May 18 – – the days after commencement in Motown

Thursday May 18   about very old wine and time for contemplation

A busy time in my work life rearranges this week’s calendar for posts,  Monday and Thursday instead of M-W-Fr.  An intuition sent me back to Fatema Keshavarz and her contemplation of 7000-year-old wine.   “Breathe a little more often than usual”;  that’s what this morning’s intuition tells me.  Might be good for you too.

Next week, I will write from Pine Ridge, SD for a week with long-standing soul friends and sacred places of beauty and memory.

john sj

Today’s Post: Shiraz, “the oldest sample of wine in the world”

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May 15 – a signed copy of Denise Levertov’s Freeing of the Dust

 

Monday after Commencement, May 15

Remembering when I lost my copy of The Freeing of the Dust;  remembering when a close friend restored the book with a signed copy.   Why am I thinking of this long loved love poem today? — Spring sun dancing all over the city?  The new  Q-Line rail just opened on Woodward?   Memories of our McNicols  graduates and their kin dancing all over campus on Saturday’s Commencement, and their fellow graduates from the Law School and the Dental School?  Showers of joy and live affection, of pride and relief,  days for dancing.   Sure the world’s wounds remain.  Today, though, remembering beauty and play wants attention.

Have a blest day,  as this work week in the middle of May begins.

john sj

 

Here’s introduction I wrote for “Revolutionary Love” two years ago in April.

Today’s Post  – “Prayer for Revolutionary Love”

McNichols Campus April 27, 2006

 

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May 8 – Speaking the wounds of war in springtime: World War I, Sarah Teasdale

Monday, May 8  “And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white . . . ”

I listened to a news report yesterday about the unique terrors of chemical weapons, those originating in chemical labs during World War I and those whose appearance in present battlefields frightens so many observers.  “Unique terrors” (1) their effect in the bodies of children and grown-ups from the moment they engulf their living bodies, causing some of the most ordinary body processes (e.g., breathing, speaking, seeing) to collapse into biological horrors; (2) these horrors terrify especially because they last and last, leaving maimed victims to walk the earth carrying disfigurements that seem never to go away.   That experience helps explain why World War I left gas attack survivors walking city streets pulling terror and despair in their wake.

And that terror helps to understand why the first years of the 1920s are marked by cruel reactions of deeply frightened people (e.g., the reborn Ku Klux Klan peaked in 1924; the year when more black Americans were lynched than any other year in U S history;  the year of the “Immigration Act of  1924” when Congress shut down the promise that this country welcomes immigrants from all parts of the world, when the “Other” was redefined not as a source of blessing, of renewing energy for the national symbolized by its Statue of Liberty, but as hoards of aliens threatening the nation (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Immigration_Act_of_1924).

Not a few observers of our current historical moment find 1920-25 a compelling metaphor for the competing antagonisms roiling the political order of 2017.

No surprise, perhaps, that exquisite poems, written in the years just after World War I can speak to people paying attention to our present tense.  Poets sometimes seek “flint-hard” words to help readers come close to fear and to tenderness and not to flinch from either.  In today’s post, Sarah Teasdale evokes a Spring whose delicate beauty, in blossom and bird song, require the reader’s attention to war as a world-ending genocide.

Best to read “soft rains” out loud, with pauses between the two for some breathing.

Monday of the 4th week of Easter in the Christian tradition.   In Detroit spring in full blossom and covered with sunshine.

Have a blest week.

 

john sj

p.s. I’m on the road Wednesday in Santa Clara and Friday in Connecticut; see you next week.

 

Today’s Post # 1  “There Will Come Soft Rains”
Sara Teasdale, 1884 – 1933

(War Time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

 

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

 

Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

 

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

 

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree

If mankind perished utterly;

 

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

 

Sarah Trevor Teasdale  1884-1933

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale

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Denise Levertov – an Easter poem

Friday, May 5   “She listens, listens, holding her breath.
Surely that voice
is his . . . ”

Sometimes a poet finds a poem in a painting.    As Denise Levertov did in this 1620 painting by Diego Velázquez;  her imagination offered words for what Velázquez found with his painter’s eye and brushes and paints.  The painter and the poet, together they open a story.   Best to read the poem first and contemplate the painting second?  .  .  .  or the other way around?   Both — ear and eye — make good paths for the last work day of the week, the 3rd Friday of Easter.

Have a blest day.

 

john sj

“The Kitchen Maid with the Supper at Emmaus” 
by Diego Valázquez  c.1620

She listens, listens, holding her breath.
Surely that voice
is his—the one
who had looked at her, once,
across the crowd, as no one ever had looked?
Had seen her?
Had spoken as if to her?
Surely those hands were his,
taking the platter of bread from hers just now?
Hands he’d laid on the dying and made them well?
Surely that face—?
The man they’d crucified for sedition and blasphemy.
The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.
The man it was rumored now some women had seen this morning,
alive?
Those who had brought this stranger home to their table
don’t recognize yet with whom they sit.
But she in the kitchen,
absently touching the wine jug she’s to take in,
a young Black servant intently listening,
swings round and sees
the light around him
and is sure.

-Denise Levertov

Creighton’s Online Ministries home page

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May 3 David Whyte – praise for the holy dark

Wednesday, May 3 –

“Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn  .  .  .”

I think I began to appreciate darkness as an ally in 1968, living in Oglala, South Dakota with Luke and Rose Weasel Bear.   I had asked them if I could live with them for c. 6 weeks so they could teach me about how many Lakota people lived, could teach me some wisdom.  They had no electricity or running water;  we hauled the water and went to bed soon after the sun set.  11 miles down the road was “The Mission,”  our K-12 boarding school where I had already learned many life lessons — how to challenge students with respect and affection while they lived through a young person’s hope and sweet energy interwoven with waves of anger and despair.   The mission was, as schools go, poor (sometimes you lived with a broken toilet, or a broken window, for weeks — things like that).  We did our teaching and learning on shoestring budgets.   But seen from Luke and Rose’s little family camp, the mission was staggeringly wealthy;  running water in every building, electricity, regular, healthy food in the girls’ and boys’ dining rooms.  The cars and trucks had five tires each and got fixed when they broke down.   {“ . . . .  I had asked them if I could live with them for c. 6 weeks so they could teach me how many Lakota people lived, could teach me their wisdom. . . .”}

That’s where I learned, too, that the hour or so before real dark, the dim light of dusk, could open my soul to my own sorrows and wounds, just standing still on a shallow hill as the light left the land and opened itself to the holy dark.   That’s probably why David Whyte is one of the poets who help me to keep renewing my long-term kinship with the holy dark, at least on my good days.  On crazy days, I run around wired and edgy.   Best to read his poem out loud, with pauses.

Mid-week after final exams on the McNichols Campus.   Have a blest day and week.

john sj

 

Today’s Post  “Sweet Darkness”

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

– “Sweet Darkness” by David Whyte, House of Belonging

sunset, about 7 miles south of where Luke and Rose lived,  between Oglala and Calico

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May 1 – poem touching a longing for peace in a violent world – Dunya Mikhail

Monday  May 1  – “ . . .  so the weapons sleep
beneath the dust . . . .”

I met the poet Dunya Mikhail when another poet and life-long friend Joy Harjo, read and performed at The University of Michigan early March.  We posted one of Dunya’s poems, “I Was in a Hurry” on March 13.  These past weeks meet so many of us with the threats of war and violence that the Three Holy Days leading to Easter sometimes opened the congregations where I worshipped (Gesu Parish across McNichols Road from the University and the University’s chapel) into an eloquent lament for our wounded world and music alive with the longing for a healing of those wounds.

That is probably why Dunya Mikhail came to mind this morning.  She emigrated to Detroit’s Chaldean community from her birth country, Iraq.  Today’s poem, lyrical about violent realities brings a realism that invites wonder and courage to accompany grief and moral fatigue.

Best to read aloud, with pauses.

Have a blest Monday,

 

john st sj

 

Today’s Post   –  “Another Planet”
I have a special ticket
to another planet
beyond this Earth.
A comfortable world, and beautiful:
a world without much smoke,
not too hot
and not too cold.
The creatures
are gentler there,
and the governments
have no secrets.
The police are nonexistent:
there are no problems
and no fights.
And the schools
don’t exhaust their students
with too much work
for history has yet to start
and there’s no geography
and no other languages.
And even better:
the war
has left its “r” behind
and turned into love,
so the weapons sleep
beneath the dust,
and the planes pass by
without shelling the cities,
and the boats
look like smiles
on the water.
All things
are peaceful
and kind
on the other planet
beyond this Earth.
But still I hesitate
to go alone.

 

Dunya Mikhail

from The Iraqi Nights. Copyright © 2013 by Dunya Mikhail.
Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunya_Mikhail

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April 27 – Saying goodbye to your brother

Thursday, April 27   Kevin Embach, sj and Denise Levertov

A Detroit native, now studying theology in Boston, came home this week to bury his brother who died of an illness that lingered for decades.  We will gather for Daniel this morning in Dearborn.  When Kevin came to town, he stayed in our house as he often does.   An hour ago he and I paused as we both entered our days.  It must have been that Kevin and his brother were on my mind when I woke that I finally opened Denise Levertov’s last book, The Great Unknowing: Last Poems.  Readers of the Work Day/Hard Time list have, I suspect, gotten used to her manner long since in this blog.

I have trouble opening a new poem because so much of her work already means so much to me.   After months of nodding to the still unopened  The Great Unknowing, this morning I found another wonder on the first page. “From Below” takes me into a place, and surprises me on this day when my friend takes leave of his brother.   It is deeply refreshing for my spirit to meet wonder once again at the hand of this poet.

Best to read with pauses.

Have a blest Thursday.

 

john sj

 

Today’s Post  –  “From Below”

I move among the ankles
of forest Elders, tread
their moist rugs of moss,
duff of their soft brown carpets.
Far above, their arms are held
open wide to each other, or waving

what they know, what
perplexities and wisdoms they exchange,
unknown to me as were the thoughts
of grownups when in infancy I wandered
into a roofed clearing amidst
human feet and legs and the massive
carved legs of the table,

the minds of people, the minds of trees
equally remote, my attention then
filled with sensations, my attention now
caught by leaf and bark at eye level
and by thoughts of my own, but sometimes
drawn to upgazing-up and up: to wonder
about what rises so far above me into the light.

http://www.beyondthefieldsweknow.org/2007/03/thursday-poem-from-below.html

Denise Levertov
b. October 1923  d. December 1997

 

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easter day 8 – William Carlos Williams’ two starlings dancing

Monday, April 24  “that’s what got me to face into the wind’s teeth”

Sometimes joy after grief awakens slowly, filled with stillness and soft footsteps.  Sometimes joy after grief runs so hard it messes your hair and makes you giddy.  Today’s poem is that 2nd kind of joy.  Whenever I hear what William Carlos Williams pulled out of his magic poet’s bag, I cannot help repeating it.  Try it for this Monday of Easter’s 2nd week, as final exams at the university peek over the horizon.

Have a blest week.

 

john sj

Today’s Post:     The Manoeuvre

I saw the two starlings
coming in toward the wires
But at the last,
just before alighting, they

turned in the air together
and landed backwards!
that’s what got me —
to face into the wind’s teeth.

William Carlos Williams

September 17, 1883 – March 4, 1963
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Carlos_Williams

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April 19 – Three Stone Cairns and One Bird – Andy Goldsworth and Emily Dickenson

Tuesday, April 19 — Three Cairns – sculpture

This little boy exploring a large stone egg got me wondering the way art does. Two artists here, the sculptor and the mom with the camera. So I emailed his mom back asking about the egg. She’s a close friend living in La Jolla, CA: “it’s a sculpture by Andy Goldsworthy, called “Three Cairns,” in front of the Museum of Contemporary Art; my son calls it the ‘egg rock.’”

I found an explanation on the website of the Greater Des Moines Public Art Foundation (http://dsmpublicartfoundation.org/public-art/three-cairns/). Just below is their great picture of the central cairn at the Des Moines Art Center. “Cairns,” Public Art tells us, are “stone structures [or markers] that identify a place of great importance. Their dry-stone construction represents an engineering feat as well as artistic creativity. The process of shaping and stacking the stones into a simple oval shape is challenging and intense. The form symbolizes fullness and ripeness, time and energy, loss and endurance.” The Foundation also tells us that this is the largest project in the Western Hemisphere by British artist Andy Goldsworthy.

The photo, by Doug Millar, shows the central cairn at home among Iowa grass and trees. Goldworthy’s placement of the two hollow-out stone frames isn’t random. One points toward New York, a matching cairn outside the Neugerger Museum of Art; the other points west to the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art in La Jolla and the cairn my friend’s son showed off for us. The limestone for each comes from long before its physical home was inhabited by people calling their place “Iowa.”

Lots going on here. Not one place but three, not three places but a continent, not one time but millennia, all crafted with the precise skills of a contemporary worker of stone. I like to imagine the work we do at the university like that. These are exam days, demanding precise thinking and some memory. But, our Mission Statement reminds our students, the point is not the exam or the grade; the point is a lifetime of their citizenship in a world that is vast and beloved of God.

While getting reacquainted with the Cairns, I opened a poem feed that lands in my inbox each day to find a gift from Emily Dickenson. Just below my signature, you will find Emily Dickenson’s 12 line poem about an unnamed bird. Which form of beauty opens me to deeper stillness this mid-April day in 2017, the trans-national sculpture of this poem from the 19th century? Answer? “yes.”

Looks like spring rains today, encouraging grass and flowers and trees to do their thing.

Have a blest day.
john st sj

p.s. Emily Dickenson

“Hope”
by Emily Dickinson
December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

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April 17 Easter Monday

Monday  April 17
“Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods”

When I was a child, on what Catholics call “Holy Saturday,”  the big deal was that the tight rules of Lent unwound themselves and you could eat candy again.    In 1927, Cecil B DeMille released his silent-film blockbuster “The King of Kings.”  Wikipedia describes DeMille’s treatment of Easter as follows:  “On the third day, he rises from the dead as promised. To emphasize the importance of the resurrection, this scene from an otherwise black and white film is shot in color. Jesus goes to the Apostles and tells them to spread his message to the world. He tells them ‘I am with you always” as the scene shifts to a modern city to show that Jesus still watches over his followers.”   Color film, a dazzling wonderment.  I wasn’t there in 1927 but it’s easy to imagine that surprise burst of color and the anachronistic leap from the death of Jesus into a modern city, still two years away from 1929’s ‘Black Friday,’ as the media parallel of us kids getting to eat candy again.  “Yippee!  Jesus wins and our troubles are over.”

Easter joy, though, may be more demanding than Lent’s fasting and both Lent and the Easter Season’s 40 days depend on a habit of paying attention to beauty side by side with the world’s violence and its burden of grief.  The women and men who meet a risen Jesus in the gospels are in shock, incapacitated by what torture has done to the body of Jesus while he was executed.   In shock with a level of grief that makes joy seem impossible.  No one wanted to hear that Jesus rose;  check out the handful of accounts of encounters with him.  In every case, those women and men had to surrender their exhausted and battered hopes, had to begin to imagine that Jesus Risen called them into joy about the whole human condition, violence and beauty together.

Easter is a lot like Lent.  It’s about a habit of paying attention to the whole world’s realities, trusting that out of the wounds and grief, you can risk delight and even playful humor.   My fellow Jesuit, Justin Kelly, with whom I and our small group of Sunday worshipers celebrated Saturday’s Easter Vigil, reminded us, one might say, that The Resurrection is for grown-ups and their children, that we citizens of 2017 are asked to love the whole human package, to risk paying attention to beauty without avoiding the wounds.  Justin reached into where I live when he ended his homily by reciting one of the great Easter poems of our tradition,  Gerard Manley Hopkin’s “God’s Grandeur.”  Lots of exquisite images, of a battered world and the improbable beauty of the world’s rebirth.

Best to read Hopkins when you are not in a hurry,  the imagery is fine-tuned and then some.

This is day two of the Easter Season and the brilliant sun, crisp breezy air, leaves and flowers bursting.  “Get used to beauty,” they seem to say,  Risk it.

Have a blest week.

john sj

 

Today’s Post:    “God’s Grandeur”

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Gerard Manley Hopkins  28 July 1844 – 8 June, 1889

 

p.s. I was ready to send out today’s post when I read an email from one of the Work Day/Hard time list’s 2285 members, a searing account by a passionate teacher to just how hard it is to find hope when you look around the world of the whole human condition.   I am posting it without revealing the author’s name.   What s/he wrote this morning just belongs in this post.

Dear John,

I just read the poem from Thursday and wanted to shout – but what about the parents who do appear to give up their children? I have a young man (19 years old) who is certified with ASD who spent Easter under a bridge. I’ve known him for 2 years and have never met a family member. Wednesday was the last time I saw him and I spent much time and many hours thinking and praying for his protection. He’s been homeless since February. He’s been following the rotating shelter that goes from church to church, but found it was moving too far away from school. When I saw him last, he asked if someone could bring him a sleeping bag – that would make the rock a little easier to deal with. What do you do when the picture in your head is a young person, dirty, hungry, and alone?

When I watch TV and the heart wrenching music and ad want me to care about a lost or abused puppy when I know teenagers who are lost and abused.

It’s hard to think about forcing a child to learn a foreign language or algebra II when they haven’t eaten a real meal in several days and they don’t have a bed to sleep in.

It’s hard to thoroughly enjoy feasting at Easter when the smell of the wood fire that kept a student warm the night before is still fresh in one’s memory.

The worst part is offering that teen a ride, let alone a warm bed and a roof, could put my job in jeopardy. I wail at the society that would apparently throw this child away.

Sometimes I feel it is easier to look globally and see the “big picture” then look really close at hand and see the details. I’m looking for the answers to the question, in the land of the free and the home of the brave, when we fight for the protection of the others, how can we be creating our own “refugees”?

Thanks,

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