contemplation (a poem)
a little poem-share on this Tuesday afternoon
Hello friends! I’ve been deep in road trip- and MFA-land for the last few weeks. I’m having such a good time at my first residency—when it wraps up this weekend I’ll be sad to leave, and glad to get home again, both at once.
One thing I got to do last night is participate in student readings with my classmates. I shared this piece, one I’m proud of, and a poem called “Contemplation” that I wrote around the same time. They’re not necessarily meant to be read together, but they pair nicely. I love this poem and I love sharing it with people, so I figured I’d share it here with you.
Peace to you! I hope you get to delight in something you love to do this week, and when the weekend comes that it brings you some measure of rest.
P.S. If you’re curious about contemplative prayer, I cannot recommend Martin Laird’s Into the Silent Land, a classic primer on the practice, highly enough.
Contemplation “A single vein of live tissue connects the [California juniper] root system along a skeleton of dead wood. Called a lifeline, this vein expands every year as the tree grows, adding rings that give a living record and timeline of the tree’s life.” — Lifelines Timelines pamphlet, Huntington Library & Gardens It’s about to start raining. He whispers secrets of the juniper tree. Hovers his hand over the generous curve of its rooted reaching. Gentle, he moves, his palm close over the crimson vein of its life. He speaks— That’s its lifeline. In drought, fire, the tree surrenders everything else keeping only its lifeline alive. This one’s over a thousand years old. I am split by a sudden desire. It’s all that’s left of me. I trace my palm, gently, over my inner heart. Over my inner heart I trace my palm, gently— it’s all that’s left of me. I am split by a sudden desire. This one’s over a thousand years old. Keeping only my lifeline alive I surrender everything else in drought, fire— That’s my lifeline my life. He speaks, his palm close over the crimson vein of my rooted reaching. Gentle, he moves over my generous curve, hovers his hand— Secrets of the juniper tree. It’s about to start raining, he whispers.