I already posted this poem, but I wanted to post it again.  Hearing about the economy, the state of agriculture, the forests, the planet, the human heart, something is happening these days.  Something is shifting.  This is the heart of the matter, this is my heart about the matter: hope is unfailing.

Thanks by W.S. Merwin

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

The room we share is a small room with wide windows and walls painted dusty red. I like to drink tea on the sofa by the window with the yellow pillows, resting my cup on the ledge. Outside there is a tree.  It is a quiet room, on the second story of some brick house.  Most of the time we don’t say much, but I hear you making me coffee.  I like your presence at the breakfast table, the sound of your sipping.  You smile a small morning smile over the plate of bread and I smile back.

Most of the time it is like this with you and I: a quiet presence, a love that runs deep below the surface, warmer than the sun resting on our hands through the window.  You made lightening bugs.  You made whispers.

I love you.  Thank you for your kindness.  Thank you for days when your hands are very small and close and quiet.

As I learn that plants I step on daily are edible, pick wildflowers for vases or my hair, feast from mulberry trees that line the street, and just learn to recognize the plants around me, I find myself understanding more and more the riches in the earth, the great provision we are given in nature. And somehow, I know God a little better.

Yesterday, before a smoothie meeting at work (there are worse things than working someplace where the meetings are about coffee smoothies), I walked to State Street and treated myself to the perfume I’ve been dreaming after for about a year. It’s linden blossom perfume, sweet and old-fashioned. I’m sure the scent is out of style, and I’m not sure if anyone will like it but myself, but as I was doing dishes, I caught a whiff of it now and again. And I wondered where it came from. If a breeze was carrying in a bouquet of fragrant trees. And then I remembered that it was me. It was such a pleasure. Do you have any small luxuries that make you glad like that?

I took a few minutes away from Friday cleaning to sit in the garden and drink coffee. I wrote a real, raw list there that went something like this:

God, here is a list of the ugly, stupid lies I believe about myself:

It might sound lame, but it was honest. And by the time I got to lie number three, I felt so free, I couldn’t even remember any more of that bullshit. It all was so small. Sometimes I turn my head away from the ugly stuff I should face head on. Like that will make it disappear. But the freedom is in carrying it out into the light.

If you feel so inclined, give it a shot.

May is such a beautiful time of year. It’s nice to just be able to enjoy it, again, without stressing over finals or pining for summer break. This suits me.

(note: more on my latest writings to come.)

Your destiny is safe with me.
Your childhood is safe with me.
What you decide to bury is safe with me.

-Li-Young Lee
This has also been a spring of thinking, reading, praying, and crying with people I love. I’ve been learning a lot through it all, though I’m not sure just what, yet.

Two things I am sure of:

I am sure we are always safe with God. Our destiny, our childhood, what we chose to bury, all of it.

I want to be a safe place, too.

(Where do you feel safe?)

Today was beautiful. At 35 degrees, I found it too warm for wool and happily embarked for work in my spring jacket. I left 30 minutes early to give myself time to enjoy the streets. There was so much to enjoy. Puddles. People looking each other in the eyeballs instead of hiding under scarves. Sunshine. Somehow, the slight warmth in the air defrosted my mind, and small memories surfaced.

I found myself thinking about the little voices that have shaped my life in such big ways. I thought about people like Paul whom I shared eight hours with on an airplane over the ocean. He was so kind, generous, and honest, the whole plane changed when he stepped on board. I thought David with a British accent thick enough to spread on a scone, who I spent 15 hours with on a train. He told me his own wide and wild story of leaving his job fixing roofs in a small town in England to build homes for the homeless Romas in Romania. He made a long, potentially difficult journey for me rich and light. I learned so much from him, the things he said, the way he was.

Its easy for me to close myself up, stay quiet, internal, and safe. I’ve always thought that in the end, it’s just you and God, really. Just you and him all alone. And that’s true. But it’s also true that we matter to each other. It’s true that we can help each other along, and that from our little voices, people’s lives can be changed in unspoke ways. Our hearts were made to be open and honest and alive. Let’s share them with each other. Let’s tell our stories. Let’s warm our hands together. Let’s fold fingers and pray with each other. What do we have to lose?

Have any little voices have shaped your lives? What words have near-strangers said that you’ve never forgotten? Please share. Your words make a difference to me.

Dear winter,

March is less than a week away, and though you are a time period, not a conscious being, I want to be sure to say thank you before I get caught up in my excitement for spring.

You were so beautiful this year with your piles of snow, cold wind, and icy trees. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so stunning. It’s hasn’t been the best weather for sitting outside, but that’s part of why I like you so much. I like how the streets get quiet when you’re here. The introvert in me delights in the solitude you bring to this lively town. With you, there is always so much space to think and be quiet and alone. Thank you for that.

Thank you for turning my cheeks pinks when I walk to work and giving me the chance to bundle up in soft mittens and wool coats. I like how good warm things feel when you are around: fireplaces, heat vents, hot soup, and roasted winter vegetables. I like not having to wince about turning on the oven. If it wasn’t for you, my homemade bread wouldn’t have improved nearly as much as it did the last few months.

I am glad you exist, winter. I’ve enjoyed you so much this year, and I know that without you, spring wouldn’t taste nearly so sweet. I will drink up the last drops of you, and then see you next year.

Oh, and thank you for that soft pinkish blue light you have.

Always,
Lindsey

(Thank you, God, for wintertime)

When it’s cold and raining,
you are more beautiful.

And the snow brings me
even closer to your lips.

The inner secret, that which was never born,
you are that freshness, and I am with you now.

I can’t explain the goings,
or the comings. You enter suddenly,

and I am nowhere again.
Inside the majesty.

-Rumi

I discovered something unexpected, today. I love Valentine’s Day. Really! I do. The holiday gets such bad a rep these days, like its some commercial thing we have to rise above rather than enjoy. But it’s a very old holiday, actually. And what’s so commercial about love and showing affection?

It was interesting to work at a coffee shop on Valentine’s Day. People react to it in such different ways. Most people are pretty apathetic. One man who daily bikes through all this winter snow bought us all a box of incredible chocolates to thank us for brightening his days. One woman, who was long frusterated with romance, had a love/hate relationship with the holiday. Another lady (who is now one of my favourite customers) told me it was her favourite. She handed me a print-out of the holiday’s history and pulled a handful of fallen rose petals she gathered at work from her pocket. She kept them there so she could smell them all day.

And me? I couldn’t stop smiling and wondering about the love stories of people on the street. I loved how the snow began to fall so sweetly in the afternoon. I loved walking through the sparkley, snowy city after work to meet up with Adam. I loved thinking about how God romances us. I looked up at the dark trees on State Street and thought of a small story that went something like this:

Once upon a time, long, long ago, God created the first human. God looked down on him and loved him so much, that right where the man had stood, the first tree twisted its way through the soil and up into the sky. A year later, a wind blew the tree’s seeds, and another tree grew, and then another. And from that one tree, the world soon was covered with leaves and winding branches.

Adam and I went to a poetry reading by my favourite living poet. It was wonderful, not just because it was Li-Young Lee standing there in front of me, but because Adam came along, even though he didn’t feel well and doesn’t care much for poetry. He’s such an incredible husband.  We rode the bus home together and spent the rest of our Valentine’s Day snuggled together on the couch watching The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and eating salami from the deli bag.

I can hardly think of a more perfect day.

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you probably know how much I love Ash Wednesday. The old stories say that on the sixth day God took the dust, formed it, and breathed it to life. We are dust and breath.

“Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

I almost missed it this year, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I was lured away to the living room where I prayed and sat quietly with God for a while until the night air felt soft again and I walked slowly back to bed.
This year, the words make me feel both humble and a bit brave. And somehow, I feel more myself. Maybe those three things go hand in hand in hand.