Self Care by James Crews

Some days it feels like a foreign language

I’m asked to practice, with new words

for happiness, work, and love. I’m still learning

how to say: a cup of tea for no reason,

what to call the extra honey I drizzle in,

how to label the relentless urge to do more

and more as useless. And how to translate

the heart’s pounding message when it comes:

enough, enough. This morning, I search for words

to capture the glimmering sun as it lifts

above mountains, clouds already closing in

as fat droplets of rain darken the deck.

I’m learning to call this stillness self-care too,

just standing here, as goldfinches scatter up 

from around the feeder like broken pieces

of bright yellow stained-glass, reassembling

in the sheltering arms of a maple.

Self Care

Self care is a phrase I’ve no doubt you’ve heard often enough, whether you have practiced it often or not. This is a lovely, uncomplicated reminder from James Crews about its importance for all of us. It can feel like a foreign language / I’m asked to practice, learning new words for happiness, work and love. It really is a practice, something to consciously choose.

He speaks of the relentless urge to do more / and more and the need to label it ‘useless’, how to say enough, enough. It reminds me of a quote from Thomas Merton I read recently that speaks of the rush and pressure of modern life, the overwork, as violence that we do to ourselves. That shocked me into pause – why would I invite violence into my life?

So he makes his cup of tea for no reason, with an extra drizzle of honey, and stands in stillness as the rain begins. He watches as the goldfinches, those tiny magnificent birds, scatter around the feeder like broken pieces / of bright yellow stained-glass, then fly up into the arms of the maple to reassemble. This is how we can care for ourselves, honouring the moments that present themselves to us, gathering ourselves together again.

Let Rain Be Rain by Danusha Laméris

Let rain be rain.

           Let wind be wind.

Let the small stone

           be the small stone.

May the bird

            rest on its branch,

the beetle in its burrow.

May the pine tree

             lay down its needles.

The rockrose, its petals.

It’s early. Or it’s late.

            The answers

to our questions

             lie hidden

in acorn, oyster, the seagull’s

             speckled egg.

We’ve come this far, already.

             Why not let breath

be breath. Salt be salt.

How faithful the tide

              that has carried us—

that carries us now—

               out to sea

        and back.

Let Rain Be Rain

Be it rain or wind or a small stone, Laméris implores us to allow each element to be what it is, to see it for what it is, real and true. The bird has its place on a branch, the beetle its burrow. May the pine tree / lay down its needles, as the rock rose lays down its petals. This is how it is, she tells us, just be present to the beauty of each of these things.

She seems to be saying that the answers to our questions can be found in the perfect simplicity of acorn, oyster, the seagull’s / speckled egg. In other words, pay attention to the world around you, look no farther than what is before you in the natural world. After all, We’ve come this far, already.

After all, why not allow our breath to be that which give us life, salt to be that basic element our bodies need – there is nothing to be changed. How faithful the tide / that has carried us, the tide of our days, our lives, a tide that takes us out to sea and brings us back again, and again. There is a rhythm to living if we do not resist, do not insist that it be otherwise.

Dawn Callers by Alberto Rios

The dawn callers and morning bringers,
I hear them as they intend themselves to be heard,

Quick sonic sparks in the morning dark,
Hard at the first work of building the great fire.

The soloist rooster in the distance,
The cheeping wrens, the stirring, gargling pigeons

Getting ready for the work of a difficult lifetime,
The first screet of the peahen in the far field,

All of it a great tag-of-sounds game engaging even the owls,
The owls with their turned heads and everything else that is animal.

Then, too, the distant thunder of the garbage truck,
That lumbering urban whale.

Through it all, the mourning doves say
There, there—which is to say, everything is all right.

I believe them. They have said this to me ever since childhood.
I hear them. I hear them and I get up.

Dawn Callers

Are you a morning person? If you are, this poem may be for you, and if not, it may offer you a different perspective. Rios introduces us to dawn callers and morning bringers – enticing names for what invites us to arise each day. These creatures, quick sonic sparks, are busy with the first work of building the great fire – the energy of sound waves bringing up the sun.

He names some of the birds he hears, getting ready for the work of a difficult lifetime. Each morning, these cheeping, gargling musical notes help us prepare for whatever the day holds. All of it a great tag-of-sounds game creating a music that even includes the thunder-grumble of a garbage truck, that lumbering urban whale. I won’t hear them in quite the same way this week.

And then there are the mourning doves cooing ‘there, there’, a sound which the poet hears as everything is all right. He believes them, having heard this comforting message since childhood. As we each might do, he responds: I hear them and I get up. May you wake to this music, this thought, called into each morning of your days.

It’s the Season I Often Mistake by Ada Limon

Birds for leaves, and leaves for birds.

The tawny yellow mulberry leaves

are always goldfinches tumbling

across the lawn like extreme elation.

The last of the maroon crabapple

ovates are song sparrows that tremble

all at once. And today, just when I 

could not stand myself any longer,

a group of field sparrows, that were

actually field sparrows, flew up into

the bare branches of the hackberry

and I almost collapsed: leaves

reattaching themselves to the tree

like a strong spell for reversal. What

else did I expect? What good

is accuracy amidst the perpetual

scattering that unspools the world.

It’s the Season I Often Mistake

I love the crossovers Limón makes between leaves and birds, how what look like yellow mulberry leaves turn out to be goldfinches tumbling / across the lawn like extreme elation. I get caught on that phrase ‘extreme elation’, the exuberant joy she finds in this flock of golden birds. The elliptical crabapple leaves become song sparrows that tremble / all at once, quivering wings.

Then she tells us that the group of field sparrows were actually just that. How they flew up into the bare branches as if reattaching themselves to the tree / like a strong spell for reversal. Again my mind trips with delight over the image of leaves moving backwards onto their branches like an old film run in reverse.

What else did I expect? she asks. She questions the value of accuracy – are these leaves or birds? – amidst the perpetual scattering that unspools the world. There is colour and movement, change happening with the unwinding of the season. Easy to understand how we might mistake one for the other, especially with the fanciful mind of a poet.