Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

Carl Sandburg

April is National Poetry Month. I have made it a practice for several years to blog about poetry. From celebrating the craft of Poet Laureates, to mining the riches of new poets’ work, to collecting Presidential Inaugural poems, to exploring the cracks and crevasses of my favorite poets’ verse, poetry has been root and bud, figure and ground, breath and imagination, blood and tears, grace and precision, hyacinth and biscuit.

Poems are everyday prayers. Let me explain. Paying attention can be painful. Our days can be beautiful and hard. Remembering to breathe can be too much. Poetry makes space for it all to be held and observed. Poet Ruth Forman writes about wearing prayers like shoes. Poems are my shoes. They are my as if, my I am, and my not yet. They are the generative force creating, building, remembering, connecting, and loving. 

I celebrate poetry this month and beyond. I celebrate falling asleep hearing Wynken, Blynken, and Nod 1,000 times as a child. I celebrate discovering Mary Oliver, Emily Dickinson, Adrienne Rich, Ada Limón … I celebrate all fearless, beautiful, heartbreaking poems and their poets. I celebrate the way poems explore the contours of language, leaving me breathless and amazed. I celebrate punctuation in a world where things fall apart and back together. I celebrate metaphor and simile in a world that celebrates literal. I celebrate magic in a world that celebrates the logical.

What I Keep Learning

She’s a rare soul healing herself by healing others. 

This message was painted on the side of a bridge along my walk this week. It made me think about the concept of healing — and how much I think about trauma, wounds, pain, and scar tissue. It made me think about the impact of healing on everyday life — and what it means to breathe and know. It made me think about the relationship between healing ourselves, each other, and our world — and that it is all intertwined, interrelated, and interdependent. It made me think about my reluctance to heal – and how that reluctance might be related to habit, fear, and shame.

I want to heal, be whole, and be healthy. I want to create all that in the world. Something tells me that healing starts with being present to myself—a presence born of compassion and honesty. A person committed to healing—and living a healthy and whole life—becomes part of the conversation between self and world that seeks to love and heal. 

The Presence of an Elderly Basset Hound

This week, an elderly basset hound kissed me while I was stretching after my walk. I was sitting on a step next to the wolf sculpture outside our back door. Bent over and reaching for my toes, he walked up and licked the side of my arm. I was immediately overcome with emotion (as I often am these days) and began to cry. The basset hound’s mother immediately explained that he was 15 and very affectionate. Seeing that I was crying, she asked if I was alright. I told her I was and just appreciated the love. 

The dog’s presence so completely struck me. He must have sensed something in me that needed to be acknowledged and held. In his way, he was holding my pain. Animals do that. They seem to know the importance of resting in sunshine and how to comfort during the toughest times. The interaction probably took 30 seconds, leaving me in awe of the simple gesture. I will remember to pay attention, see, listen, and love.

What does it mean to witness?

My husband and I joined our neighborhood church on Easter Sunday. A small group of people spewing hate against LGBTQ+ people (who had protested outside our church weeks prior as well) decided to disrupt our service. Police officers managed to contain the disruption during the service. We celebrated Easter with an egg hunt, mimosas, and cake in front of the church after the service. The protest continued during our celebration, but our celebration was not derailed. 

It strikes me that our presence — standing together, surrounded in sunshine, sharing food and fellowship — was witness. Let me explain. I am speaking of witness as evidence or proof. In the face of hate, we were evidence of love in action. Surrounded by anger, we were proof of loving worship, connection, and celebration. It was fitting to witness on Easter — a day when the Holy is front and center and all around. There was something Holy about that day. Maybe an everyday resurrection occurred and hearts moved toward love. Maybe a gentle springtime miracle washed over us and washed away hate. Maybe, in witnessing, we were creating the loving world we seek.

Paying Attention

— Hank Aaron’s record breaking home run

— Best Images of the Solar Eclipse

— Eclipse Reflections from The New Yorker Daily Newsletter

— National Poetry Month

— “Prayers Like Shoes” — Ruth Forman