An Oasis of Peace
I spent four October days in St. Paul, MN.
I taught writing classes at Wisdom Ways Center for Spirituality. My cello went with me, and together we sang Pablo Casal’s Song of the Birds, and an Appalachian Melody. People wrote, listened, breathed. Together, we created sanctuary.
A sanctuary is a place of refuge, a haven. In a class of twenty-five, quiet was intense. I heard pencils mummer on pages. When sharing our writing with the group, there was quiet respect for the Word. (Yes, with a capital “W”.)
We read e.e. cummings poem, “i thank you god for most this amazing /day”, a poem from lucille clifton, writings of Evelyn Underhill, an Anglican theologian who wrote in 1937. Her book, The Spiritual Life, is a mainstay of my classes. Black Elk came into our meeting place with his wisdom, “The holy land is everywhere.” The mood of the classroom was reverent.
Here is the poem by lucille clifton:
when I stand round
among poets, sometimes
I hear a single music
in us, one note
dancing us through the
singular moving world.
This is lucille at a poetry reading, knowing herself to be part of the music. I wrote a similar poem at a Malaprops reading, before I knew lucille’s poem.
I feel good with these
strangers
gathered in this
church of poetry
hearing the Word
believing every
divine syllable.
A friend of mine in Minnesota went to a reading by Seamus Heaney. Charles Preble is a retired Episcopal priest, and master carpenter. He mailed this poem to Seamus, and received a reply three days before Mr. Heaney died. Here’s Charles’ poem:
Seamus Heaney
On that wind-full night, the hall
was full to hear your voice,
and I was keen to listen. Your
words, your brogue, came
blurred, my hearing clogged.
I heard a wordless ocean
I heard the voice of waves,
which swayed my boat of skin,
tolled my bones; cadences,
and silences, rolling,
rocking me in an Irish sea.
At close I rose to give you
applause. I had heard
a deeper sound which
took me into a sea
uncharted and free. Your
books for sale, Human Chain,
District and Circle, charts to sail
me home. And still I hear your
ocean call as on that wind-full night.
On this visit, the Minnesota sky did its usual magnificent tricks — clouds and sunsets. Highway scenery boasted Brontosaurus-sized machines harvesting soybeans, grains, and corn. Autumn is ahead of us there, in full glory.
When my husband and I travel, we get off the interstate and often ramble about, this time, along the Mississippi River. We stopped to watch barges maneuver locks and dams. We had our pictures taken with trolls and Vikings (not the football team) in a city park.
We brought home Minnesota pumpkins and colorful corn for our front door. There was breakfast and cookies from a cousin and Aunt, ninety-eight years old, to give us strength for the journey. And… there were tigers! (We listened to The Life of Pi, by Yann Martel.)
I didn’t know this article was about gratitude until I re-read and revised. There’s gratitude for readers, listeners, tigers, silence, sanctuary, and yes, this opportunity to share my trip.
Opportunities abound, not only in Minnesota, but right here in Western North Carolina. Visit your favorite independent book store. Head to a library. Read William Stafford, Mary Oliver, T. S. Eliot, R. S. Thomas, Scott Owen, Sharon Olds, Tommy Hays. These poets, hearing lucille’s “music,” create sanctuary. Their work is intimate; revealing. Read. Listen to the small voice inside you. Listen well. Write it.
I took photographs of Minnesota clouds. I wrote poems, too. The poems put me “there,” more clearly than the photos. I can not only “see” but feel and know the place.
October
In the field
the corn dance begins it’s dry
rattle, awaits the vicious combine,
all blade and chop.
The honey-gold grain pelt stretches
to the horizons.
~ Carol Pearce Bjorlie
