And Then by Matthew Nienow

I took off my shame

like a dress

made of light.

Like a dress

made of the self-

spun cocoon.

I was not beautiful.

It was not about beauty.

Beneath my shame,

the body

was a raw red thing,

untrained in acceptance.

But the air was delicate

and cool as a mother

blowing gently

on a burn.

I had lived so long

in the fabric,

I thought it my skin.

I had forgotten

how new

anyone forgiven

can become.

And Then

The author says of this poem, that it is about addiction and his lonely struggle for sobriety. He sets the stage here with the metaphor of his shame being like a dress / made of light which he takes off, a dress made of the self- / spun cocoon, this shame he has wrapped himself in.

He places these two statements I was not beautiful./ It was not about beauty side by side which emphasizes the truth of the latter.  Underneath the shame was his raw body,untrained in acceptance, unable to embrace who he was inside. This strikes me as a poem about many of us who have resisted acceptance, regardless of our reasons for shame.

I am moved by his description of the delicate air, cool as a mother / blowing gently / on a burn, the tenderness of that gesture. When we live much of our lives encased in shame, it can become a second skin until such time as we may find absolution. I had forgotten / how new / anyone forgiven / can become. It's that becoming that gives me hope, hope for any one of us who has known shame, and the chance to be new - pure grace.

Culpable by Joy Sullivan

I’ve always been haunted by choice. I want the city and the forest.

Freedom but also babies. A home and the open highway.

I love it when other people choose anything for me—dinner spots,

weekend plans, hiking trails. It’s one tiny decision I’m absolved

from making. To choose is to be culpable and as a former

evangelical kid, there are few things I hate more than being

culpable.

But being unable to choose becomes its own choice. When you

don’t decide, a decision still arrives.

Once I held the fleeting body of a farm cat newly struck on the

side of a busy Ohio road. He’d gotten frightened in the rush and

couldn’t pick which way to go. So he stalled and was hit by the

car in front of me. When I lifted the big body, shuddering and

warm, I felt him die in my hands. Awful as it was, I listened to that

heaviness. I knew it was a lesson. To decide is to survive.

I wrote a pep talk recently to myself on a bar napkin: no matter

which road you take, it will be both glorious and unbearable. Every

road is lonely. Every road, holy. The only error is not walking forth.

Yesterday, a friend in California, when giving me directions, told

me I could take the trail toward the tall pines or turn left and find

a field of poppies, growing gold and savage at the edge of the valley.

When I asked which to choose, she simply shrugged and said:

either way, it’s all heaven.

Culpable

I’ll admit I’m often in the same camp as Sullivan when it comes to making choices – I tend to want both rather than either /or. I’m a city dweller and yet, I’m never happier than when I’m in the country so I try to have both. I too love it when other people choose anything for me, relieving me of the responsibility of making small decisions, although I can’t say I feel guilty or in the wrong when I do make a choice. I’m just aware of the other options not taken.

But being unable to choose becomes its own choice. That I know to be true – a decision will be made for you with or without your input. This may have happened to you; it has to me. The poet tells us a story about a cat, killed hesitating while crossing a road. As she held him and felt him die, she understood the lesson to be this: To decide is to survive; hesitation may lead to the decision being taken for you.

Her pep talk strikes me as wise advice: no matter / which road you take, it will be both glorious and unbearable. The only thing that may find us accountable is not walking forth. In another story, she tells us a friend gave her directions for a walk, either through tall pines or a field of poppies. When she asked which she should choose, her friend casually replied either way, it’s all heaven. This sounds so right to me: Every / road is lonely. Every road, holy,

Invitation by Mary Oliver

Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude—
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.

Invitation

How can I resist an invitation from Mary Oliver? Her poems, woven into my life, so often come at just the right moment, which is what good poems do for us. Oh do you have time / to linger, in spite of your busy / and very important day, she asks. Just the word linger speaks of slowing down, of spending unplanned time. She invites us to notice the goldfinches / that have gathered / in a field of thistles // for a musical battle, to listen and notice which song is the most expressive of mirth, / or the most tender. How often do we really listen that closely?

Their beaks drink the air as they sing their songs, for no other reason than for sheer delight and gratitude. Pay attention, they sing, it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in the broken world. How we need reminding some days of reasons to be alive, to feel gratitude for your one wild and precious life, as she asks us about in The Summer Day (https://www.mindfulnessassociation.net/words-of-wonder/the-summer-day-mary-oliver/).

She implores us not to walk by this rather ridiculous performance, these bright yellow birds fluttering in the trees, drunk with their music, giving themselves to us wholeheartedly. Then, in case it had not yet occurred to us, she grabs our attention saying, this could mean something or everything. It could even mean what the poet Rilke meant when he wrote You must change your life. Consider this entreaty next time you fail to linger to hear a songbird chorus.