Love your enemies. Even the month of February.
One Year in a Minnesota Prairie Town
This is a cycle of poems I wrote while living in my hometown of Owatonna, Minnesota, a few years ago. Today, a snowy gray day in February (my least favorite month, even here in my new town in Colorado), I found myself thinking of the winter poems here, and hoping in the spring and summer – thankful for the continuing growth and change of seasons.
One Year in a Minnesota Prairie Town
Early Winter
George MacDonald said
“Winter is only a spring too weak and feeble for us to see that it is living.”
So where is the end of the year?
The seasons, like space,
Appear to have no boundaries
But, turning and turning,
Move all life along some invisible thread.
Mid Winter
I almost forgot
And nearly remembered
In between sleeps
Late Winter
Hoary white
Frozen forgetting
Pewter-skied afternoon.
A filmy burning eye
Distant low
Blurs unfeelingly
To darkness.
Underground
Embryos stir
Ever so slightly
Unfolding.
Early Spring
Before departure
The snow expands
To jagged chunks of salt and sand.
When it recedes
Instead of seashells
We find
Trash and lost things.
Mid Spring
There’s an afternoon time and a garden place
Where the sun warms me well
Well,
The sun,
And you –
Peeking up at me
Poking through soil
Perennial but new.
Late Spring
Might be the last morning this yellow-haired girl
Pushes this primary-blue baby doll stroller
Might be the last day she calls this woman mommy
Buds and branches
Are opening to flowers.
Blossoms and baby fat
Are ripening to fruit.
Early Summer
Now the serpent was subtle
The woman was stupid
The man was absent
And that’s how the world went to hell
They told me.
Here
In the sunlight
All the colors weave a mothering warmth
I believe I’m being born again
Don’t tell them.
Mid Summer
Barefoot
Pregnant
In the garden
She is not holy,
She is living.
Late Summer
Late summer is ragtime
The ragweed is a woody-stemmed shrub
The flowers sprawl in their raggedy gardens
The air is ragged with rasping cicadas
What was delight in spring
Sweet satisfaction at mid-summer
Now is overkill
A glaring beauty with too much makeup
Overpowering perfume
Gaudy clothes
And weary eyes.
If it didn’t all fall down
And sleep a while
Life would never last.
Early Autumn
Come in, come in.
Time to wash
And undress
Time to fire up the stove
Simmer down slow
Time for your bath.
All summer
You’ve been out in the sun
And the rain and the wind
Now it’s time to come in
Time to snuggle down
In your jar in the pantry.
Mid Autumn
Breathe
Remember
Hope.
Let fading leaves fade
Let dying light die
Embrace this moment
Though it chills and darkens everything.
If you hold the fire of summer’s sun
In the pit of your soul
You’ll survive
Till it warms your face again.
Late Autumn
This is where we have trouble with names.
Beyond the harvest holiday
We sing of jingle bells
Demand snowflakes.
Autumn shrugs, sighs
And leaves the room.
Langston Speaks for All of Us
On this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, Langston Hughes’ poem “Let America Be America Again” speaks just as powerfully as it ever did. If you are an American citizen, whoever you are, I think you can find yourself here.
Some Soil
He spoke in a parable. He said
Some soil is just about dead
Walked over and worn out
Impervious to seeds,
A feeding trough for birds.
Some soil is stony:
Seeds sprout quickly,
Sprouts stretch to sun,
Sun scorches leaves,
Plant withers and dies.
No roots, he explained.
Some soil is preoccupied
Crowded with seeds of stubborn stock
That choke anything fresh
Before it can flower.
Some soil is just right
(To quote a golden-haired girl),
A dark loamy bed
Where seed bursts open in eager love,
Dying with life-force;
And soil honors seed’s sacrifice
Faithfully nurturing newborn sprout.
The seeds
I have gathered
Don’t come in uniform packets
Stamped with precise planting instructions.
They are scattered grains of life
Sown from everywhere:
Love letters and report cards, ocean waves and office buildings,
Toddlers’ tantrums, neighbors’ gossip,
Even radio talk shows and preachers’ sermons.
I have also
Discovered the soil
Doesn’t come in a bag
Purchased with indulgences and poured into the soul.
The best soil is made of wasted moments:
The garbage and leftovers of everyday life,
Piled in the back of the mind to rot,
Food for tiny creeping thoughts who give it back changed
Breaking up stony places
Crumbling softening
Light loose reborn
Hungry and thirsty for righteousness
A good place to put down roots.
Creatio Continua, a.k.a Evolution
How can evolution be both scientific theory and enricher of theology? John Haught explains:
The notion that God creates the world is, of course, central to the faith of millions. Traditionally, Christian theology spoke of three dimensions of God’s creative activity: original creation (creatio originalis), ongoing or continuous creation (creatio continua), and new creation or the fulfillment of creation (creatio nova). Prior to the scientific discoveries of cosmic and biological evolution, however, the latter two notions were usually eclipsed by the first. “Creation” meant primarily something that God did in the beginning. But even in the late nineteenth century a few theologians had already recognized that evolution implicitly liberates the notion of creation from confinement to cosmic origins. And although today discussions between scientists and theologians about God and the big bang often assume that “creation” is only about cosmic beginnings, the idea of evolution forbids such narrowing of so powerful a notion.
Indeed, the fact of evolution now allows theology to apprehend more palpably than ever that creation is not just an “original” but also an ongoing and constantly new reality. In an evolving cosmos, creation is still happening, no less in the present than “in the beginning.” The big bang universe continues to unfold, and so every day is still the “dawn of creation.” As Teilhard de Chardin put it, in an evolving universe “incessantly even if imperceptibly, the world is constantly emerging a little farther above nothingness.”
Moreover, evolution has allowed theology to acknowledge at last that the notion of an originally and instantaneously completed creation is theologically unthinkable in any case. If we could imagine it at all, we would have to conclude that an initial creation, one already finished and perfected from the beginning, could not be a creation truly distinct from its creator. Such a “world” would simply be an appendage of God, and not a world unto itself; nor could God conceivably transcend such a world. It would be a world without internal self-coherence, a world without a future, and, above all, a world devoid of life. By definition, living beings must continually transcend, or go beyond, themselves. As Henri Bergson said long ago, life is really a tendency rather than something rounded off and complete. An unfinished, or evolving, universe is essential to this tendency’s actualization.
(John F. Haught, God After Darwin: A Theology of Evolution (Westview Press, 2000), p. 37 from chapter 3, “Theology Since Darwin”)
The weight of evidence pointing towards evolution is often a crushing weight for someone, like me, brought up with a literalistic reading of the Bible. Usually one of two choices is made, both involving denial – deny the mountain of evidence for evolution, or deny the soul’s insistent dream of God.
My readings this morning seem to have converged around this point. Before I read the quoted passage above, Nathan and I read this at breakfast together:
In the depths of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.(from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran)
And later, I came across a blog post discussing this type of contrast as seen in a medieval painting:
Pisanello’s animals, tucked in their self-containing spaces, recall to me my scrappy outsider knowledge of the Australian Aboriginal Dreamtime, when all the manifest forms of creation lie sleeping inside the earth, waiting for songs to awaken them, to call them continuously into being. But here the Dream is fading, the song on the cusp of being mocked and forgotten, replaced by the angular, linear, technocratic visions that lie in wait beyond the cross and the promise of Renaissance that the future saint locks his eyes upon.
(from Cat’s blog The Place Between Stories)
I sense a growing polarity between thinking and dreaming in our culture these days. So I am grateful for the insistent thinker-dreamers among us. Open eyes, open minds, and open hearts keep us growing, unfinished, evolving, deeply alive in the continuing dawn of creation.