I have written
before about why I like carrying a book in my daily bag even if I know I might
not get to read it. There is something about the company of a known written
work that pleases me. When read in
different contexts or at different moments in time, the ideas, the language,
create new lacework for me to explore; and yet, the thread remains familiar.
There is a relationship between mind, heart, Word, and environment that is
creative. Doors open, veils drop, stone
walls tumble, the boat is launched. And
with the crack of a spine or the ‘shoof’ of a page, I have entered a space that
would not otherwise be available. So,
even when I don’t read the book in my bag, the possibility that it holds to
lead me into these spaces, is a potential I find pleasing.
That said,
there are other texts…those texts that are with me always, no matter the book
in my bag. The lines that are summoned
during a wonder; the memory of a book or reference that informs a conversation;
or a casual mention that has me recall—Oh yes, I remember meeting those lines,
that poet, that rhythm or sound…—and I find myself mentally unfolding a piece
of paper that had been saved but perhaps shuffled into a pile, or wad, of other
memories/references.
That happened
to me recently with a three-line Mary Oliver poem within a poem. The lines are widely known, and in fact,
known by heart by me; however, I hadn’t thought of them in a while.
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
—from the poem “Sometimes” in Redbird;
Beacon Press: Boston, 2009; p. 37—
At times, these
lines have helped me frame my curiosity, wonder, and passion for written
expression. Given the context of their
unfolding this time around—a gathering of 42 RSCJ ranging from their 30s-70s
who spent the weekend together in prayer, laughter, and sometimes challenging invitation,
in listening, and in meaningful conversation—I find in them a simple statement
of that to which I have given my life.
Pay attention…to God; to the world; to the neighbor;
to the mirror; to that which cries out, aches, is in need.
Be astonished… be filled with awe, be angry, weep,
gnash, act, learn, love, be open, be open, be open…to what is encountered.
Tell about it… Be affected, let the world affect me,
who I am and how I am; Act out of that; write out of that; proclaim out of that
in word and in deed and in the life lived
and the things loved and the ideals believed in (Janet Erskine Stuart,
RSCJ).
(And the
tatting begins anew…)
Which all
together calls to mind paragraph 4 of our Constitutions:
By our charism, we are consecrated/ to GLORIFYING
THE HEART OF JESUS: /we answer His call/to discover and reveal His love/
letting ourselves be transformed by His Spirit/ so as to live united and
conformed to Him,/ and through our love and service/ to radiate the very love
of His Heart.
As well as the
poem, Famous by poet Naomi Shihab
Nye:
Famous
The river is famous to the
fish.
The loud voice is famous to
silence,
which knew it would inherit
the earth
before anybody said
so.
The cat sleeping on the
fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the
birdhouse.
The tear is famous,
briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to
your bosom
is famous to your
bosom.
The boot is famous to the
earth,
more famous than the dress
shoe,
which is famous only to
floors.
The bent photograph is
famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to
the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to
shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery
lines,
famous as the one who
smiled back.
I want to be famous in the
way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not
because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot
what it could do.
And
sometimes, to remember what that is, I find it helpful to write something down…to
add a few knots of life and language to the lacework that somehow draws
together what is lived, how it is lived and to what end, and the call to still
more…
a free-form act of Love in the world.
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