Still Point by Max Reif

Leaving home

for work

each day

I hear the trees

say “What’s your hurry?”

Rooted, they

don’t understand

how in my world

we have to rush

to keep in step.

I haven’t even time

to stop and tell them

how on weekends, too,

schedules wait

like nets.

It’s only on a sick day

when I have to venture out

to pick up medicine

that I understand the trees,

there in all their fullness

in a world unpatterned

full of moments,

full of spaces,

every space

a choice.

This day

has not

been turned yet

on the lathe

this day

lies open, light

and shadow. Breath

fills the body easily.

I step

into a world

waiting like

a quiet lover.

Still Point

I imagine I was drawn to this poem, in part, because I think of this time of year as a still point, a time for reflection. To hear the trees say “What’s your hurry?” certainly would give pause – really, what is my hurry? He explains how in my world / we have to rush / to keep in step, not being rooted as the trees are. Perhaps this is familiar to you also, how schedules wait / like nets, how they constrain and rush us.

It seems to take a sick day for us to slow down, to understand the trees, to recognize that the world is full of moments, / full of spaces, / every space / a choice. Spaciousness, choice – how easy it is to lose sight of these possibilities. Love his image that the day / has not / been turned yet / on the lathe, unformed, even if your schedule, your plans say otherwise.

This day, he tells us, lies open, light / and shadow, room to breathe easily. In a day such as this, he moves into a world / waiting like / a quiet lover. Can you feel the edges receding, your breath deepening, the excitement of the unknown, if only for a moment. After all, what’s your hurry?

Blessing for the Longest Night by Jan Richardson

All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.

It has practiced
walking in the dark,
traveling with
its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.

So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.

You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.

This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.

So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.
Get up.
Set out on the road
you cannot see.

This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.

Blessing for the Longest Night

Tonight, this December 21st, will be the longest night of the year, the winter solstice. And Jan Richardson who has written many blessing-poems, seems to have captured the essence of this special time. After so many months of endarkenment, as my friend calls it, the sun and earth in their timeless dance will allow the light to gradually return, a reason to celebrate, even as we let go of this special time of drawing inward.

What is this blessing, this grace she speaks of, that has been gathering itself, that has practiced walking in the dark as we have each walked as the moon has waned? She tells us this blessing will / reach you / even if you / have not enough / light to read it. You will know its arrival by your release / of the breath / you have held / so long, a thinning of the darkness that has seemed endless.

Yet she is quick to point out, this does not mean / to take the night away, but rather to accompany you like a friend as you travel through the dark. She invites us to reach out to take the hand of this blessing, this gift that is offered on this night, for this is the night / when you can trust / that any direction / you go, / you will be walking / toward the dawn. May you move toward the light as it returns, carrying your own light inside.

Yes by Brian Doyle

I was on a gleaming elevator in a vast hotel in a huge city
The other day when a man got on with his daughter about
Age four. I asked her what floor they wanted and she said
Seven million. I reached up as high as I could and pressed
An imaginary button and she laughed and some little door
Opened in all three of us, a wordless yes, and we started to
Talk about the elevator’s voice, which sounded like a lady
From Ireland or Scotland, and how the buttons were twice
As big as any giant’s fingers, and how older gents like me
Remembered buildings without thirteenth floors, isn’t that
Funny, that an ancient supersition would still be reflected
In modern buildings? By now the girl was dancing and her
Dad and I were grinning at her ebullience but then the lady
Spoke their floor and the door opened. The girl leapt away,
But the dad hesitated a second and said quietly hey thanks,
And I knew just what he meant – something like thanks for
Being four years old for a minute. We have those moments
When we are all the same age, from the same country, with
The same language on our teeth, and it never lasts too long,
But it always feels weirdly familiar, doesn’t it? Like we are
Home again for a moment, with family we hardly get to see.

Yes

Here’s a first for Heart Poems: a prose poem which like all good poems conveys meaning in few words with its own music. It’s a simple enough story, one you may have experienced yourself or something similar. You’ve heard of ‘elevator speeches’, those concise ways of telling someone what it is you do for your living. This, though, I find so much more interesting and the title draws me in with its affirmative energy.

Focused on a brief moment in time, the poet shares with us the magic of a child who spontaneously responds seven million when asked what floor she wants, that simple, polite elevator question. And with her laughter, some little door / opened in all three of us, a connection that would likely have been missed without her. With this wordless yes, a free ranging conversation begins about the elevator’s voice, the buttons twice as big as any giant’s fingers, and the superstition of not naming the thirteenth floor.

The poet and the father share smiles at the little girl’s ebullience as she leaps off at their floor. When the father quietly says thanks, the poet understood, something like thanks for / being four years old for a minute. Those moments when age and country and language are irrelevant, just shared, momentary joy. And yet, there is a familiarity, like we are / home again for a moment, home with people we are connected to as if they were family. May you encounter such a yes somewhere in your days to bring you home.

Inside Out by Laura Grace Weldon

Only by snapping open scarlet runner bean pods

do we see they are lined with fuzz, shaped

to each vividly hued bean

like a viola case to its instrument.

Only by slicing open a trout

are its bones revealed, lined up like pews

facing the back of a moving church,

its scripture stories of what came before.

We see stars only in the darkness,

feed a flame only by burning,

fuel our bodies only with what lived.

You’d think we’d see a pattern,

yet are surprised when loss

tilts our world, lifestream

into waterfall. We’re told grief

ebbs, when all we want to do

is bring sorrow’s fullness

out in the sun’s cleansing light.

Lay it on the rocks.

Let it air.

Inside Out

This poem is filled with unique images, ways of saying things differently that help us understand grief by turning things inside out, a reversal of what our eyes usually see. She begins by opening a scarlet runner bean pod, something you may have done yourself, but have you ever thought of it like a viola case to its instrument? Or opening a trout to reveal its bones lined up like pews / facing the back of a moving church? Naming the bones as scripture stories of what came before. Remarkable, yes?

She’s asking us to see patterns in our lives, stars in the darkness, flames burning, how we fuel our bodies only with what lived. Yet despite these constancies, we are surprised / when loss tilts our world. If you have experienced such a loss, you will recognize how your world shifts, your lifestream turns into waterfall, that unstoppable turning of everything inside out, refusing to make a pattern we can recognize and accept.

She offers the conventional wisdom that grief will ebb, which it likely will, albeit in an impossibly long time, but she believes what we really want to do is to bring sorrow’s fullness / out in the sun’s cleansing light. Not to shut it away where it cannot be seen or heard, but to Lay it on the rocks. Let it air. By turning it inside out, we can expose sorrow’s fullness to the sunlight’s comfort, give it a place in our world that allows it to be just as it is.

And here is a treat I recommend for you: Kim Rosen speaking poems of loss with Jamie Sieber on her cello, together creating a magical experience. https://jamisieber.com/feast-of-losses