ABOUT THANKSGIVING

My friend, the poet, sends two fine poems.  The first made me smile.  The second sounds a more serious note.

Wild 1, Early Riser 0

something breaking

crunch   scraping    bang of metal

oh! out of the edge of sleep   cold

recognition     awake

just ice removal beyond the window

that time of year now   officially

    screaming   cursing     must get up to see

ha! knew there were some around

further out of town

wild turkey attacking the man

clearing glazed, dusted suv

count nine of them flitting  dancing

annoyed by salt spreading truck

do not speak this dialect

of poultry   just the sound objecting

   “wicked oppressor,  wicked oppressor”

as Tom takes another run at handy human

wielding broom at feathers black and brown

        not connecting

root for the not genetically engineered

sleek and sturdy birds

hatless in a fresh wave of freezing sleet

count his running retreat to lobby

a win for the wild ones

(Marthe G. Walsh) 

 

Most Call It Thanksgiving …

Where there are humans, there are holidays,

celebrations of hunt, harvest, hubris

or just hope that harsh facts will cede to better ways.

With bonfire, sacrifice, feasting and prayer,

remembrance of triumph, thanks given for

seasons or old cycles washed in soap of new care,

the wanted, the wilted, both lost and found,

seem to crave reprieve from unsteady stream,

ordinary existence of life on this ground.

If one does not join in, heed herding’s call,

suspicion abounds, hints that rejection

lurks in lone contemplation, spoils for a joy fall,

but no, no, it is just a choice, a taste

for still moments to reflect and to think,

to note and to notice what was gained, what laid waste.

A Pilgrim is stranger, traveling light,

lost without some injustice to balance,

some truth to discover, some old wrong to set right.

It will not be grim, my Thanksgrieving fast,

for I am glad of many things, and, too,

aware that tradition can help oppression last.

(Marthe G. Walsh)

"MY BRIGHT ABYSS" - CHRISTIAN WIMAN

Where to begin with my attempt to write about My Bright Abyss, Christian Wiman's book, of meditations on God, life, death, poetry, Christianity?  To be honest, I don't know.  The episodes in my life that affect me deeply are often the most difficult to put into words.  Wiman's book falls into the category.  In the course of the many changes in how I view my faith and my relationship with God, Wiman and I seem to have arrived in a similar place, and I found myself saying a heartfelt, "Yes!" to nearly all that I read.  I'm not a poet, but I sometimes wish I was.  Perhaps the words would come.

Wiman's splendid book consists of a collection of brief meditations - the sort of book that's easy to put down at a convenient stopping point and later pick up where you left off without having to reorient yourself in a narrative.  Since my reading time often includes frequent interruptions, the book suits my practice well.  The two quotes below are examples of Wiman's words that leaped off  the page and took hold of me.

The frustration we all feel when trying to explain or justify God, whether to ourselves or to others, is a symptom of knowledge untethered from innocence, of words in which no silence lives, of belief occurring only on a human plane.  Innocence returns us to the first call of God, to any moment in our lives when we were rendered mute with awe, fear, wonder.  Absent this, there is no sense in arguing for God in order to convince others, for we ourselves are not convinced.

The moments of muteness with awe, fear, and wonder happen to me over and over in my life, most times when I least expect them, not frequently, but often enough to convince me that someone, something beyond myself moves me, interacts with me in a way that appears very like a loving relationship, which I choose to name a manifestation of the presence of God.  The temptation is great to want to grasp the sense of presence and hold on to it, but I've come to know that the moments are gifts for only a time, and I must let go.  Periods of silence are one way for me to be open to such moments, but silence will, at times, seem empty and bare, so there is no guarantee.  Grace - all is grace, and my part is to accept the gift of the felt presence of God with joy when comes.

To say that one must live in uncertainty doesn't begin to get at the tenuous, precarious nature of faith.  The minute you begin to speak with certitude about God, he is gone.  We praise people for having strong faith, but strength is only one part of that physical metaphor: one also needs flexibility.

The words under my blog title, "Faith is not certainty so much as it is acting-as-if in great hope," were not always true for me.  The earliest reference to the words that I've been able to find is from February 2009, which means that they've been the heading on Wounded Bird for at least four-plus years and have stood the test of time.  When I read Wiman's words, "To say that one must live in uncertainty doesn't begin to get at the tenuous, precarious nature of faith," I nod my head vigorously.

I heartily recommend Christian Wiman's book.  If you'd like to know more about the author, you may read his essay, "Love Bade Me Welcome."