Wyzga On Words

What Do I Do When I Feel Lost? Stand Still.

Of late friends and colleagues have been saying the same thing to me: "I feel lost. Just lost.  I can't explain it.  What do you think it means?"

I have to reveal that I share their feelings of being lost.

On October 1, 2011 I began a journal of 365 days of small steps.  I was expecting that at the end I would know the way, the truth & the light.

Didn't happen.

I am continuing with the next 365.

Meanwhile, I have begun to read the entire 1331 & counting pages to listen for themes.

Here is what I found on Day 32 from the work of my hero, guide and guru: poet David Whyte:

"At the very core of creativity there seems to be an admonition that says, "Your own way is essential." This is true even in a traditional master-student relationship. The word "expert" seems to be like a fog in which we lose ourselves. We feel our lack before we have done the essential work of touching our own inner longing, in other words, we put the cart before the horse. Creativity has much more to do with giving ourselves over to our deepest longings than it does with giving ourselves over to any kind of strategy.     Often the first impulse people have around their creativity has to do with signing up for school or arranging their schedule to fit more of every- thing in. The great poetic and mythic traditions say it's actually the opposite: Creativity has to do with unburdening, with giving yourself a break, with letting fresh air in through the windows, with allowing yourself to be lost - profoundly lost, deeply lost. There is a teaching story out of the Northwest Native American tradition that would be told by an elder to a young girl or boy who asked the question, "What do I do when I am lost in he forest?" In other words, "What do I do when I've lost my creative fire?" which is really "What do l do when I forget who I am?" It has been rendered into modern English in a marvelous way by David Wagoner. Here is the answer the elder gives:

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead

and bushes beside you

Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here.

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger.

Must ask permission to know it and be known.

The forest breathes. Listen. It answers.

I have made this place around you.

If you leave it you may come back again.

saying Here.

No two trees are the same to Raven.

No two branches are the same to Wren.

If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you.

You are surely lost. Stand still.

The forest knows

Where you are. You must let it find you.

This poem makes three important points. First of all, it reminds us that the world demands our attention, tremendous attention. You cannot sleepwalk your way into this, hoping that things will turn out right. You have to face up to the fiercer aspects of life and to the eyes glittering out of that dark forest that may see the selfish part, the "expert" part of you as prey."

You Know It's Been Too Long When.

I've been considering life of late.

I recently attended a memorial service for a friend's brother.  The service was held in a cozy meeting room of a nursing home where he worked as a recreational director for almost a quarter century.  Gathered around me were many residents of the assisted living home in various states of dis-ability, in wheelchairs, heads bent.  The fellow whose life we had come to celebrate lived almost 5 decades of his life in a wheelchair after a car accident at the age of 18 rendered him a quadriplegic. 

One of those speaking at the service said that his reply to the injury was, "I can do the same things I did before, just differently." He did not live dis-abled.  He advocated for the dis-abled to be accommodated to live independently.  He lived life fully and with a young heart.

I looked at my own arms and legs - still temporarily able-bodied - and sat wondering what I could be doing differently, for whom, where, and how.  You know it's been too long when a memorial service wakes you up to join the living.

Signs of life are all around me.  My very breath reminds me I am alive. As my dear story-friend Michelle says, "We are not here for a long time; but for a good time."  What are you going to do with that one wild precious life?

Here is a a poem I want to share with you.  All I know about the author is that she suffered some trauma that caused her traumatic brain injury.  And still she lives - looking to tomorrow:

YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW

Yesterday
I was a Brownie, a dancer, a baseball player.
I valued long walks, good friends, and horses.
I appreciated fine woodwork, the beach, and
my surroundings.
I enjoyed going to carnivals, staying out until 11,
then sneaking back into my house.
I hoped to grown old.

Today
I am disabled, more thoughtful,
and am a great writer.
I value handsome men, the past,
and all of the kitties I have owned.
I appreciate the fresh air coming through the door,
not being encumbered by anyone at the moment,
and all the vacations I have taken over the years.
I enjoy coffee, he theater, and cleaning fish tanks.
I hope to learn to drive, change oil,
and out gas in the car.

Tomorrow
I will be a good looking astronaut, an animal keeper,
a writer, and a woman whose body temperature
has gone up five degrees.
I will keep a special eye to not lose my body,
and I want to get closer to Jesus.
I want to join an astronaut school,
and go exploring up to the heavens.
I hope the cities will turn into George Jetson cities,
but I hope the pasture lands and
the beaches will be left as they are.
And I hope I will go out to dinner tonight.
And I really do want to live in Japan.

Lise Schurig

December 21st & Still Standing.

Did it come to pass?  The Mayan Prophesy about the end of days. 

Can we peek out from under the covers?

Are we still standing?

Or is it all ended?

One of my favorite poems on endings was printed in the Sunday NYTimes Interactive Feature called "It's the End of the World."  The title of the poem is "Each Of Us Standing..." by Gregory Orr.  Click here to enjoy this satisfying little gem of words.  I think it would also make a lovely parting gift in lieu of a eulogy.

And for those of us who are simply grateful that the shortest day is here as we hoped, following is another favorite by poet Susan Cooper:

"So the shortest day came, and the year died.

And everywhere down the

centuries of the snow-white world

Came people - dancing, singing -

to drive the dark away.

They lighted candles in winter trees.

They hung their homes with evergreen.

They burned beseeching fires all night long

to keep the year alive.

When the new day's sunshine blazed awake,

they shouted - revelling!

Through all, across the centuries you can hear

them echoing behind us.

Listen.

All the long echoes sing the same delight,

This shortest day and longest night.

As promise awakens in the sleeping land,

They carol, feast, give thanks, and

dearly love their friends, and hope for peace,

And so do we - here, now, this year and every year!

 

Welcome Yule!"    – Susan Cooper

 

Yes, Welcome Yule!

Movies Have Messages.

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel is what my dad would call "a nice bit of a movie."

Give me anything with Judi Dench and Maggie Smith and I am quite happy.

Here's one of my favorite lines from the movie:  "Everything will be alright in the end.  And if it is not alright, it's not the end."

I keep repeating it to myself in trying times.  How do I know it's not just a throw-away movie line, but maybe a message?  Trust.

Trust
    by Thomas R. Smith

It's like so many other things in life
to which you must say no or yes.
So you take your car to the new mechanic.
Sometimes the best thing to do is trust.

The package left with the disreputable-looking
clerk, the check gulped by the night deposit,
the envelope passed by dozens of strangers—
all show up at their intended destinations.

The theft that could have happened doesn't.
Wind finally gets where it was going
through the snowy trees, and the river, even
when frozen, arrives at the right place.

And sometimes you sense how faithfully your life
is delivered, even though you can't read the address.

"Trust" by Thomas R. Smith, from Waking Before Dawn. © Red Dragonfly Press, 2007.

Have Faith. What Else Do We Have?

For some time now I've been trying to get back to the keyboard to write my blog posts.

How faithful I was in the beginning.

Why do I blog?  I like to write.  I write to inform, inspire, educate, motivate, maybe even comfort as I share stories and words.

But for days now I find I have no words.  I find I lack the faith to find the words.

I am reminded of David Whyte's poem entitled Faith.  It's only a few lines long but when Whyte reads or recites it he keeps repeating a line like a refrain or a chorus.  To me the style of telling the poem adds to its depth.

Here it is:

Faith

I want to write about faith,
     about the way the moon rises
        over cold snow, night after night,

faithful even as it fades from fullness,
     slowly becoming that last curving and impossible
          sliver of light before the final darkness.

But I have no faith myself
      I refuse it even the smallest entry.

Let this then, my small poem,
     like a new moon, slender and barely open,
          be the first prayer that opens me to faith.

  -- David Whyte
      from Where Many Rivers Meet
     ©2007 Many Rivers Press

Now, click here to listen to the poet.

I am reminded: Have faith.

 

Instructions For How To Be Perfect - Actually Attainable.

Thank you to The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor.

Excerpts from "How to be Perfect"

by Ron Padgett

Get some sleep.

Eat an orange every morning.

Be friendly. It will help make you happy.

Hope for everything. Expect nothing.

Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room
before you save the world. Then save the world.
Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.

Don't stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don't
forget what made you angry. Hold your anger out at arm's length
and look at it, as if it were a glass ball. Then add it to your glass
ball collection.

Wear comfortable shoes.

Do not spend too much time with large groups of people.

Plan your day so you never have to rush.

Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if
you have paid them, even if they do favors you don't want.

After dinner, wash the dishes.

Calm down.

Don't expect your children to love you, so they can, if they want
to.

Don't be too self-critical or too self-congratulatory.

Don't think that progress exists. It doesn't.

Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don't do
anything to make it impossible.

Forgive your country every once in a while. If that is not
possible, go to another one.

If you feel tired, rest.

Don't be depressed about growing older. It will make you feel
even older. Which is depressing.

Do one thing at a time.

If you burn your finger, put ice on it immediately. If you bang
your finger with a hammer, hold your hand in the air for 20
minutes. you will be surprised by the curative powers of ice and
gravity.

Do not inhale smoke.

Take a deep breath.

Do not smart off to a policeman.

Be good.

Be honest with yourself, diplomatic with others.

Do not go crazy a lot. It's a waste of time.

Drink plenty of water. When asked what you would like to
drink, say, "Water, please."

Take out the trash.

Love life.

Use exact change.

When there's shooting in the street, don't go near the window.

Excerpts from "How to be Perfect" by Ron Padgett, from How to be Perfect. © Coffee House Press, 2007.

Really, Now! Who Has Time To Write Poetry?

I am reading "The One-Straw Revolution" by Masanobu Fukuoka.  Michael Pollan calls this little book,

"One of the founding documents of the alternative food movement, and indispensable to anyone hoping to understand the future of food and agriculture."

Why would I read such a book? I want to feed people organic apples and the foods one can make with apples.  We can always use a good apple, grown right - and a nice slice of pie.

In one chapter Mr. Fukuoka reflects on how the times have changed.  Not just for farmers but for all of us. In the act of cleaning his village shrine he uncovered bit of haiku written by villagers time out of mind.  Then, he notes, even farmers had time to write poetry.  But no more - we are hurried.

This seems true for all of us.  Even for me when I catch myself (again) eating a meal in front of the computer screen instead of appreciating what I prepared perhaps sitting in the sun.

It can be different, even if only incrementally. We just need to step out of the cave:

From Out the Cave
    by Joyce Sutphen

When you have been
at war with yourself
for so many years that
you have forgotten why,
when you have been driving
for hours and only
gradually begin to realize
that you have lost the way,
when you have cut
hastily into the fabric,
when you have signed

papers in distraction,
when it has been centuries
since you watched the sun set
or the rain fall, and the clouds,
drifting overhead, pass as flat
as anything on a postcard;
when, in the midst of these
everyday nightmares, you
understand that you could
wake up,
you could turn
and go back
to the last thing you
remember doing
with your whole heart:
that passionate kiss,
the brilliant drop of love
rolling along the tongue of a green leaf,
then you wake,
you stumble from your cave,
blinking in the sun,
naming every shadow
as it slips.  [from Straight Out of View. © Beacon Press, 1995]

Winter Is Dark For A Reason.

Winter Is the Best Time

    by David Budbill

Winter is the best time
to find out who you are.

Quiet, contemplation time,
away from the rushing world,

cold time, dark time, holed-up
pulled-in time and space

to see that inner landscape,
that place hidden and within.

"Winter Is the Best Time" by David Budbill, from While We've Still Got Feet. © Copper Canyon Press, 2005.  Other poems by Budbill.

Our Fate - Like Fruit Trees In Winter.

Standing all raggedy, twiggy and forlorn in my backyard is a peach tree. Its naked form reminds me of a piece by German poet and novelist Johann Wolfgang von Goethe:

"Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter.  Looking at its sad appearance who would think that those stiff branches, those jagged twigs would turn green again and blossom and bear fruit next spring; but we hope they will, we know they will."

I believe that one of the most difficult and courageous things we can do for ourselves, our families, friends and clients who look to us for a little encouragement is to acknowledge a time of fearful barrenness, that hum of panicky anxiety.  And only then turn coax an expectant face toward spring.

This photograph reminding me that the honeybees are soon on the local blooms was taken by friend and fellow beewrangler, Janet Andrews of Backyard Bees who creates some of the most remarkable honey creams and lip balms you will find anywhere.  Even my pure honey and beeswax cappings find their way into her luscious product.  Family in the chill mountains of Colorado and the dry indoors of New Hampshire swear by its restorative properties.

Every one of us every day needs a little something good.

Gin, Osso Bucco & Intimacy.

Some days I get weary of posting work-related blogs.

Better said, some days I want to blog on love and romance and poetry.

We are coming into what I call "The Single's Trifecta": Christmas, New Year's Eve, and Valentine's Day.  Those holidays when you know you don't fit in if you are "flying solo" in the world of couples.

Maybe for that reason or because I was in the mood to receive a piece of poetry that featured a cold gin martini with an olive, I was drawn in by Jacqueline Berger's languid and seductive, rawly intimate poem posted on A Writer's Almanac:

Gin

by Jacqueline Berger

I like a green olive
stuffed with a pimento
after it has been submerged
for some time in a martini.
I like to go downtown with my husband,
sit in a booth at the Grand
and let the drink rub the edge
off the inane fight we had
about the furniture salesman
and whether he treated us fairly,
my view, or whether he tried
to put one over on us,
my husband's view.
In some moods we'll fight about anything
just to make the other
carry the weight of anger
we lug all day through our lives.
But that moment
when we climb into bed
on a winter's night,
letting our bodies lie down,
letting the day be over,
its not unlike the way gin
loosens the rope, lets float
the raft into its stillest waters.
Happy hour, when the landscape
loses its daylight meaning
as it slips into the silk of dusk
before night pours down its jazzy notes
in a cathedral of crushed velvet.
We are sitting side by side in the booth,
watching the flurry of holiday shoppers
come in from the cold.
By now the salesman is a jerk,
or he's a helluva guy,
either way is fine.
We are talking about anything,
having drifted out into the calm
plainness of intimacy. Nothing
profound, just a place to rest
at the end of the day,
the cord between us swinging gently
after the bells have stopped their ringing.

"Gin" by Jacqueline Berger, from The Gift that Arrives Broken. © Autumn House Press, 2010

I took the liberty of sending it 'round to chosen family and friends with this quite personal header, "Yes, there are agreeable things to be said for flying solo & yet, despite the intermittent hardships required, being a couple offers sharing & intimacy."

And what came back to me was a lovely piece to complete the story which I'd like to share with you:

"If'n you don't mind I have a couple of musings of my own. I appreciate the metaphor of the gin, I am drawn to two images. The first a piano keyboard. if you don't over stretch the simile, you can see that each key has its own destiny free to move as its spirit dictates. However when working together at about same velocity (tempo) a newer structure emerges that had only the potential to exist.The second is that of Osso Bucco, when two people form a couple each brings their own features and desires to the formation. At this time the meal is transformed. No longer a mere piece of venison or rib-eye, but a complex presentation that parallels the complexity of being a principle part of a couple. What happens then is still a part of each persons features. You mentioned "sharing & intimacy" I would also note that trust is a major part of intimacy rather than the other way around. Each trusts that the other has the best interests at all times. In my view, intimacy in not furious fighting, nor is placidly sharing a room in different chairs. To me intimacy is sharing a spiritual and emotional path with the ultimate destination not of as much concern as fearlessly  twinning of the two."

Who is the mysterious author?  I don't kiss and tell.

I will say that poetry is always a fine way to round out the story you are telling whether trying a case in a courtroom, making a pitch to a group in a boardroom, persuading a team, enticing a spouse, explaining an idea to a partner, and so on; poetry is class act communication.