“Occult Power of the Alphabet”
In last month’s post, remake your world with words, we talked about the change-making potential of words and story. In this New Year’s post we will continue with this idea, sparked by another line from Gregory Orr’s poetry: the occult power of the alphabet. How can words, letters and stories become allies for hope and vision in this new year? Here is the first stanza of a much longer poem by Gregory Orr:
Occult power of the alphabet —
How it combines
And recombines into words
That resurrect the beloved
Every time.
The image of making words and recombining them, the feeling of resurrecting the beloved, stops me and fills me with desire to combine and recombine words. To feel the presence of the beloved. The last line of this stanza is only two words: every time. It resonates because this line is not folded into one compound word, but is two separate words with a pause in the middle. This vanquishes any doubt about the beloved returning. Now I am convinced that what the poem says is true; the alphabet, writing, has the power to resurrect the beloved every time — I only have to be willing to stay with it, to wait, to make myself an instrument, to be devoted to the time it takes.
The great wave is in waiting for any boat…
The worst is not to be overwhelmed by disaster, but to fail to live by principle.
— Sister Wendy Beckett
Notes to Myself
Your real duty is to go away from the community to find your bliss. — Joseph Campbell
What part of myself, I wonder, am I trying to find, to save? The need to retreat from media, to regain something I once knew, has the urgency of survival. On the second day of my retreat here at Saint Meinrad Archabbey, stillness begins to win over the part that wants to keep up with people and news. That wants the action of entertainment. It is so easy for me to forget that stillness is a way of knowing, of apprehending presence, of inhabiting the room of belonging. Time spreads out for paper, pens, paint, books and walking. The refreshment of beech trees rattling their leaves in the winter woods. Reading and writing. Sorting my tools.
There is something so restorative about the physicality of a place and the reckoning that comes with being fully embodied and uninterrupted. I remember how the saving mystery breaks through at odd and unforeseeable moments. There are many thoughts on the subject of places having memory, of places remembering what people forget. But the first thing I noticed on my arrival was something I have never seen here before: about 100 black vultures and a few dozen crows circling the sky above where I am staying. The black vultures have only recently entered this area in such great numbers, and are more aggressive than the native turkey vultures. They have an ominous reputation that calls to mind the birds of Mordor. The second thing I noticed was the green sprouts of crocus already up in the woods. The dark and the light, the evil and the good, both ever present.
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“I heard my whole self saying and singing what I knew: I can.”
This poem by Denise Levertov struck me for the new year. It reminds me that no matter our circumstance, some presence can make itself felt, and this is all the confirmation that is needed to make the world new.
A certain day became a presence to me;
there it was, confronting me—a sky, air, light:
a being. And before it started to descend
from the height of noon, it leaned over
and struck my shoulder as if with
the flat of a sword, granting me
honor and a task. The day's blow
rang out, metallic—or it was I, a bell awakened,
and what I heard was my whole self
saying and singing what it knew: I can.
— Denise Levertov, Variations on a Theme of Rilke (The Book of Hours, Book I, Poem I, Stanza I)
Wherever I find myself in 2024, it is always possible, and even hopeful, to begin again, to feed the unuttered seeds born in darkness. January is a time when thr eventual blossoming of these seeds is nourished by turning inward. There is that phrase in the Levertov poem about being given an honor and a task. Even if I don’t know what this means, I can begin with something that matters. Something that matters meaning simply something that matters to me alone.
A Tattered Yearning
On this side of the world February is a quiet, introspective time, often accompanied by the yearning for spring. It can be a dark and dreary time, but this is fertile ground for making and creating. Creativity is fed by allowing darkness, boredom, loneliness and uncertainty — allowing these unwelcome things to rise and make something of themselves. I am thinking about how the seeds we plant now, in the earth or in our hearts, are the ones that blossom in spring. The spring needs our seeds.
“Make Your Own Bible”
Make your own Bible, is followed by this suggestion:
“Make your own Bible. Select and collect all the words and sentences that in all your readings have been to you like the blast of a trumpet.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
This idea, along with Gerard Manley Hopkins’s idea of “inscape,” (which I will address later) is what is fueling the theme for my 2023 classes.
The world is still big.
I was lying on my back in the woods, watching the clouds. After some time the realization, simple as it is, hit me: the world is still big. This moment vanquished my anxiety and returned me to something I know and forget: There is something beneath and above all this noise. The world is not only this cacophony of chaos and disaster and busyness. How many days go by when there is just too much to consider, too much to take care of, too many dishes, too many emails, too much loss? The sky, when pondered long enough, brings back another order of immensity that puts all this too-muchness in perspective. When I stay in stillness, I feel myself a part of something much bigger. This is what can happen when I am working in my sacred space too — the sense of other intelligences, presences; other hands in the work — and the relief, the comfort, that I am not the center of whatever this is.
There is this saying: the path is already laid beneath your feet. I don’t mean pre-determination, or that it doesn’t matter which choices you make, but that the-something-you-came-into-the-world-with is still with you, waiting to open. There is something in you that cannot be taken.
The Lit Corridor
How do I hear my own voice in the midst of the world’s clatter and disaster? The truth of change and impermanence leads me back to the same question: Where do I find refuge from all the heartbreak of our world? There are so many competing demands that it is a struggle to preserve some sense of order, quality and dignity.
I ask myself these questions heading into my studio to write and paint. For me, the answer is always the same — get still enough to hear the voice inside. In my studio, I get quiet with my hands. I reach for my favorite fountain pen, or that tube of Vermillion. This is the way I can eventually come down from my head-full-of-doubt-and-fear, rest in my body intelligence, and open my imagination.
Consolation and imagination can also be found by paying attention to night and dreams. Even if I don’t remember a dream, staying still when I just begin to wake up, staying in that liminal place, is a lovely way to catch ideas and dream fragments. Solutions come unbidden that don’t occur to me in full daylight. Any thread of thought or dream will do — there is nothing too small, too ugly or too silly — and then I make a note of it. Or sometimes I just notice how my mind has already begun to spin and worry, and stay put,
refusing to get out of bed, until I find one moment of delight.
What gorgeous thing
I reached for the bacon and found a poem.
It’s Sunday morning; I am making our weekly brunch in the kitchen: southwestern grits with cheese and salsa. Yellow grits that need the final garnish. I open the freezer, and when I reach for the bacon out falls an envelope addressed to no one. Inside the envelope is a sheet of paper with a typewritten poem beginning I don’t know what gorgeous thing the bluebird keeps saying. The poem is accompanied by a tiny songbird feather, smaller than my little finger, that floats down to my feet. The delicate feather of a bluebird fallen from an unaddressed envelope with a poem found next to the frozen green beans.
Wherever the poem with its bluebird song, and a feather, wherever it came from (no one has yet confessed to putting it in the freezer), the day was permanently altered by mystery and gratitude. I consider it another blessing, regardless of how it came to be beneath the bacon. And why not? There is the continuing story of our bluebird house — it sits in full view of our kitchen, and I am thrilled each spring when the pair returns. But last spring the bluebirds were chased off by the house wrens. This was after they had laid four beautiful blue eggs. When the house wrens took over we grieved the bluebird eggs until the day we found a fledgling struggling alone on the ground. This baby bluebird, whose vanquished parents would not return, died in my son’s open palm. We buried his feathered body with its tiny feet, and its lovely beak that will never sing, with my father’s ashes. Three generations in love with winged things.
The Invisible Driver
All these dreams about being in a car — mostly as a passenger with an invisible driver, headed for disaster. There is always a tragedy about to happen: the car is on the wrong side of the road or careening out of control down a steep incline, or in a sudden slick ice blizzard.
Just as in the “impossible tasks” theme in the old stories, there is no apparent way through. It is terrifying. I am in one of these dreams; this time I can see the driver, but he is facing backwards. His hands are not on the wheel, and he can only see where we have already been. I am in the passenger seat, looking, and unlike the driver, I see what is ahead. The road has a hole in it large enough for a truck to fall into, and deep enough for a dozen. The faraway caw of a crow draws my attention to the distant hill, where a crowd has gathered. Then, somehow, the crowd vanishes. The driver and I are alone, heading at rapid speed toward the cavernous opening. When I try to speak, no sound comes. At the last moment, the driver, still facing backwards, adeptly navigates the car over the hole with the compass of a blind seer.
As in the old stories, help comes from unexpected places. In these dreams it is the invisible driver, as most often I cannot see who is driving — I only know it isn’t me.
"Tree, Stone, Eye" | Student Images from Taos
Before I left for Taos to teach the opening classes at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, I was pushing against the inertia of our long, long sequester. I felt the uncertainty that had grown in many of us about going into the world. I felt the reluctance to move. The poem below made me smile:
My head was heavy, heavy;
so was the atmosphere.
I had to ask two times
before my hand would scratch my ear.
I thought I should be out
and doing! The grass, for one thing,
needed mowing.
— from “Inertia,” a poem by Jane Kenyon
Now I have returned from a few weeks in New Mexico, teaching the classes that had been postponed for almost two years. We were the only ones at the retreat, and the classes were small. The landscape was beautiful, christened with desert showers and new blooming flowers. Everyone had been through something significant in our long period of sequester. There was rejoicing — the fresh newness of being together in a room. This rejoicing was helped along by spectacular food, made by our chef, Sophia, and her team — and good wine.
I began, as always, with the conviction that each student who shows up has a particular gift, and is in class to enliven and strengthen that gift — the seed they were given at birth. Everyone is born with a gift. I believe, and am privileged to witness, that the making of art for its own sake will “bring into realization the self most centrally yours” (William Stafford).