god. sense and sensibility. to kill a mockingbird. little women. a tree grows in brooklyn. persuasion. little house on the prairie. the secret garden. they will learn to be "unafraid to be weak, unafraid to be strong." and my sons will learn these lessons from literature, too. they will learn to be kind and take responsibility for their actions. lessons of leadership and love for my girls and boys.

russian literature is life. it is my life. dostoevsky. pushkin. akhmatova. tolstoy. war and peace and anna karenina.  i am more like anna than i once realized. he is andrei. oh, is he ever andrei. but he is also levin. so am i sometimes. . . . or maybe i'm actually anatole. yep. anatole all the way. #shameless. perhaps i read into things too much. people are so much more nuanced and complex than we like to give them credit for. complex and deep. and we all meet in the middle of each other's stories.

i'm the writer and she's the muse. hearts, desires, and fears. there is something wonderfully endearing about watching a hallway of russian speakers support one of their comrades in asking a girl out. "look over this for me, would you?"but where do i put the smiley face emoticon?!" that fear of sending the message. "send, send, send!" "it's sent." the waiting game. that infernal hope.

april is national poetry month. t.s. eliot once said that april is the cruellest month. it can feel like that, especially this time of the school year. but it is also a lovely month. full of hope and spring and new beginnings. but the weather can be weird in april, especially in utah. every single one of my friends who have gotten married in april had snow on their wedding day. there was rain and snow today. i forgot a coat. but i did have my "petty coat" on today (it's totally a thing--we invented the term yesterday). so watch out, world. because today is a red lipstick and brown combat boots kind of day. don't mess with me. because i'm channeling some phenomenal women. their poetry courses through my veins. does my sassiness upset you? why are you beset with gloom? 'cause i walk like i've got oil wells pumping in my living room. did you want to see me broken? bowed head and lowered eyes? shoulders falling down like teardrops, weakened by my soulful cries. but still i rise. i rise. i rise. 

i still am studying and writing about emily dickinson and anna akhmatova. incredible women. especially akhmatova. he loved three things in life: evensong, white peacocks, and maps of america. he hated it when children cried, he hated tea with raspberry jam, and women's hysterics. and i . . . i was his wife. she is just stunning, isn't she? her experiences span generations. "can you describe this?" the voice of suffering women. never forget. history, you must never forget our voices. we will not allow you to forget.

jbull is coming home from dc today. so today is a very, very good day because jilly will be back in our time zone. she is going to take over the world someday and i am privileged to be on her lovelist. i am grateful for the people on my lovelist. and grateful for milkshake runs in times of crisis and girl talk and inside jokes and quotes that come at just the right times. "the true tragedy of the world--the weak ones, my girl--are the ones who stop looking down the road for the good things. the ones who stop believing in dreams. the ones who become permanently cynical and bitter and quit believing that good things will work out for them." because the power is in hope. in believing and wanting the good things. long live the glass slipper.

you, he said, are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain. i do not know how to be anything but real. i choose to be real. i choose to feel. i choose vulnerability over masks. i would not want to be fake. i choose awkwardness over flawless first impressions. i choose russia over france. tolstoy over baudelaire. i choose wheat and soil and fire over macaroons and mirrors and gold. i don't want any less anymore. "it sounds trite, but honestly, it comes down to the fact that the heart wants what the heart wants. so. what do you want?"

choosing everything. giving all. sunlight on the mountains. tendrils of spring. brisk octobers and pumpkin spice. dreams and realities. healing and hope. give me this mountain. this new chapter. i stand on a precipice. "but what if i fall? oh my darling, what if you fly?"

i don't love you, but i always will

Because sometimes beautiful music and classic poetry go hand-in-hand.



"I cannot live with You" by Emily Dickinson

I cannot live with You -
It would be Life -
And Life is over there -
Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the key to -
Putting up
Our Life - His Porcelain -
Like a Cup -

Discarded of the Housewife -
Quaint - or Broke -
A newer Sevres pleases -
Old Ones crack -

I could not die - with You -
For One must wait
To shut the Other's Gaze down -
You - could not -

And I - Could I stand by
And see You - freeze -
Without my Right of Frost -
Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise - with You -
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus' -
That New Grace

Glow plain - and foreign
On my homesick eye -
Except that You than He
Shone closer by -

They'd judge Us - How -
For You - served Heaven - You know,
Or sought to -
I could not -

Because You saturated sight -
And I had no more eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be -
Though my name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame -

And were You - saved -
And I - condemned to be
Where You were not
That self - were Hell to me -

So we must meet apart -
You there - I - here -
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are - and Prayer -
And that White Sustenance -
Despair -

The song and poem might have been created two hundred years apart, but their message is the same.

"I don't love you, but I always will."

"Can you describe this?" And I answered, "Yes, I can."

I have been falling in love with the words of Anna Akhmatova.

For those who don't know, Anna Akhmatova was a poet in the Soviet Union. She lived through Stalin's purges and the Great Terror of the 1930s. 

And she refused to be silent. 

Oh, Anna. How to describe Anna? I feel like my words don't do justice to her resilience, grace, and strength. (But if you do want to read a beautiful, stunning post on Anna Akhmatova, you should read Em's blog post about her here.)

But, if there is anything I will say, I will say that Anna Akhmatova was strong. Oh, was she ever strong. 

She had everything taken from her. Her son was arrested and sent to the Gulag. Her husband was killed. Many of her closest friends were also arrested and executed.

But she refused to give up. And she refused to run away. 

About a month ago, I decided to write about Anna Akhmatova for my Soviet history class. I decided that I needed to study a resilient woman. I needed to study her life in depth. And so I chose Anna. 

I haven't been disappointed. 

Can I share with you a few of her poems that I love? There is just so much emotion in them. So much raw emotion and strength. They were both written during the 1930s. During that time when so much innocent blood was spilled and so many lives were destroyed. 

This one was written in 1933, and talks about the blood spilled by the Bolsheviks: 

Wild honey smells like freedom, 

Dust--like a ray of sun, 

Like violets--a young maid's mouth, 

And gold--like nothing. 

The flowers of the mignonette smell like water, 

And like an apple--love. 

But we learned once and for all

That blood only smells like blood . . . 

And in vain the vice-regent of Rome 

Washed his hands before all the people, 

Urged on by the ominous shouts of the rabble; 

And the Scottish queen 

In vain washed the spattered red drops

From her slender palms

In the stifling gloom of the king's home . . . 

I don't know why this poem resonates so deeply with me. "But we learned once and for all/That blood only smells like blood." That line. It gives me chills. Especially after learning so much about Soviet history the past couple months. The quotas. The prisons. The show trials. The blood. How do we let ourselves lose our humanity? "Blood only smells like blood." 

The other poem which has deeply affected me is her Requiem. This cycle of poems is . . . there's not a proper word in English to describe it. But it is extraordinary. Simply exquisite. She tells her story of losing her son to the NKVD and then waiting in line outside the prison walls of Leningrad--waiting for hours, days, months, years--for something--anything--some kind of information about his fate. But this poem isn't just about her. It is about all of those women in Leningrad. It is their story. She gives voice to the voiceless so that history will not forget. 

And Requiem beautifully captures the despair of the time. The anguish. The grief of a nation and of the women of this nation. But there is also an element of hope Requiem. A sense of dignity. The promise that she will not give up, so that history will remember. Evidence that the human spirit cannot be crushed. And it is incredible. 

Here are some of my favorite parts of Requiem: 

Instead of a Preface

In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror, I spent seventeen months in the prison lines of Leningrad. Once, someone "recognized" me. Then a woman with bluish lips standing behind me, who, of course, had never heard me called by name before, woke up from the stupor to which everyone had succumbed and whispered in my ear (everyone spoke in whispers there): 

"Can you describe this?" 

And I answered, "Yes, I can." 

Then something that looked like a smile passed over what had once been her face. 

VII

The Sentence

And the stone word fell 

On my still-living breast. 

Never mind, I was ready. 

I will manage somehow. 

Today I have so much to do: 

I must kill memory once and for all, 

I must turn my soul to stone, 

I must learn to live again--

Unless . . . Summer's ardent rustling

Is like a festival outside my window. 

For a long time I've foreseen this 

Brilliant day, deserted house. 

Epilogue I 

I learned how faces fall, 

How terror darts from under eyelids, 

How suffering traces lines

Of stiff cuneiform on cheeks, 

How locks of ashen-blonde or black 

Turn silver suddenly, 

Smiles fade on submissive lips

And fear trembles in a dry laugh. 

I pray not for myself alone, 

But for all those who stood there with me

In cruel cold, and in July's heat, 

At that blind, red wall. 

Her words are powerful. Powerful, real, and stunning. She speaks for all the women--the mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, and others--who stand by that brick wall at Kretsy Prison, waiting, hoping, praying for some news . . . even if it is the worst news. 

Because that not knowing is the worst of all. 

But she wrote so that the world would know. 

I've studied a lot of poets in my life. But I think . . . I think that if I could write like anyone, I would choose to write like Anna Akhmatova. 

Post-script to my last post

That sounds funny: "post-script to my last post." But that's what it is. Ha.

Sometimes I write poetry. And sometimes it's really bad. Because I've learned that it is hard to write good poetry, and though we all fancy ourselves poets at sometime or another (particularly when we're lovestruck, lovesick, and/or heartbroken), really good poems are few and far between.

So I'm not saying that the poetry I'm posting below is any good. But I do think it goes along perfectly with Eve--because these two poems were inspired by her story.

So. Here they are. Take them for what they're worth.

 Adam and Eve, Brian Kershisnik 

Eve's Song 
I chose this.
The sweat-streaked brow,
the pain-stained heart,
the bruised heel.

I chose this.
The wisdom-grown mind,
the joy-filled soul,
the vict'ry over hell.

Daughter of Eve 
To leave Eden alone
was not my wish--
to face dearth without his hand,
choosing experience without covering.

But I chose to partake.
My choice
to know--
to feel--
to taste--
joy and sorrow
good and evil
love and desertion.

There is power in nakedness.
A stark beauty
in being made wise
as former things are stripped away--
made bare
made holy
made new.

She Will Find, Brian Kershisnik 

so comes love.

I've been on an e.e. cummings kick recently. There's not really an explanation--there are just times when different poets and different poems touch you your life in ways they hadn't before.

Because poetry is life.

The spontaneous overflow of emotion. Of life.

let it go - the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise - let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go - the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers - you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go - the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things - let all go
dear

so comes love.

Just something in the way he writes. Those breaths in between the words and the echoes of stillness.

"the boths and the neithers - you must let them go they
were born
to go"

Letting go. And learning to breathe again.

i come with a dream in my eyes tonight

It's that time of year again when final papers and exams hit you with the force of a semi.

Sometimes, you just need to breathe.

And then, then you find a beautiful poem, and for a moment, everything else is forgotten in the magic of the words.

You are tired, 

(I think) 

Of the always puzzle of living and doing;

And so am I. 

Come with me, then, 

And we'll leave it far and far away--

(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played, 

(I think) 

And broke the toys you were fondest of, 

And are a little tired now; 

Tired of things that break, and--

Just tired. 

So am I. 

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, 

And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart--

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows, 

And, if you like, 

The perfect places of Sleep. 

                                                                      

Thank you, e.e. cummings for that much-needed literary escape.

"The Holiness of the Heart's Affections"

*DISCLAIMER* This blog post is full of thoughts and feelings which have been searching for a way to get out for awhile now; a culmination, or rather, continuation, of other thoughts I have had about vulnerability. Feel free to disagree with my musings; I doubt that everyone will agree with everything I have to say. Still, it is important to point out that these thoughts are in no way directed at or alluding to any one or any situation. It is simply raw, vulnerable emotion--a blog post I am sharing with the world in the hopes that it is helpful to someone, somewhere. 

I do not pretend to be experienced in matters of love and relationships. I am still learning about myself . . . I always will be, I guess. But maybe being my age and at my stage of life makes me more vocal and interested in love and relationships and the concept of falling in love, especially as so many of my peers (myself included) fall in and out of love on a semi-regular basis.

We're all at different stages of life, even though we're technically all around the same age, we are at different places at life, love, and relationships. One of us might have just gone through a major break-up; another is going through the anguish of unrequited love; yet another considers him or herself ready for a relationship . . . and how are we to know how a person is feeling or where they are on the "relationship-readiness-scale" when we meet them in class or are set up by well-meaning friends? Most people don't shout their deep, dark secrets from the rooftops; it's impractical to wear your heart on your sleeve.

The differences of where we all stand on the planes of love does not even begin to cover the different backgrounds we all come from--politics, religion, culture, intelligence, family--they all play a part in making us who we are. And with all of these differences, it's a miracle people get married, really. It's a miracle they have decided to have faith enough to make a whole-hearted effort to make a marriage last and form a home.

Now wonder we put marriage announcements on the highest place of honor: the kitchen fridge. Because it truly is a miracle when it works out. A miracle.

It's the getting there that's the headache.

And I know it's not one-sided. It's frustrating for guys and girls alike. And we all add to the headaches and heartaches of others. Such is life.

And I think--I think that although most of us love the idea of being in love, we are more cautious when it comes down to the basics of it--when it becomes real and not abstract. I think that love scares us sometimes. That choice to surrender. To give all. It is terrifying . . . but it is also beautiful.

Above all, it is holy. Sacred, even.

I think I am cautious about falling in love for this reason: the regions of the heart are sacred, and I hesitate before letting someone step into the beautiful chambers of my heart. And I hesitate before letting myself try to open the door of someone else's heart. You cannot force your way in; you can only knock with excitement and trepidation and pray that you are let in.

For they must let you in themselves. And then, if they are ready, they will give you the key.

That key could symbolize many things. But I believe it symbolizes trust. A mutual trust to each other, promising to handle the other's heart with tenderness and respect.

Because entering those chambers is a sacred privilege.

Think of it--letting someone tread on your hopes and dreams; your joys and fears. You are becoming a part of their life, and that, for me, is huge. It's not something to be flippant about. It is too precious.

I've always loved this poem by W.B. Yeats:

"Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams." 

You tread on my dreams. I believe that is what we do when we love someone or when someone loves us. We spread our hopes and dreams at their feet--a magnificent tapestry of possibilities. We open ourselves up and let another person see our good parts and bad parts, our hopes and dreams and fears all rolled into one . . . and then we pray that they will still love us for who we are and who we can become. 

It is frightening--but it is beautiful. And really, I don't think there could be any other way. 

Love is about faith. It is also about hope. Without hope, we would never allow another in.  

John Keats once said, "I am certain of nothing but the Holiness of the Heart's affections and the Truth of the Imagination." 

Spoken like a true Romantic. But I do believe that the heart's affections are holy. And that is what makes love so wonderful, terrifying, and life-changing. 

"What if it doesn't work out?" 

"Ah, but what if it does?"  

April is the cruellest month*

. . . and it's also National Poetry Month!

*(my apologies to T.S. Eliot and The Wasteland)

Being the logophile and English nerd that I am, you knew that this was coming. I mean, I am that English major who has to restrain herself from quoting Shakespeare and Wordsworth at parties.

Oh wait . . . I do it anyway.

But there is just something so beautiful about the spontaneous overflow of emotion that can cut you to the core, leave you breathless, and sing in harmony with your soul.

Poetry is the language of the soul.

There are times when a poem expresses exactly what I'm feeling--it gives words and meaning to emotions I couldn't make sense of. Poems make it possible for me to sort myself out. Many times, interpreting a poem is something spiritual for me. Like when reading John Keats's "Ode to Autumn" or Gerard Manley Hopkins's "The Windhover."

Poetry is a part of my life. I can tell you which poets can help after a broken heart or dashed dream (Jorge Luis Borges and Pablo Neruda are some of my favorites), and which ones are perfect for a budding romance (W.B. Yeats. All of the way. Love his poetry, especially his love poetry, so so much). And then there's Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou, and Dylan Thomas for those moments when you need an extra boost.

And then, there are just those poems which are simply delicious to read. Where phrases stick in your mind for days, 'til you can't get them out and you just have to repeat them over, and over, and over again in your mind, until they unexpectedly become a part of your vocabulary.

I could go on.

But instead, I'll just end with a poem which has stuck with me recently. Haunted me, I guess you could say. I can't get it out of my soul. So that means I have to share it.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

                                         -e.e. cummings

English Nerd

Sometimes when I'm in the library researching Louisa May Alcott, Goethe, Emerson, and Transcendentalism, I inadvertently stumble upon Emily Dickinson's Collected Works.

And then I open it up at random and find something beautiful:

"When Night is almost done--
And Sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the Spaces--
It's time to smooth the Hair--

And get the Dimples ready--
And wonder we could care
For that Old-faded Midnight
That frightened but an Hour."