Monday, \u00a0February 1 \u00a0– \u00a0Jane Kenyon<\/p>\n
I first learned of Jane Kenyon\u2019s \u201cHappiness\u201d from my favorite \u201cAmerican Experience\u201d historical film producer, David Grubin, some years ago. \u00a0On this snow-covered Monday in February with its off-tune noises of intemperate, clashing political shouting seemingly everywhere, Kenyon\u2019s \u201cHappiness\u201d sounds tone-perfect. \u00a0The poet writes in language full of surprises and bravery.<\/p>\n
Best to read Kenyon’s words out loud, with pauses. \u00a0 I post this in honor not only of the poet Jane Kenyon, but also of my long friendship with David Grubin and my resilient friendships alive in the list\u2019s c. 2500 readers.<\/p>\n
Finally,\u00a0I also honor my Lakota daughter, Mary Tobacco (\u201cakicita wiyan\u201d), who dares to speak for and care for some of the poorest elders and children on U.S. 18 along the western slopes of The Black Hills\u00a0in Pine Ridge South Dakota.<\/p>\n
Wanblee Ska \u00a0– \u00a0john st sj<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Today\u2019s Post: \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>\u201cHAPPINESS\u201d<\/p>\n There\u2019s just no accounting for happiness, And how can you not forgive? No, happiness is the uncle you never It comes to the monk in his cell. <\/p>\n Jane Kenyon (b. 1947 \u2013 d. 1995 \u00a0{leukemia} )<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Monday, \u00a0February 1 \u00a0– \u00a0Jane Kenyon I first learned of Jane Kenyon\u2019s \u201cHappiness\u201d from my favorite \u201cAmerican Experience\u201d historical film producer, David Grubin, some years ago. \u00a0On this snow-covered Monday in February with its off-tune noises of intemperate, clashing political … Continue reading
\nor the way it turns up like a prodigal
\nwho comes back to the dust at your feet
\nhaving squandered a fortune far away.<\/p>\n
\nYou make a feast in honor of what
\nwas lost, and take from its place the finest
\ngarment, which you saved for an occasion
\nyou could not imagine, and you weep night and day
\nto know that you were not abandoned,
\nthat happiness saved its most extreme form
\nfor you alone.<\/p>\n
\nknew about, who flies a single-engine plane
\nonto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
\ninto town, and inquires at every door
\nuntil he finds you asleep midafternoon
\nas you so often are during the unmerciful
\nhours of your despair.<\/p>\n
\nIt comes to the woman sweeping the street
\nwith a birch broom, to the child
\nwhose mother has passed out from drink.
\nIt comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
\na sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
\nand to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
\nin the night.
\nIt even comes to the boulder
\nin the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
\nto rain falling on the open sea,
\nto the wineglass, weary of holding wine.<\/p>\n