the rest of the poem

I'm too alone in the world, yet not alone enough

to make each hour holy.

I'm too small in the world, yet not small enough

to be simply in your presence, like a thing -

just as it is.

I want to know my own will

and to move with it.

And I want, in the hushed moments

when the nameless draws near,

to be among the wise ones -

or alone.

I want to mirror your immensity.

I never want to be too weak or too old

to bear the heavy, lurching image of you.

I want to unfold.

Let no place in me hold itself closed,

for where I am closed, I am false.

I want to stay clear in your sight.

I would describe myself

like a landscape I've studied

at length, in detail;

like a word I'm coming to understand;

like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime;

like my mother's face;

like a ship that carried me

when the waters raged.

Poem after poem, I encounter the weight of his bare desires and simply spoken images.

a night with rilke

I want to know my own will

and to move with it.

then the knowing comes

The first thing I did yesterday was get coffee with Christine. Through every spiritual, emotional, relational valley in my life since I've known her (about 10 years) she has been by my side - when I'm stagnant, still, or in the first stages of movement, she is there. I think she has influenced me more than any other person in my life aside from my parents.

Yesterday she encouraged me to deeply consider what things comfort me and to pursue them on a daily basis. Pleasures that contribute to, rather than detract or distract from, the fullness of my desires and need for stability, confidence, and love.

I gave it some thought and two of the things I listed are

1. Reading and writing about poetry

2. Journaling

So I'd like to share two things I read today as a result of this pursuit. I'm trying to read a Psalm a day from The Literary Bible. Here is an excerpt from Psalm 23:

You set a table before me

in the presence of my enemies.

You give me grace

to quiet them

to be full with humanness

to be warm in my soul's lightness.

The grace to quiet my enemy - despair. To be obtain, or even just begin to hope for, fullness and warmth when I am empty and cold.

The second is a poem by Rilke. I picked him up off my shelf tonight and found a new poem that I have an instant affection for. Interestingly enough, I just listened to an episode of On Being in which the host interviewed the translator of the book of Rilke's poems that I own. She referenced this poem. I probably wouldn't have recognized it, if not for the memorable first line:

I love the dark hours of my being.

My mind deepens into them.

There I can find, as in old letters,

the days of my life, already lived,

and held like a legend, and understood.

Then the knowing comes: I can open

to another life that's wide and timeless.

So I am sometimes like a tree

rustling over a gravesite

and making real the dream

of the one its living roots

embrace:

a dream once lost

among sorrow and songs.

If you're wondering how a poem that beings "I love the dark hours of my being" can lift my spirits, I understand. But there's just something about "meeting" a man or woman who can voice the condition I'm in. It's comforting to me to know I'm not the only one who has felt this way, and in fact, there are people who can describe it beautifully.

This poem makes me think of journaling.

Old letters to myself, some of which it takes me years to be able to read again.

Held like a legend and understood - there have been times when I've wondered "Was that real- the love I thought that person had for me; the faith I felt and clung to during that time; the movements of my heart and mind that I seem to have no way of accessing anymore.

By looking back, I see what was possible then and I am free to hope that some sort of growth is possible now, to maybe even imagine what shape it will take.

In the presence of the gravesite that now hosts my barren expectations and hopes, I am tempted to think that the roots of my being have no place left to go. But Rilke says that the tree embraces rather than repels the gravesite's soil, drawing strength from the plot of land provided, not chosen. My recorded thoughts bear witness to this cycle of birth, growth, death, and resurrection. I read my journals and I remember what happened last time and rustle, to borrow Rilke's language, as I consider what hope is available to me now.

I think of another unforgettable opening line of perhaps my favorite poem, by Louise Gluck of course. This has echoed in my mind countless times over the years.

At the end of my suffering there was a door.

days like this you think about the ones who love you

This past weekend, I attended the wedding of my friends Greg and Heather. I met Greg about a year ago, I believe, when he started working at the Midtown Scholar. I knew he was in a long distance relationship, and the bits and pieces he shared about his girlfriend intrigued me, especially since he's such a great guy himself.

I met Heather this summer when she moved to Harrisburg and became roommates with my friend Liz. It had been a few months since I talked to Greg, so I didn't know they were engaged until we were introduced. Within an hour we had moved on from small talk and began to share what challenges we'd faced in our recent transitions into adulthood and our desires to make sense of this new context. I think we bonded over being introverts in an extroverted crowd, though I'm pretty sure I'm much more of an "I" than she is.

From what I've observed of Greg, he is a focused, "in the zone" kind of worker, (I only really see him in this context). But when Heather walks in the room, his attention noticeably shifts in the best of ways. I've spent more time with Heather than I have Greg, and I can see why he is enamored with her - she has a bold sense of humor and a great laugh. She listens attentively and asks great questions. There are many other reasons, of course, but I must mention one thing I deeply appreciate about them as a couple - I have not once felt isolated in the presence of their mutual delight. They devote time, conversation, and thought to their friendships. They are two of the most down to earth people I know and I am so happy that they found each other.

Celebrating with Greg and Heather was incredibly fun, yet what what has been echoing in my mind since Saturday are the deep soul questions I have about marriage, commitment and everything else about the decision to marry. I may or may not come to understand how two people come to be sure they want to spend the rest of their life with each other. That question in and of itself invokes the same feelings that calculus did in high school- it's like there are two wires in my brain that I know need to touch in order for me to even begin to understand it, but no matter how hard I've tried to make it happen, it won't. One of those things that may be meant to pass me by and if so, I'll be fine without it.

But when I see this face:

and a moment like this:

And when I cry during their vows because of the tone of their voices and because of how brave they are - I must abandon my personal mistrust of the endeavor and enter into the hope and delight of my friends. Whether or not I get married, I never want to close myself off to what is possible, especially when I am priviliged enough to participate in a journey with such beautiful people as these. In a way, this wedding was sacramental for me, even just as an observer. I may be unwilling, unable, or even afraid to hope this for myself, but I do commit to celebrating the promises that my friends make and believing that it is real for them. That marriage can be a mysterious, full gift and that two people can receive the grace to care for that gift for a lifetime.

Orphaned believers, skeptical dreamers

Step forward

You can stay right here.

You don't have to go.

(these days I'm thankful for this song.)