visible, invisible
for advent, i'm feasting...but not in the usual way. oh yes, i like eating, quite a lot. but i've learned about myself that just as--if not more--important than food and water is taking in beauty. mainly in images and words. i love this time of year because i use the symbols around me (visible) to enjoy their even more important meaning (invisible). i recently discovered the poet wendell berry who, i think, would be the happy combination (and i mean this as a compliment) of the: farmer next door + mary oliver + gerard manley hopkins + william wordworth plus maybe a dash of william stafford. naturally i love berry's reverent irreverence and have collected a few of my favorite lines from reading, fire-side...the full poems (unless otherwise noted) are in his collection entitled "leavings".
-(on the older generation in town) in their rest and quiet talk there was peace that was almost heavenly, peace never to be forgotten, never again quite to be imagined, but peace above all else that we have longed for.
-(on birds) think of it! to fly by mere gift, without the clamor and stain of our inert metal, in perfect trust.
-(on his lifetime friend arthur) to be on horseback with him and free, lost in time, found in place, early Sunday morning, was plain delight.
-(on hope) that we may know the small immortal joy of beasts and birds.
-(on poetry itself) there! where the aerial columbine brightens on its slender stalk. walk, poem. watch, and make no noise.
-(sabbath walk in the forest) Gratitude for the gifts of all the living and the unliving, gratitude which is the greatest gift, quietest of all, passes to me through the trees.
X (on love)
i love the passing light upon this valley now green
in early summer as i watch late in life.
and upon the one by whom i live, who is herself a light,
the light is passing as she works in the garden in the quiet.
the past light i love, but even more the passing light.
to this love, we give our work.
XII
learn by little the desire for all things which perhaps is not desire at all
but undying love which perhaps is not love at all
but gratitude for the being of al things which perhaps is not gratitude at all
but the maker's joy in what is made,
the joy in which we come to rest.
but what is made by destruction comes down at last to a stable floor, a bed of straw, and for those with sight light in darkness.
-(on the older generation in town) in their rest and quiet talk there was peace that was almost heavenly, peace never to be forgotten, never again quite to be imagined, but peace above all else that we have longed for.
-(on birds) think of it! to fly by mere gift, without the clamor and stain of our inert metal, in perfect trust.
-(on his lifetime friend arthur) to be on horseback with him and free, lost in time, found in place, early Sunday morning, was plain delight.
-(on hope) that we may know the small immortal joy of beasts and birds.
-(on poetry itself) there! where the aerial columbine brightens on its slender stalk. walk, poem. watch, and make no noise.
-(sabbath walk in the forest) Gratitude for the gifts of all the living and the unliving, gratitude which is the greatest gift, quietest of all, passes to me through the trees.
X (on love)
i love the passing light upon this valley now green
in early summer as i watch late in life.
and upon the one by whom i live, who is herself a light,
the light is passing as she works in the garden in the quiet.
the past light i love, but even more the passing light.
to this love, we give our work.
XII
learn by little the desire for all things which perhaps is not desire at all
but undying love which perhaps is not love at all
but gratitude for the being of al things which perhaps is not gratitude at all
but the maker's joy in what is made,
the joy in which we come to rest.
but what is made by destruction comes down at last to a stable floor, a bed of straw, and for those with sight light in darkness.
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