What We Nurture

In a recent show of On Being, Krista Tippett engaged in a long and wide-ranging discussion with Sylvia Boorstein. The Jewish-Buddhist teacher, mother, and grandmother speaks about loving and teaching children in a complex world. Unsurprisingly, she observes that, no matter what we try to impart through teaching, our children are most likely to grow up to mimic what we do and how we live in their own lives. Thus, if we want to find a way to nurture their spiritual lives, it is essential, then, that we nurture our own inner lives and growth. The show can be found here: http://being.publicradio.org/programs/2011/what-we-nurture/, where one can also hear Dr. Boorstein reading the following poem, which she identifies as one of her favorite pieces and that she says she always has with her when she travels. For me, it too speaks about What We Nurture.

Keeping Quiet

by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve 
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth, 
let's not speak in any language; 
let's stop for one second, 
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment 
without rush, without engines; 
we would all be together 
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea 
would not harm whales 
and the man gathering salt 
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars, 
wars with gas, wars with fire, 
victories with no survivors, 
would put on clean clothes 
and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused 
with total inactivity. 
Life is what it is about; 
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded 
about keeping our lives moving, 
and for once could do nothing, 
perhaps a huge silence 
might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves 
and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the earth can teach us 
as when everything seems dead 
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve 
and you keep quiet and I will go.

—from Extravagaria (translated by Alastair Reid, pp. 27-29, 1974)

Ambushed by Truth

For me, this poem is a reminder of how easily and often I forget the truth that, like all of my human brothers and sisters, I am a child of God, unique and perfect in my essence, needing only to share my love - my truth - to manifest that essence for myself and for the world.

Still
by A. R. Ammons

I said I will find what is lowly
and put the roots of my identity
down there:
each day I'll wake up
and find the lowly nearby,
a handy focus and reminder,
a ready measure of my significance,
the voice by which I would be heard,
the wills, the kinds of selfishness
I could
freely adopt as my own:

but though I have looked everywhere,
I can find nothing
to give myself to:
everything is

magnificent with existence, is in
surfeit of glory:
nothing is diminished,
nothing has been diminished for me:

I said what is more lowly than the grass:
ah, underneath,
a ground-crust of dry-burnt moss:
I looked at it closely
and said this can be my habitat: but
nestling in I
found
below the brown exterior
green mechanisms beyond the intellect
awaiting resurrection in rain: so I got up

and ran saying there is nothing lowly in the universe:
I found a beggar:
he had stumps for legs: nobody was paying
him any attention: everybody went on by:
I nestled in and found his life:
there, love shook his body like a devastation:
I said
though I have looked everywhere
I can find nothing lowly
in the universe:

I whirled though transfigurations up and down,
transfigurations of size and shape and place:

at one sudden point came still,
stood in wonder:
moss, beggar, weed, tick, pine, self, magnificent
with being!

Let's make s'mores!

Here in New Jersey, it's been a tough winter so far, mostly because we've had several storms in a row with lots of snow. Outside my office window, it's piled higher along the roadway than I recall seeing in a long time, and summer seems so, so far away. But it will come, and when it does we need to have a campfire..... nice sized, and some logs to sit on, or lean against. There should be a few guitars, and at least a few songs..........preferably ones we can sing along with........but not Kumbaya. And we should tell stories. It doesn’t matter about what. And jokes.......good, bad, even groaners would do. Most importantly, we should laugh.....even be a bit silly.......and stretch our legs, lean back, feel the warmth of the fire, and the group, and the moment. Later, we’ll sleep, listening to the breeze on the canvas of the tent, and the forest bedding down around us. You should come.........we’ll have fun.

Minding What Really Matters

Martha Beck shares some deep wisdom in this post, and there's also a wonderful poem from Mary Oliver, whose name keeps coming up over and over in my reading recently.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half perfect?
I will keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,
Which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished…
Which is gratitude,
to have been given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleep dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.