Monday, April 2, 2012

our second beating hearts (the overdue seventh week)

The only way to make a writing dream come true is to write your way towards it. The only way to live with good words is to search for them, find them, and love them. So over here on Mondays, I share with you some of the good words I've found throughout the week, and some of my own scribbles. And together, we write the contours of our second beating hearts. 

It's been a little while, over here, but I wanted to share as we journey together towards Easter some of the posts that have meant so much to me in the midst of Lent. 

Good words I've read: 

Micha, who brought me to tears with this: Because grace is brave and it always wins
Emily, who teaches me to write bravely about what is hard: in which i struggle with being good enough
Emily, who reminds me why I love to tell stories: how to be a better storyteller
Lisa-Jo, who helps me see into the depths of mother-love: The one where I get all the presents on my daughter's first birthday
Preston, who reminds me that the faith is bright and wide and unexpected in us, with: because I need altar calls, letter twenty, preston to hilary

A poem to hear sounding this Holy Week:

Olive Grove (I), Rainer Maria Rilke

He went out under the grey leaves,
all grey and indistinct, this olive grove,
and buried his dusty face
in the dust of his hot hands.

It has come to this. Is this how it ends?
Must I continue when I'm going blind?
Why do you want me to say you exist
when I no longer find you myself?

I cannot find you any more. Not within me.
Not in others. Not in these stones.
I find you no longer. I am alone.

I am alone with everyone's sorrow,
the sorrow I tried to relieve through you,
you who do not exist. O unspeakable shame.
Later they would say an angel came.

And a small poem from me:

Inspired by Anne Sexton’s “From the Garden”

Put down your books,
your piles of ideas:
we think too often
to know anything.
The first leaf has blossomed.
Come with me;
watch oak seeds spread.
They tumble from the sky
like parachuters, nestling
between roots. Watch
the poppies burst open,
they strain at their moorings
like runaway canoes.
Watch the rain
become puddles.
Worms inch across the sidewalk.
Moths begin to haunt porch lights.
Put down your books. 

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