A Dream Of Trees: Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

Obviously there are a lot of ways you could read this poem, but tonight I'm reading it as saying that to wish for the perfect, quiet solution -- away from everything -- is to completely miss out on life. Who ever made music of a mild day? Stuff happens. Life is messy, messy, messy. I've had the experience lately of friends telling me, in different ways, that they are looking for the right way to: have a relationship, have friendships, have a career, be themselves, be someone. I'm guilty of this myself, as we all are. But I think it's interesting what's being reflected back at me, sometimes. Interesting connections are happening.

Life is messy. Love the mess! Love the arguments, and spilled cat food, and things that didn't work out as planned. Stop trying so hard. Stop trying to be something that I'm not (perfect, always agreeable, got it under control). What's so interesting about that? Not much.

Life is messy. I read an article recently on wabi-sabi, something I'm getting more interested in. The beauty of impermanence, of imperfection. Something is beautiful because it's not perfect.

I wish that were easier to remember, but again, life is messy. The learning is the thing. Being in the mess, rather than away from it. Celebrate the mess.

A Day!: Emily Dickinson

A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!
Your prayers, oh Passer by!
From such a common ball as this
Might date a Victory!
From marshallings as simple
The flags of nations swang.
Steady—my soul: What issues
Upon thine arrow hang!

Yeah. Um, I don't know what the rest of the poem means, but I love the first line. I think I might have to print that out and post it at my desk at work. Help! Help! Another Day!

I looked up Miss Emily Dickinson because I've been thinking about expression, and being your own true self (regardless of what that may look like on the outside), and how each of our gifts, no matter how small, matters in the world somehow.

Take Miss D. She, by all accounts, was a housemouse. She wrote short, spare poetry. And yet, over 100 years later, her poems are taught in every high school, and are an inspiration to introverts everywhere. I wonder if she longed for fame, or if she just wrote because she liked it, and the (posthumous?) fame was incidental? I should look up her history.

I've just been thinking about my own talents, small (or big) as they may be. Sometimes I get sucked into thinking that I need to Make Something Of Myself. When really, maybe just being myself as I am, and helping others as I can, and doing what pleases me, is good enough (or better!).

To be a geek and quote The Lord Of The Rings: "Even the smallest person can change the course of the future." Or, can change somebody's life. Even their own.

To continue on the geeky quote train, Carlos Castenada says, "The basic difference between an ordinary person and a warrior is that a warrior takes everything as a challenge while an ordinary person takes everything as a blessing or a curse." --Don Juan

So that even if it's a Help! Help! kind of day, the challenge is there. Do I take it as a curse? Or do I take it as a challenge? Maybe that's the challenge itself: to face things as challenges, rather than sink into victimhood.

But that's a topic for another day.

Risk: Anais Nin

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.

I feel like I'm getting there. It's amazing the constant challenge to reasses, be honest with yourself, over and over and over checking to make sure that you're being true to yourself. Or true to myself. I try to avoid the shoulds and then find that I've gathered more new shoulds while avoiding the old.

I don't want to remain tightly held in bud. I want to blossom, fully; to be exuberant and gorgeously flawed.

Walking that narrow edge between safety and danger. Risking too little, then sometimes too much. Growth is painful, no matter what age I am.

Mostly, it's the day-in and day-out task of forgiving myself for being imperfect, tired, uninspired, faulty. What's that new pop psychology phrase? Radical self-acceptance? Right. I'll try.