What will it be, this late late Wednesday poem? I don’t want to write a cranky Wednesday poem. It’s a good moon out there, and the kids were fine and funny, and I’m just not in the mood for despair this evening. The same old exhaustion is creeping up my heels to the backs of my legs, but I’m going to find a way to change it, as it creeps into some kind of creative energy. Yup.
Any minute now.
While I’m waiting, I can tell you how I know I have to write a hopeful poem tonight. I’m reading What Are People For, essays by Wendell Berry, and it would be just wrong to write a poem of despair, one with out hope, after reading Wendell Berry. In “Healing”, he writes, “Despair is the too-little responsibility, as pride is the too-much. / The shoddy work of despair, the pointless work of pride, equally betray creation. They are wastes of life.” Whew. There is so much I could quote from this collection, but I’m fading fast, and the sluggishness hasn’t turned to creation yet. Maybe just one more quote, also from “Healing”, “A creature is not a creator, and cannot be. There is only one Creation, and we are its members. / To be creative is to have health: to keep oneself fully alive in the Creation to keep the Creation fully alive in oneself, to see the Creation anew, to welcome one’s part in it anew. / The most creative works are all strategies of health.”
Wisdom. Straight up. Here I go, trying to get healthy.
All The Way Home
If the young have lost hope, it is because we have stopped looking at them with it. When the gap grows more distant every time we hear their slang -have we forgotten our own?-or see their faces turned palmward-even while walking!-or wince at their brash opinions-as though we had none!-or mistake their preoccupation for carelessness, it’s easy to blame them for all the problems we could have fixed.
Our disappointment is our own.
They have in us, the same hope that we have in them, that they will work hard and daily, calves aching with the work of keeping the Creation alive, and return home, walking the familiar flagstones, hands always finding the doorknob, leaning against the doorframe, saying,
I am home. I am all the way home.
Ahhhh poem. Done. All little distant and preachy, but hey. Wednesday. Oh, and I did say no excuses. Whoops. Happy Wednesday, poemfriends!