A Lifetime Love Affair (Part III)

 
(In the form of a letter to my middle child, this is the final portion of a three part blog started on April 28, 2010 about expression of self and that which feeds our souls. The links will take you to some of my favorite pieces of poetry written by the highlighted poet. May you be "found" by something extraordinary in this offering. ~ mlp)

So, for years I’ve been telling you that one of the truly unique aspects of you playing the violin well -- will be that your violin will always be a friend to you. You can play it in joy; you can play it in sorrow. Through your fingers and abilities, your instrument may be an extension of your heart; it could be your only solace at times when lonely - and it might express love at times when words fail you. That’s been poetry for me, Sarah, both in the reading and the writing of it.
 
There’s been Rumi, Kabir and Whyte for honest prayer; Piercy, Hirschfield and Stafford for grounded awakening; Collins, Rilke, Merwin and Whitman for learning and reflection; Neruda and Kinnell for toe-curling passion, and my beloved Oliver for purpose, joy and deep humility.
 
There have been moments in my life when words failed me - whether in celebration, despair or even complete and utter boredom with living itself -  and I felt momentarily lost...until the arrival of a poem: my life’s version of a well-played violin.
 
Last fall when your brother was diagnosed with cancer, poetry from unexpected places and unknown poets arrived for me like small life rings from the universe. It was as if, in the absence of an answer to my pleading “why?” - God tossed out vessels of comfort -- in a form that would reach my heart -- to say, “There is no answer that will suffice, but let these words of reflection remind you that all will be well.”
 
"September Meditation" by Burton D. Carley
I do not know if the seasons remember their history or if the days and
nights by which we count time remember their own passing.
I do not know if the oak tree remembers its planting or if the pine
remembers its slow climb toward sun and stars.
I do not know if the squirrel remembers last fall's gathering or if the
bluejay remembers the meaning of snow.
I do not know if the air remembers September
 or if the night remembers the moon.
I do not know if the earth remembers the flowers from last spring or if
the evergreen remembers that it shall stay so.
Perhaps that is the reason for our births -- to be the memory for creation.
Perhaps salvation is something very different than anyone ever expected.
Perhaps this will be the only question we will have to answer:
"What can you tell me about September?"

Praying

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

~ Mary Oliver ~

So, Sarah Grace, this whole rambling post started as the result of an argument we had about...a poem. It was or rather, is, a poem written by the other of my all time favorites, e e cummings. I thought I knew which cummings piece was my most beloved. I was certain for over twenty years, that “i carry your heart” was THE one. But then a few months ago quite by accident, I found the very poem that I offered you to take to your English class on Wednesday morning. 

You didn't want to.

Thank you for reminding me how much I love this art form and why; thanks too for giving me a chance to recall my dearest friends and their wisdom, and for inspiring me to tell you a story that might come in handy some day. Lastly, my love, thank you for reminding me that it is the poem that finds us, and only when the time is right...

~ I love you, Mom

"let it go"


let it go - the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise - let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go - the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers - you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go - the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things - let all go
dear

so comes love

~ e. e. cummings ~

March 10, 1929

Today, Like Every Other Day

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

~ Rumi

Happy 81st Birthday,
to the woman who has not only taught but also shown me,
that there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
I love you.

Jeanette Alden Bennett Phelps!

Los Angeles, California 1935
Six years old with her elder brother Norman
and younger brother Charles

1946 - Top of her class at LA High

June 19, 1948 Mr. and Mrs. Dean Phelps

1962 - Baby #5

1966-ish

1977 Dancing with her younger brother, Chuck

Late 70's

1990 (Baby Reid)

 60th wedding anniversary

Taken this last August 09 with Reid

Roses

“This is love: to fly toward a secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First, to let go of life.
In the end, to take a step without feet;
to regard this world as invisible,
and to disregard what appears to be the self.” ~ Rumi

It feels only fitting to round out my pre-Valentines week of blog posts with a mildly evocative poem about...love? passion? sensuality? heart connection? (you decide). My currently single (and very romantic-in-spirit) teenaged daughter has been declaring repeatedly the past several days that "Valentines Day is stupid." It may be that. My own single cynic self can relate to her sentiment. Commercially speaking, however; someone struck on a damn fine idea. 

But the stuff of love, passion, sensuality and heart connection - no, these feelings and experiences are far, far from stupid. 

Take Rumi, for example. Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī was a 13th century poet, theologian and Sufi mystic. His poetry has been considered some of the greatest mystical and spiritual poetry ever written. Rumi writes as the lover of God. His poems can be read merely as love poems, but they must also be considered as symbolic of the relationship of man to the divine.

And then there's Chilean, Pablo Neruda, the poet, diplomat and political figure who was once referred to as the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language. While some of his works are about political and social issues in South America, he is most dearly known for his love poetry. If you haven't yet purchased a gift for your Valentine, I highly recommend Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. (Note: Best read aloud in a private setting.....) In my experience, Neruda's words come closest to capturing that exquisite and deep soul place that we all have such a hard time articulating about matters of the heart.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, 

I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close." 

~ Neruda

So in the spirit of something far, far deeper than Hallmark could ever imagine, and with the utmost respect and gratitude for all of the humble writers of love throughout the ages, here is my small token ~

roses

When she leaned into

the roses, 

her face poised

at the edge of a deep red blossom,

he watched her mouth

(wanting to run his tongue

along the inside rim

of her damp lower lip)

which was slightly

parted, like the petals

before her, 

as if tasting

their perfume.

(to linger there

savoring each 

warm

flavor

in delicious prequel)

and so perfect was

the flower’s essence,

it lingered 

underneath her eyes

when she looked into his gaze

(of lovemaking.)

~ May you find your beloved within yourself. See you Monday ~ m.l.p.