We Need Even the Rocks in the Road
Accidental damage to your neighbor's house.
An argument you shouldn't have had.
Attention Deficit Disorder.
Asymmetry.
Apathy and ennui.
A speeding ticket and the points on your license.
Anger and its aftermath.
Anxiety about nothing in particular.
Anything lost to foolishness or theft.
A chipped tooth or broken bone.
A mistake you make on the first day at work.
Aches and chronic pains.
A public embarrassment.
Anonymity.
Aging gracelessly.
All the cruel things you wish you hadn't done.
A failed marriage and your culpability.
Alcoholism, addiction, relapse.
Angioplasty and bypass surgery.
Another failed marriage.
A grandparent's funeral, then a parent's.
And a sibling's and a friend's.
And worse, a child's.
A brick through your windshield.
Anarchy.
Authoritarianism.
Armed conflict. Air strikes.
An internment camp.
Alone.
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
Monday, February 4, 2019
Poem: January 31, 2019
You Know It When You See It
Teachers know what great learning looks like,
and it doesn't require rows or silence,
a projector or compliance, or people
of authority strategically placed to monitor
behavior or check for understanding.
Great learning has a purpose that blooms
through the body. It is a stretching of stems
and leaves toward the sun that always provides.
It is the procreant urge and urge of curiosity
from seed to sprout to reaching organism,
as essential as photosynthesis.
Great learning is the civic and social surging
of connections: electrical grid, communication
network, sanitation system, public transportation.
Great learning combines us and gives us access
to the many roads we travel together as citizens.
Great learning builds museums and monuments
and brings together neighborhoods.
Great learning is entering parenthood,
watching with amusement and terror and joy
each breath and shift and closing of the hand
of the infant notion that we know in our DNA
and that grows through steps and sounds.
With great learning we wait up at night,
and we struggle with our impulses to celebrate
and smother, to protect and to share.
We lose ourselves and mature at a different tempo.
Great learning is the intrepid search for the interior
of unexplored continents, the putting on of boots
and helmets, the putting to use of rope and telescope.
Great learning is spanning chasms and summiting peaks,
following rivers and crawling through caves.
It is the act of capturing in notebooks creatures
that sting and flowers that sooth. It is clearing trees
to create a space for ourselves and marking that space on the map.
Teachers know what great learning looks like,
and it doesn't require rows or silence,
a projector or compliance, or people
of authority strategically placed to monitor
behavior or check for understanding.
Great learning has a purpose that blooms
through the body. It is a stretching of stems
and leaves toward the sun that always provides.
It is the procreant urge and urge of curiosity
from seed to sprout to reaching organism,
as essential as photosynthesis.
Great learning is the civic and social surging
of connections: electrical grid, communication
network, sanitation system, public transportation.
Great learning combines us and gives us access
to the many roads we travel together as citizens.
Great learning builds museums and monuments
and brings together neighborhoods.
Great learning is entering parenthood,
watching with amusement and terror and joy
each breath and shift and closing of the hand
of the infant notion that we know in our DNA
and that grows through steps and sounds.
With great learning we wait up at night,
and we struggle with our impulses to celebrate
and smother, to protect and to share.
We lose ourselves and mature at a different tempo.
Great learning is the intrepid search for the interior
of unexplored continents, the putting on of boots
and helmets, the putting to use of rope and telescope.
Great learning is spanning chasms and summiting peaks,
following rivers and crawling through caves.
It is the act of capturing in notebooks creatures
that sting and flowers that sooth. It is clearing trees
to create a space for ourselves and marking that space on the map.
Friday, February 1, 2019
Poem: January 30, 2019
Storytelling
There was a man who saw the world for its potential.
To him, everything around him was beautiful because
of what it could become, and every day, he used his hands,
his mind, his imagination, his tools, to nudge
the big, unwieldy world into the shape he hoped to see,
to smooth its edges and to straighten its lines.
When the world was difficult, the man was patient.
When things broke or decayed, he didn't fret.
Even when the man was the source of his own
disappointment, he did not dwell on what was, but
continued to work toward what could be.
And, in truth, he made little progress. After all,
the world is wide and not easily tamed.
But the man was happy, he did less harm than good,
and he worked toward something of great worth.
There was a man who saw the world for its potential.
To him, everything around him was beautiful because
of what it could become, and every day, he used his hands,
his mind, his imagination, his tools, to nudge
the big, unwieldy world into the shape he hoped to see,
to smooth its edges and to straighten its lines.
When the world was difficult, the man was patient.
When things broke or decayed, he didn't fret.
Even when the man was the source of his own
disappointment, he did not dwell on what was, but
continued to work toward what could be.
And, in truth, he made little progress. After all,
the world is wide and not easily tamed.
But the man was happy, he did less harm than good,
and he worked toward something of great worth.
Poem: January 29, 2019
Wisely and Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast
We live in a world that comes to us like a storm and we stand
in the middle of the street and let the tempest twist and swirl
around us, motionless and entertained, our ravenous brains
conduits for the fast-paced colors, the sensations that pass.
So much motion while so little makes an impression beyond
the momentary racing of our hearts, the catching of our throats.
But damn, there is a lot of it, and it's colorful and noisy and
there is always room for another strange reflection in the glass
spaces we visit with our scanning eyes and darting minds, and
we know, don't we, that none of this is real, just our fantasies
projected onto every imaginable space, something to chase.
But I want to say I remember
that I have shared slower moments.
I have felt what it is like to do things
that have substance and that move
to the rhythms of my own body.
I have hiked along shaded trails
in the afternoon, holding your hand.
I have kicked my feet through cool water
at the edge of a pool, watching
our children as they glide and rise
to the surface.
I have sat quietly
beside a fire and enjoyed
the stillness of an owl
perched in a nearby tree.
We've danced,
and I've touched your fingertips,
and lingered, imagined.
And I know how it feels to stop time.
We live in a world that comes to us like a storm and we stand
in the middle of the street and let the tempest twist and swirl
around us, motionless and entertained, our ravenous brains
conduits for the fast-paced colors, the sensations that pass.
So much motion while so little makes an impression beyond
the momentary racing of our hearts, the catching of our throats.
But damn, there is a lot of it, and it's colorful and noisy and
there is always room for another strange reflection in the glass
spaces we visit with our scanning eyes and darting minds, and
we know, don't we, that none of this is real, just our fantasies
projected onto every imaginable space, something to chase.
But I want to say I remember
that I have shared slower moments.
I have felt what it is like to do things
that have substance and that move
to the rhythms of my own body.
I have hiked along shaded trails
in the afternoon, holding your hand.
I have kicked my feet through cool water
at the edge of a pool, watching
our children as they glide and rise
to the surface.
I have sat quietly
beside a fire and enjoyed
the stillness of an owl
perched in a nearby tree.
We've danced,
and I've touched your fingertips,
and lingered, imagined.
And I know how it feels to stop time.
Poem: January 28, 2019
Safety. Courtesy. Show. Efficiency.
First, safety.
No one afraid.
No one at risk
of pain or loss.
An oasis,
allowing an open
mind and heart.
Next, courtesy.
A kind smile.
A welcome.
The sense that
you belong here.
You have friends.
You are important.
Then, show.
A desire
to surprise
and impress.
Big moments
beyond the basics.
Extraordinary.
Finally, efficiency.
Anticipating need,
solving problems.
Sidestepping
unnecessary frustration.
An easy life.
Simplified.
First, safety.
No one afraid.
No one at risk
of pain or loss.
An oasis,
allowing an open
mind and heart.
Next, courtesy.
A kind smile.
A welcome.
The sense that
you belong here.
You have friends.
You are important.
Then, show.
A desire
to surprise
and impress.
Big moments
beyond the basics.
Extraordinary.
Finally, efficiency.
Anticipating need,
solving problems.
Sidestepping
unnecessary frustration.
An easy life.
Simplified.
Poem: January 27, 2019
Sunday
Another Sunday and no church.
Most weeks that would go unnoticed.
I mean, it's really no longer a conscious decision.
I'm not asking, "Pew or Couch? Dress pants or sweats?"
Like many, I think, we discovered
that the math just didn't add up.
What did we gain for our time? And how
could we square the points where
church and life diverge. Was there enough
to love? How much could be forgiven?
What wisdom could we take away
that couldn't be found through other sources-
our friends, our families, our books, each other?
Can one story, however long, however often repeated,
even begin to speak to the great expanse of our lives?
After all, we are thoughtful and reflective.
We've looked behind the curtain. We know
how this all works. We are not the masses.
The only reason I even bring this up
is that yesterday I flew in a jet at 10,000 feet,
and I looked down at the clouds and remembered
my childhood understanding of heaven
and the promises it implied.
Another Sunday and no church.
Most weeks that would go unnoticed.
I mean, it's really no longer a conscious decision.
I'm not asking, "Pew or Couch? Dress pants or sweats?"
Like many, I think, we discovered
that the math just didn't add up.
What did we gain for our time? And how
could we square the points where
church and life diverge. Was there enough
to love? How much could be forgiven?
What wisdom could we take away
that couldn't be found through other sources-
our friends, our families, our books, each other?
Can one story, however long, however often repeated,
even begin to speak to the great expanse of our lives?
After all, we are thoughtful and reflective.
We've looked behind the curtain. We know
how this all works. We are not the masses.
The only reason I even bring this up
is that yesterday I flew in a jet at 10,000 feet,
and I looked down at the clouds and remembered
my childhood understanding of heaven
and the promises it implied.
Poem: January 26, 2019
Thoughts for My Children
I love you. Let's start with that. I love you and cannot do otherwise.
And, of course, I take great pride in you because you are mine,
and because you shine, each of you, in your own form, the best
manifestations of my inner life that have taken form beyond myself.
Three me-and-not-me's roaming the earth. And I sometimes think
that there should be a way to place in you instructions as deep as DNA,
benevolent programming that would tether my will to yours.
It's a selfish notion, I know, that must be the burden of every parent.
It is the desire to be the guide but not the tyrant, to nudge without placing.
So I stand at this moment at the intersection where old people crave
to make explicit the thoughts that they want to pass on as wisdom.
I remember my grandparents and then my parents doing the same,
and I also remember the feeling that this was an unnecessary effort
on their part, something I didn't ignore, but preferred to rush through.
In truth, I feel that way about this poem, but I will write it anyway.
I want you to always be kind and try to understand the people you meet.
Look for ways to make the lives of those around you easier,
and take pleasure in performing simple acts of service. In fact,
take pleasure in any work that can help others or that can make life
more colorful, peaceful, happy and joyous. And beautiful!
I want you to care about beauty, and define beauty as broadly as possible.
I want you to know that everything has the potential to be beautiful.
Of course, I want you to love yourselves, to wonder at the magic
of your bodies, the expanses of your emotions, the intricacies
of your minds, and the potency of your imaginations.
I want you to use all of your gifts to build a life that satisfies you,
and I want you to always feel free to change as you need to change.
I want you to be just and to honor the truth, and I want you to forgive
others easily, and to confidently make amends for your own mistakes.
I want you to affect the world around you and defend yourself
against foolishness, jealousy, hatred, and sloth. To be serious in ethic,
but to also be playful and creative in spirit and work.
I want you to seek and be open to new experiences and ideas,
to love freely and with passion, to believe that the world is good.
I want you to never fear opportunity, and to never doubt your strength,
and to be comfortable knowing that not every experience goes as planned
and that pain and embarrassment and failure are essential to you.
I hope you will never be timid, because if you are good and you are bold,
then your life will have been lived well, and I will be grateful to you.
I love you. Let's start with that. I love you and cannot do otherwise.
And, of course, I take great pride in you because you are mine,
and because you shine, each of you, in your own form, the best
manifestations of my inner life that have taken form beyond myself.
Three me-and-not-me's roaming the earth. And I sometimes think
that there should be a way to place in you instructions as deep as DNA,
benevolent programming that would tether my will to yours.
It's a selfish notion, I know, that must be the burden of every parent.
It is the desire to be the guide but not the tyrant, to nudge without placing.
So I stand at this moment at the intersection where old people crave
to make explicit the thoughts that they want to pass on as wisdom.
I remember my grandparents and then my parents doing the same,
and I also remember the feeling that this was an unnecessary effort
on their part, something I didn't ignore, but preferred to rush through.
In truth, I feel that way about this poem, but I will write it anyway.
I want you to always be kind and try to understand the people you meet.
Look for ways to make the lives of those around you easier,
and take pleasure in performing simple acts of service. In fact,
take pleasure in any work that can help others or that can make life
more colorful, peaceful, happy and joyous. And beautiful!
I want you to care about beauty, and define beauty as broadly as possible.
I want you to know that everything has the potential to be beautiful.
Of course, I want you to love yourselves, to wonder at the magic
of your bodies, the expanses of your emotions, the intricacies
of your minds, and the potency of your imaginations.
I want you to use all of your gifts to build a life that satisfies you,
and I want you to always feel free to change as you need to change.
I want you to be just and to honor the truth, and I want you to forgive
others easily, and to confidently make amends for your own mistakes.
I want you to affect the world around you and defend yourself
against foolishness, jealousy, hatred, and sloth. To be serious in ethic,
but to also be playful and creative in spirit and work.
I want you to seek and be open to new experiences and ideas,
to love freely and with passion, to believe that the world is good.
I want you to never fear opportunity, and to never doubt your strength,
and to be comfortable knowing that not every experience goes as planned
and that pain and embarrassment and failure are essential to you.
I hope you will never be timid, because if you are good and you are bold,
then your life will have been lived well, and I will be grateful to you.
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