We read a poem this weekend that had to be written by a kindred. Her words spoke in my language, spoke in truth. I cannot find her complete poem on-line, though there are partial reprints. Elizabeth Carlson’s “Imperfections” can be found in this book, however. I dare not repost the perfect little poem in its entirety, what with copyright laws and all.
What I can post is my own writing, though. After listening to and with Carlson’s poem a bit, we got to go our solitary ways. I listen well when I am writing, when I am doing nearly anything. To listen for my own imperfections at a deeper level, I sat. I wrote. This is what surfaced. (I apologize in advance that I cannot get the spacing to change, so pardon the stanza run-on! I tried.)
“imPerfection”
I can sit with the ants in the dappled light
On this, another awe-inspiring autumn morning.
What mysteries might the breeze whisper in my ear?
What chatter does that strange creature
echo from my monkey brain?
Usually I listen for the wisdom I stumble upon,
Doing the tasks that need be done.
For once, at least,
I let myself
discover
my Self.
May the pen be my trowel
And my busy-ness the weeds
I remove from the soil.
The soil is rich and fertile.
Or maybe I fold the distractions
Away
With each shirt, pants, and sock.
Some thoughts need to dry in
Their own time.
No dirty nails this time to
Show for my effort.
Digging deep.
What are the treasures?
I cannot be rid of the roots from the species
Too invasive.
This is hard,
too hard.
But the longer I ignore them, the harder it gets
To let the soil be rich,
To appreciate the beauty
That is there if only
It, too, could obtain the resources
Stolen
by that which needs the
Persistent practice,
The daily tending.
It helps to name the
bermuda grasses of my being.
I cannot ignore the
Reality of money,
The need to connect with my family,
The limits of time.
I have to give up this idea of
Stagnant Perfection.
A garden is not a photograph.
It teems with
Life and Intention,
with Persistent Practice.
Blood and sweat, surely,
From the thorns and twigs of
Truth
Running
Deep.
I didn’t plant the oak tree there
Or the rose there.
Gifts of vulnerable strength and
Fragile beauty.
Timeless, both, and full of
Grace.
The mosquito offers its own poison
As it draws my blood,
Leaving the stinging itch
That will gnaw like the
Censor to challenge any
Gift I may unearth and
Lay claim to.
But it, too, will fade.
And even after my blood
Is dried and gone,
The earth remains to
Receive again
That which it gave.
Live into this cycle,
every moment.
Practice persistence with
Compassion
and
Gratitude,
whether with the harvest of the Earth
or the
Fruits of our wombs.
All is still and alive.
All is well.
This I am told.
