Heart Prayer

Only by Following the Way and re-reading my favorite poems can I find my way through the current morasses. Here's a poem by Elizabeth Cunningham from her book Small Bird.

Heart Prayer


You can only pray what's in your heart

so if your heart is being ripped from your chest
pray the tearing

if your heart is full of bitterness
pray it to the last dreg

If you heart is a river gone wild
pray the torrent

or a lava flow scorching the mountain
pray the fire

pray the scream in your heart
the fanning bellows

pray the rage, the murder
and the mourning

pray your heart into the great quiet hands that can hold it
like the small bird it is.

Advent Reflection XIII: Fragility and Intention

The death and destruction department in Life's Little Reality Shoppe has a way of preempting everything. Last week, two sick parents and the death of my friend Deb cast a long shadow, until Friday's mass murder in CT.

How do people endure the unendurable? I've seen it happen, but it takes a huge toll, and many years before those left standing feel able to stand, let alone thrive. How is resilience even possible with so much energy spent trying to hide our fragility? What if God is as fragile as we are, and needs us to protect it? I know. We're fucked, right?

Maybe not. I suppose if we're to be God for one another (which I advocate regularly), the time is now. I've got plenty of faith, and some to spare, but I need to remind myself daily. Poetry, prayer, music, and small conversations - these feed me. The media frenzy that feeds the information junkie in me can drain my spirit. I'm susceptible to the repetitive stories of tragedy, mayhem, and trauma, so I turn them off. Better to wonder, sing, and pray; then go feed someone else.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow, thou art with me. Repeat all day. It might be better to call another friend, though, because some days that God looks mighty frail, and we need strong bodies to lean on.

I wonder what will help society to be kinder and more gentle? I wonder what it will take to make it as easy to get mental health coverage as it is to buy a gun? And, I wonder how can I not harden my heart? I've been singing In paradisum deducant te angeli... I've been praying Denise Levertov's Mass for the Day of St. Thomas Didymus. Here's the last half of the Agnus Dei:

God then,
encompassing all things, is
defenseless? Omnipotence
has been tossed away, reduced
to a wisp of damp wool?

And we,
frightened, bored, wanting
only to sleep till catastrophe
has raged, clashed, seethed and gone by without us,
wanting then
to awaken in quietude without remembrance of agony,

we who in shamefaced private hope
had looked to be plucked from fire and given
a bliss we deserved for having imagined it,

is it implied that we
must protect this perversely weak
animal, whose muzzle's nudgings
suppose there is milk to be found in us?
Must hold to our icy hearts
a shivering God?

So be it.
Come, rag of pungent
quiverings,
dim star.
Let's try
if something human still
can shield you,
spark
of remote light.

On Being Saved by a Poem

Poetry and I are old friends. When I had to move home for a year in college, poetry was the one thing that kept me sane (except for Robert Lowell). If you're not big on poetry, watch how poetry kept Kim Rosen sane. Trust me, me and Kim aren't the only ones poetry has kept sane. Over the years, bits of poetry have leapt off the page and rescued me from any number of close calls. Some have even thrown themselves into songs or chants so I couldn't help but sing them. Mostly though, poems don't require music, and it would be ruinous to try to arrange a marriage. Some poems need to be memorized, so you can carry them with you always. I once thought it might be nice to memorize T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets so I'd have something besides music to keep me company on that proverbial desert island. If I start now, maybe I can manage One Quartet before I move to the other side of the grass. My friends Cally and Ellen memorize Shakespearean sonnets, so I know there's still hope. I have memorized lots of shorter poems, serious and silly, the silliest being Thomas Merton's Never call a baysitter in a thunderstorm, which, for good or ill, has lodged itself in the bank of my memory (which pays precious little interest, FYI). I love me some poems like a serial monogamist, and last month, I was in love with Mary Oliver again (some people are worth falling in love with over and again - early Adrienne Rich and Audre Lord come to mind). Wendell Berry's The Wild Geese is almost finished being burned into my psyche (What we need is here...). Through the years I've been in love with so many poems, and one poet. Like that poet, the good poems are hard to keep out of my head, and will be forever lodged in my heart.

Kim Rosen's book Saved By a Poem: The Transformative Power of Words is a fine reminder of the importance of memorizing poetry and speaking it out loud. I read it in early summer and have been memorizing and re-memorizing poems since then. Poetry is powerful medicine, and as good as a song when it's time to try a little tenderness. The great poems in Saved by a Poem (and the CD included in the book) will inspire you to great feats of memorization, and possibly even compassion. Buy it now so you can get started. You won't be sorry.


Since forever, stray lines from some poem or other will pop into my head, almost like a mantra, and the last few weeks it's been "It is the three strange angels. Admit them, admit them." I've been keeping an eye on the Occupy Wall Street movement, along with the rest of you, watching new connections being made across the country. It's been a beautiful sight to behold the sweetness of the people, the peacefulness, and the emerging clarity. It's felt like a fresh breeze blowing through our civic discourse, which is good, because Congress has been doing next to nothing since January. I absently wondered if the three strange angels had anything to do with anything, and it's taken me until now to find it. Turns out I'd last read it in Saved by a Poem.


Song of a Man Who Has Come Through - by D.H. Lawrence

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed
By the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos
of the world
Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
Driven by invisible blows,
The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find
the Hesperides.

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them.

Spring Fling

I spent last week in Chicago, working with friends old and new. Two days were spent at an editorial meeting for a hymnal revision, while Wednesday brought me to the Lutheran School of Theology at the Univ. of Chicago with some friends. We had some church, talked with some students at lunch and sat in on a 3-hour class. The rest of the week I co-led a conference called "Music That Makes Community" at St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Parkridge. There were some people I'd met in Feb at a composers' retreat in FL, a UCC pastor who lives on a tiny island (Pop. 300) and is totally connected to spirit (we fell in love right off the bat), a spiritual director, a folk singer, a guy who leads centering prayer, a couple of youth ministers, a few other musicians, and a bunch of Lutheran pastors. I had altogether way too much fun with about 45 beautiful people, 35 of them complete strangers. I think most of them had fun, too. I've heard from about ten of them already and it's only been two days.

I always worry that I won't know what to do in the moment, that certain songs won't work their usual magic, that people won't be willing to step out of their comfort zones, or trust the group enough to let themselves be vulnerable (especially during the improvisation segment - sometimes they just can't let go - much to learn either way). A pastor came up to me and was so excited after the composing segment because no one had ever given him permission to compose before. I say "Why wait?" (RULE #13,879: It's better to ask forgiveness than permission!). There are always great tunes written at these things, and they're never by the people I expect.

I don't know why I always worry, it's not about me, and God is quite good at making new life, especially in Spring. I'm always amazed as I watch the people drop their defenses and enjoy the reality of playing together and building community. There are endless teachable moments as absolutely everyone is included, the playing field is leveled, differences are recognized, understood and honored. We learn about ourselves as much as we learn about others. There is a gracious sense of accomplishment as people find their places in our community of sound, as we learn to listen deeper, quiet our anxiety, support one another, play/sing off each other, and affirm the choices other people make by joining our voices with theirs.

People realize that roles change based on whether we're in a smaller or larger group, where in the room we choose to sit, how well or poorly we can hear what's going on around us, and about a zillion other variables. It's amazing how adaptable we are when we look for it, and what we can learn about ourselves in a roomful of people. The ways we can grow in compassion on the spot, even if we've never laid eyes on one another before are astonishingly lovely.

Here's a Rumi poem that was sent to me by someone after the conference. The Music That Makes Community conference was kinda like this:

Spring

Did you hear that winter’s over? The basil
and the carnations cannot control their

laughter. The nightingale, back from his
wandering, has been made singing master

over the birds. The trees reach out their
congratulations. The soul goes dancing

through the king’s doorway. Anemones blush
because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the
courtroom, and several December thieves steal

away, Last year’s miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in from non-

existence, galaxies scattered around their
feet. Have you met them? Do you hear the

bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle? A single
narcissus flower has been appointed Inspector

of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen: the
wind is pouring wine! Love used to hide

inside images: no more! The orchard hangs
out its lanterns. The dead come stumbling by

in shrouds. Nothing can stay bound or be
imprisoned. You say, “End this poem here,

and wait for what’s next.” I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music we are.



From The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing
by Jalal al-Din Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks

Poems and Prayers

I read a lot of poetry, but not too much. I once made the mistake of reading every book of poetry in the Brightwaters Public Library on Long Island in too short a time, and didn’t feel like reading any more poetry for a very long time. I read through the section one author at a time, and it might have been too much Robert Lowell that drove me from poetry, but there were others toward the end of the alphabet that were irksome as well. Lately, poetry comes once a week, making sure I read someone new, someone old, and someone borrowed. I occasionally skip the truly blue. Wasn’t it T. S. Eliot who said that humans cannot bear very much reality? Well, he was right. It's taken practice to remember that it’s easier to open to life’s more painful aspects, rather than just shutting down. I wish I’d begun that task a little sooner.


First thing this morning came the hard news of a friend in trouble. Seems this week has been filled with friends in trouble, strangers in trouble, countries in trouble, mothers and brothers in trouble; even I had my small share over the weekend. But this morning's news hit hard and shook me. So, I turned to poetry. I had been rereading Elizabeth Cunningham’s Small Bird: Poems and Prayers, specifically her poem Healing Song, in thanksgiving for my trouble leaving me in peace, but this morning I opened the book again and I found this:

Broken Home

Everything is here to stay,
one with the place we forgot to call home.
Shake the dust from your feet
and it remains the ground beneath them.
There is only change, river becoming rain
becoming river, fallen leaves
feeding the roots of trees feeding leaves,
the slow redemption of rot.
It is the indestructible that destroys,
the things that won’t break down
that may break us – unless
we break first, as an egg shatters
to release the bird
or a seed splits open and
takes hold in the earth.


Healing Song

At your feet, the earth
In your womb, the sea
In your belly, the fire
At your center, the sun
In your heart, the flower
In your throat, the sky
On your brow, the moon
At your crown, the star
In your hands, the earth.


It's funny how I never really saw these two were on facing pages until this morning. I suppose I never needed them at the same time before. Be well.

Elizabeth Cunningham is the author of The Maeve Chronicles, trilogy (so far) about the Celtic Mary Magdalen, and much beautiful poetry.