The Meditation of Poetry
Summer has arrived and, with it, a desire to sprawl, preferably under a tree or by water. For those of us lucky enough to live with the seasons, now is the time to surrender – to fruit and flowers and temperatures high enough to prevent us from doing anything rigorous without breaking into a sweat. It is time to be still, in other words, which is not a forte of most Americans. Our lifestyles are built around the hustle and bustle of multitasking – of navigating two or three screens at once, of talking while texting, of filming concerts on our iPhones rather than dancing at them, of layering appointment upon appointment while narrating our every activity on social media. It is what it is, for Americans have always been go-getters, but it is no surprise that the call for “centering activities” has been on the rise. Witness the popularity of yoga, of Buddhism, of tai chi – not to mention of blood pressure medication, muscle relaxants, and tranquilizers. But while I respect each of these practices, I’m intrigued that we look to other cultures (and prescription pads) when it comes to quieting ourselves. For as long as there have been words – before there were novels, let alone status updates and tweets – there has been poetry, and poetry is all about staying in the present. Continue Reading →
Grounded Mermaids, Graceful Ghosts
I withhold not my heart from any joy.— Ecclesiastes 2:10, via Anne of Windy Poplars
It was a beautiful day. Quiet, full of small satisfactions and a private melancholy that’s become a constant companion this year. I woke early—I suppose the headline would be if I had woken late—and sprang into action. Did laundry, fetched supplies at the greenmarket, made jars of iced tea from pineapple weed and mint and chamomile and ginger and hibiscus. Visited my pal at the hardware store and came home with bags of plywood and paint and gorilla tape. Coaxed one more bunch of peony buds into bloom. Organized a cupboard that had been bothering me for months.
Listened to the Hadestown soundtrack all the while—
You, the one I left behind/
If you ever walk this way/
Come find me/
Lying in the bed I made
and moved gently, gently like the beached mermaid I feel myself to be. Fear myself to be. I’m so cautious these days—afraid of reinjuring the back only recently mended through acupunk and good wishes, afraid of my selfishness and the selfishness of others. Afraid of being this ghost, floating through families and flocks of NYC peacocks, eavesdropping on conversations held and not held. Continue Reading →
Write Here Now
Historically I’ve considered writing necessary but very stressful–an albatross that I could not escape but never quite embrace. But more and more I’ve felt not so much an elation as a contentment when I’m working. Today it’s lightly raining outside, I’m armed with a very large americano, an Italian sandwich, and headphones playing “Money Jungle,” and I’m set up at the corner table at the corner cafe on my block watching my neighbors race to work. At other tables kids are playing with legos (I live opposite a school) and here I sit, playing with words. I have many worries–who does not?–but I no longer question my choice of profession. It is the biggest of reliefs.