A Poem For A Thursday

Season
W.S. Merwin

This hour along the valley this light at the end
    of summer lengthening as it begins to go
this whisper in the tawny grass this feather floating
    in the air this house of half a life or so
this blue door open to the lingering sun this stillness
    echoing from the rooms like an unfinished sound
this fraying of voices at the edge of the village
    beyond the dusty gardens this breath of knowing
without knowing anything this old branch from which
    years and faces go on falling this presence already
far away this restless alien in the cherished place
    this motion with no measure this moment peopled
with absences with everything that I remember here
    eyes the wheeze of the gate greetings birdsongs in winter
the heart dividing dividing and everything
    that has slipped my mind as I consider the shadow
all this has occurred to somebody else who has gone
    as I am told and indeed it has happened again
and again and I go on trying to understand
    how that could ever be and all I know of them
is what they felt in the light here in this late summer

Posting a W.S. Merwin poem seems like some sort of pseudo blog victory. In the beginning of Merwin and Merwin (holy catfish 5 years ago), I felt slightly more skilled at connecting the seemingly unrelated Merwins, barely held together by their existence on my list of "obsessions." Not that I will in any way bring this back to the dog, but regardless, I've basked in the glory of included Merwin's work here, so let's move on to why this poem is so great.

We find ourselves at the end of August, and even though I'm not going back to school I always get a little introspective, retrospective and generally just "spective" at this time of year. Blue that summer is nearly over, a tiny bit amped for fall coziness, and terrified of those impending long winter months. Merwin's narrator seems focused on the season and its passing, sort of contemplating (to me anyway) how all of the tiny moments he describes happened to someone else, many others, again and again throughout time. 

We come, we go, others come, others go and late summer light continues to lengthen across all of it. I know it's so much more, but the final lines seem to reflect how I've been feeling the last few weeks. How could all of this that I see and feel and am part of also be seen and felt by others before me, with me and yet to come after me? How are these experiences not just mine? I'll never know anything about all of them except that they too feel the seasons and watch the light shift. All we really share is this universal passage of time, as daunting as it is to imagine.

Tidbits Of Happy

We were in Northern Wisconsin this past weekend reuniting with what I refer to as "the original lake." I grew up taking summer jaunts to Deep Wood Lake visiting my great aunt and oodles of extended family; I first sat up there (milestones people, milestones), learned to swim there, and while I likely fell in love with him much before then, a canoe ride with Simon clarified that feeling way back in 2004. This incredibly special place explains a lot of my infatuation with our Round Pond gem and the things these places can provide.

Anyhow, the point of my rambles is that while I was there, I was ambling through the books on an old shelf and picked up 14,000 Things To Be Happy About. Kind of silly, honestly, but at the same time, inspiring. The book was literally a list with entries ranging from "flannel sheets" to "strawberry ice cream" to "the Chicago Blackhawks" (vomit) to "making faces at the dog." Really ran the gamut but they all shared a specificity that made it a unique collection. It wasn't "love," "my dog," "rainbows." It was more than that.

I got to thinking that I wanted to try it - create a list of happiness tidbits. The process of articulating, compiling and re-reading those milliseconds would hopefully remind me of all those small slices to be savored as well as how to really savor them down the line. No idea what format it will take in the long run or if it will actually become practice, but I started. Try it!

Listening to The Writer's Almanac
Fresh zinnias on my desk
Water lapping at the dock
The dog's happy squeal dance
First sip of coffee
My parents' 43rd anniversary
Thinking of my niece flying a kite
When the plane touches down

Impromptu Beach Stroll

I felt sloggy all of yesterday and was desperate to move around. When I got home after a particularly congested commute, Simon was a man with a plan. We loaded ourselves and our hound into the car and ventured off to nearby Wallis Sands Beach. They allow dogs off leash after 7pm so Merwin had a chance to frolic a bit while we savored the sand and sunset. 

Keeping The Memories Alive

Growing up, the backyard garden was the event of the summer. We all leant a hand, though you could make a strong case that I did not lend a hand while the rest of the family grew third and fourth hands. This wasn't just a patch of cultivated dirt outside the back door; it was nearly a quarter of an acre requiring a tractor and hours upon hours of tending. It also yielded a lot of vegetables. A lot. 

In addition to vegetables, my dad planted zinnias. Of course, not just a few, but oodles. The house would brim with tightly-packed vases of the brightly colored flowers during late summer and well into early fall. They are the most concentrated, saturated, colorful blooms. Definitely my favorite flower. 

So I tried to grow some at the lake. I had envisioned my own vases scattered throughout the little house, overflowing with brilliant petals and deep green leafy stems. Got a tad ahead of myself. Needless to say, I was happily surprised when the seeds emerged from the dirt, grew into stems, developed tiny buds, then actually blossomed into flowers. 3 of them. So I shoved my happy little treasures into the smallest vase-like receptacle I could find. It's not brimming like it did in my fantasy, but it is the perfect reminder of home, both the one I grew up in and the one I have now.

A Poem For A Wednesday

Whew, it has been a week, and it's only Wednesday. Work has been insanity which chews at my soul because I expect insanity from September-June, but wasn't prepared for insanity chomping at the bit for this summertime cameo. I must find a way to get sane again soon because the impending doom looms.

There I go again dreading what's ahead. I should soak up the current moments, whatever they are, instead of cultivating the anxiety I've envisioned for the future. I write about this a lot here (and here and here) and this Wendell Berry poem speaks to that idea of living in the moment. I'm obsessed with this poem and the narrator's perfect use of words...particularly the "moving picture," and "moving river" and "boat moved swiftly." That repetition emphasizes that this entire thing is fluid, happening, speeding, going on and yet the man is not with it. His life is swiftly moving toward the end ("of vacation" here but I really think this is much more) and he's not in it at all.

It's never great to be in those moments that are crappy but if we don't engage with those, we can't expect to know how to be in the moments that aren't crappy. I'm going to try (again) because otherwise years from now, I'm going to be watching a film of life's memories, not really knowing what it was like to live it.

The Vacation

Wendell Berry

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.

He went flying down the river in his boat

with his video camera to his eye, making

a moving picture of the moving river

upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly

toward the end of his vacation. He showed

his vacation to the camera, which pictured it,

preserving it forever: the river, the trees,

the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat

behind which he stood with his camera

preserving his vacation even as he was having it

so that after he had had it he would still

have it. It would be there. With a flick

of a switch, there it would be. But he

would not be in it. He would never be in it.