Metaphors

I took a walk this morning. On my way back, a neighbor I don’t often talk to waved me down. She was refilling her bird feeders, but set her task aside to get closer to where I stood on the road.

We exchanged greetings and then talked about . . . hair. And somehow, hair and hair management was the metaphor for all the big things: connections and interdependence, the difference between isolation and solitude, the truth of our fragility and the truth of our resilience.

It reminded me of this poem:

I Confess
I stalked her
in the grocery store: her crown
of snowy braids held in place by a great silver clip,
her erect bearing, radiating tenderness,
the way she placed yogurt and avocados in her basket,
beaming peace like the North Star.
I wanted to ask, "What aisle did you find
your serenity in, do you know
how to be married for fifty years, or how to live alone,
excuse me for interrupting, but you seem to possess
some knowledge that makes the earth burn and turn on its axis—"
but we don’t request such things from strangers
nowadays. So I said, "I love your hair."

~Alison Luterman (her website is here: https://www.alisonluterman.net/)

I love this poem for the way it highlights the rich interior connections we make with others and the mundane greetings we send into the world pregnant with meaning. (I also love it because of the way it entered my world: a dozen years ago Todd got home from work and was emptying his pockets. He handed me a little wadded scrap of paper and said, “oh, this is for you! I thought you’d like it.” My first thought was that he was giving me a used tissue, but I carefully opened it to find this poem. He saw it inside a MAX train, on the wall, and wrote it down. Quite possibly the most romantic gesture of all time…)

I’ve been thinking that maybe many of our divisions are because we forget that we are a metaphorical people. We forget about the deep, rich interiors of one another. So, this month of May I am on the lookout for those current cultural metaphors that we use when we don’t have words to say:

• you are amazing

• you are beautiful

• I don’t know how to help

• I don’t know how to make it better

• I see you

I would love to hear from you. What cultural metaphors are you noticing?

And, seriously… I LOVE your hair.

Breaking Habits

Mid-January 2014 I arrived early to a William Stafford Centennial event where his son, Kim Stafford, would be speaking and reading excerpts of his father’s work. William Stafford was Oregon's Poet Laureate for awhile and so 100 years after his birth there were celebratory events all over the state. He is famous here, but I came to appreciate him through the writings of his son. Kim Stafford wrote my favorite book on writing and teaches at a local university. I am such a fan of Kim Stafford's writing that eventually I started reading his greatest influence, his dad…and that title of Poet Laureate was well-bestowed.

My ticket would have gotten me into the venue, but I was so early they just waved me in with the kitchen crew. In the days leading up to this event I sent approximately 91 texts to a variety of people with the words “I’m going to meet Kim Stafford!!!!!” I sat down in the front row to wait.

Soon, a man who seemed to barely contain his own excitement at being alive sat down next to me. We talked about the merits of William Stafford’s poetry versus his essays, about Kim Stafford’s writings, about children and the remarkable fragility of life, about the remarkable resilience of life, about the forest-not-too-far-from-here and about public libraries in rural towns in Oregon. The venue filled around us and Official People arrived. At some point I introduced myself, “I’m Michelle.” He smiled and shook my hand, “Brian,” he laughed. And so we continued to enjoy each other’s company until a well-dressed woman approached us and said, “We’re ready for you Mr. Doyle.”

And those who are familiar with Brain Doyle’s work will nod right now and say, “yes, yes, how very like him.” He had a way of observing the ordinary so intensely that he forgot himself in the experience of it. His writing continues to be a daily invitation to me to notice the sacred in the ordinary.

This week I have been inundated with articles on developing habits, maintaining habits and limiting habits. This is the first week of the New Year and fresh starts and resolutions are part of the predictable wave of articles in my news feed. Habits are the things that help us to move through the world more efficiently, more quickly. We can use our brains for other things because they are not being overworked by noticing everything or by having to make decisions about everything. Habits make up the bulk of our days and we rarely stop to consider them. They make us productive and competent…and blind. The essay I read this morning was Brian Doyle’s meditation on…dirt. Even as I type that it makes me smile. He is the kind of witness I want to be—an observer who stops and notices and wonders. Who notices the way wind feels, or dirt smells, the way someone laughs, or hides. Who wonders about what God is doing in this Holy Moment.

If you have never had the joy of experiencing Brian Doyle, here are my current top two favorites (note: I do NOT participate in any affiliate program, these link to Amazon for your convenience but you might find them elsewhere for a better price and buying through these links does not benefit me at all in any way):

A Book of Uncommon Prayer

One Long River of Song (the essay for tomorrow begins like this: My daughter, age 6, sleeps with her bear, also age 6. My son, age 3, sleeps with his basketball and a stuffed tiger, age unknown. My other son, also age 3, sleeps with a can of anchovy fillets…)

Savor slowly and with delight.