Would you believe I’ve been looking for rain, here, with few days remaining in this fleeting season of summer? Our days are numbered that we might share with the sun in a clear blue sky and the hours growing warmer, and I have kept an eye out for the clouds. Only I wish for the conditions and doubt that might send us all deep inside our dark homes to sleep and read and pray in preparation for the coming colder days. Would you believe that the sight of slate gray spanning horizon to zenith and down is one I am quite taken with? ~David K. Wheeler “The Cold Season” from Contingency Plans
My mother, who hates thunder storms, Holds up each summer day and shakes It out suspiciously, lest swarms Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there; But when the August weather breaks And rains begin, and brittle frost Sharpens the bird-abandoned air, Her worried summer look is lost,
And I her son, though summer-born And summer-loving, none the less Am easier when the leaves are gone Too often summer days appear Emblems of perfect happiness I can’t confront: I must await A time less bold, less rich, less clear: An autumn more appropriate. ~Philip Larkin “Mother, Summer, I”
Summer grass aches and whispers.
It wants something; it calls and sings; it pours out wishes to the overhead stars.
The rain hears; the rain answers; the rain is slow coming; the rain wets the face of the grass. ~Carl Sandberg “Summer Grass”
August rushes by like desert rainfall, A flood of frenzied upheaval, Expected, But still catching me unprepared. Like a match flame Bursting on the scene, Heat and haze of crimson sunsets. Like a dream Of moon and dark barely recalled, A moment, Shadows caught in a blink. Like a quick kiss; One wishes for more But it suddenly turns to leave, Dragging summer away. – Elizabeth Maua Taylor“August”
The endless clear skies of August now broken with exuberant clouds, rain falling in warm gusts, leaves landing on browned ground.
This summer ended up being simply too much – an excess of everything bright and beautiful, meant to make us joyful, yet bold and exhausting in its riches.
From endless hours of daylight, to high rising temperatures and wildfires, to palettes of smoke-filled landscapes to fruitfulness and abundant blooms.
While summer always fills a void after enduring cold spare dark days the rest of the year, I still depend on autumn returning.
I welcome darkening times back, knowing how much I miss those drear twilight months of longing for the overwhelming fullness of summer.
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It’s ripe, the melon by our sink. Yellow, bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes the house too sweetly. At five I wake, the air mournful in its quiet. My wife’s eyes swim calmly under their lids, her mouth and jaw relaxed, different. What is happening in the silence of this house? Curtains hang heavily from their rods. Ficus leaves tremble at my footsteps. Yet the colors outside are perfect– orange geranium, blue lobelia. I wander from room to room like a man in a museum: wife, children, books, flowers, melon. Such still air. Soon the mid-morning breeze will float in like tepid water, then hot. How do I start this day, I who am unsure of how my life has happened or how to proceed amid this warm and steady sweetness? ~Albert Garcia “August Morning” from Skunk Talk
I know I am getting old and I say so, but I don’t think of myself as an old man. I think of myself as a young man with unforeseen debilities. Time is neither young nor old, but simply new, always counting, the only apocalypse. And the clouds —no mere measure or geometry, no cubism, can account for clouds or, satisfactorily, for bodies. There is no science for this, or art either. Even the old body is new—who has known it before?—and no sooner new than gone, to be replaced by a body yet older and again new. The clouds are rarely absent from our sky over this humid valley, and there is a sycamore that I watch as, growing on the riverbank, it forecloses the horizon, like the years of an old man. And you, who are as old almost as I am, I love as I loved you young, except that, old, I am astonished at such a possibility, and am duly grateful. ~ Wendell Berry “VII.” from Leavings.
…today, the unseen was everything. The unknown, the only real fact of life. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered. ~Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
How do I start this day when I am unsure of the immense unknown?
I begin by looking. I live with wonder and astonishment; yet another morning has been gifted to me.
Even if sleep proved elusive, the air through the windows still warm at midnight. When even a melon-colored sky looks dry along with everything beneath it.
When wildfire smoke still drifts in on waves from the north and east, both obscuring and rounding the sharp edges of mountain peaks.
I wonder, grateful, for the sweetness on this tepid summer morning offering itself to me.
I’m here. I look, I live, I wonder. Let the day begin, opening up into the immense unknown.
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To look into the eye of a horse is to see a reflection of yourself that you might’ve forgotten. No grief was big enough not to be washed clean in your horse’s eye. ~Gillian Mears from Foal’s Bread
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands
…whenever you mark a horse, or a dog, with a peculiarly mild, calm, deep-seated eye, be sure he is an Aristotle or a Kant, tranquilly speculating upon the mysteries in man. No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses. They see through us at a glance. But there is a touch of divinity …. and a special halo about a horse… ~Herman Melville from Redburn: His First Voyage
Two whistles, one for each, and familiar sounds draw close in darkness— cadence of hoof on hardened bottomland, twinned blowing of air through nostrils curious, flared. They come deepened and muscular movements conjured out of sleep: each small noise and scent heavy with earth, simple beyond communion…
…and in the night, their mares’ eyes shine, reflecting stars, the entire, outer light of the world here. ~Jane Hirschfield from “After Work”
There is a moment after you move your eye away when you forget where you are because you’ve been living, it seems, somewhere else, in the silence of the night sky.
You’ve stopped being here in the world. You’re in a different place, a place where human life has no meaning.
You’re not a creature in a body. You exist as the stars exist, participating in their stillness, their immensity. ~Louise Glück from “Telescope” in Averno
It’s tempting to fall headfirst into each eye’s fathomless well – These eyes rivet me as they search my own: a retinal magnet drawing me into such incalculable depths.
Yet I am merely reflected like starlight; only dancing on this shining mirrored surface when I long to dive deep to understand what they see in me: so lost I long to be found.
In truth I am puzzled most in life by nine horses.
Two are on one side of the fence and seven on the other side.
They stare at one another from the same places hours and hours each day.
This is another unanswerable question to haunt us with the ordinary.
We live far out in the country where I hear creature voices night and day.
Like us they are talking about their lives on this brief visit to earth.
In truth each day is a universe in which we are tangled in the light of stars.
Stop a moment. Think about these horses in their sweet-smelling silence. ~Jim Harrison from “Horses”
What is this life is, full of care We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty’s glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. ~William Henry Davies “Leisure”
Fingers of twilight shadow begin to reach over the hill crawling down through the field up unto the bank of blackberries covering fences along the alder grove.
Our horses chew their last clover leafs before coming to the barn for night, eyelids heavy, relaxed and full, drowsy with summer evening peace at hand and hoof.
A sudden change in the air forces their heads up and ears forward; they form a line, standing and staring at the hilltop above them, riveted to the spot, alert to an incoming intruder, unfamiliar and foreign.
The roar is intermittent, like a warm wind rattling a barn roof, but inconstant; then peaking over the crest of the hill a rounded top of technicolor glory:
The hot air balloon rises.
The horses riveted, baffled, fascinated; no wild instinct prepares their response to this wizard’s act from Oz in their own backyard.
The basket riders wave and laugh at the equine audience below standing in formation with golden noses in the air and white manes blowing in the breeze.
The balloon summits the hill, dipping low, almost touchable before moving back up to race the sunset, and search out other pastures, other valleys and hills.
The horses released from the spell of “stand and stare” leap in response, snowy tails high, noses flared-
To race up the hill to capture impending darkness, our night-mares cavort, float suspended until their air is let out, gently, in softening snorts, to settle down in a straw bed in the barn where night, becomes blissfully ordinary again.
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When it snows, he stands at the back door or wanders around the house to each window in turn and watches the weather like a lover. O farm boy, I waited years for you to look at me that way. Now we’re old enough to stop waiting for random looks or touches or words, so I find myself watching you watching the weather, and we wait together to discover whatever the sky might bring. ~Patricia Traxler “Weather Man”
My father was a skywatcher, cloud-noter, wind-gauger,
trained since birth to check the weather first thing and last. In those last
dim years when all else had left mind and memory, he’d still stare keenly out the car window
as I drove him to neurologist or podiatrist, and exclaim with joy and
satisfaction: Look at those clouds! And I knew right then that watching the sky
was a good way to conduct a life– that reading the outlines of clouds,
lifting a finger to the pulse of breeze coming your way,
is what can hold you close, clasp you tight to the thrum. ~Wendy Ingersoll “Weatherman”
My farm boy still looks at me that way, wondering if today will bring a storm, or a scorcher, or a deluge, and I reassure him as best I can, because he knows me so well in our many years together:
today, like nearly every other day, will be mostly cloudy with occasional sun breaks.
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How beautiful the things are that you did not notice before! A few sweetclover plants Along the road to Bellingham, Culvert ends poking out of driveways, Wooden corncribs, slowly falling, What no one loves, no one rushes towards or shouts about, What lives like the new moon, And the wind Blowing against the rumps of grazing cows. ~Robert Bly from “Like the New Moon I Will Live My Life”
“A devout but highly imaginative Jesuit,” Untermeyer says in my yellowed college omnibus of modern poets, perhaps intending an oxymoron, but is it? Shook foil, sharp rivers start to flow. Landscape plotted and pieced, gray-blue, snow-pocked begins to show its margins. Speeding back down the interstate into my own hills I see them fickle, freckled, mounded fully and softened by millennia into pillows. The priest’s sprung metronome tick-tocks, repeating how old winter is. It asks each mile, snow fog battening the valleys, what is all this juice and all this joy? ~Maxine Kumin “Almost Spring, Driving Home, Reciting Hopkins”
The Robert Bly poem reminds me to see in a new way as I travel the road to Bellingham, Washington (not Bly’s Bellingham, Minnesota).
My eyes scan for the unnoticed and unremarkable, along these rural byways I traveled decades to work, now only to meetings or shopping – when feeling the need to wander and wonder.
Forty years ago in my twice-daily hour-long Seattle traffic commute to reach my clinic, I could only pay attention to the cars around me, blinkered to all else happening.
Since moving north to Whatcom County, I try to notice what small things I might keep handy in my memory for another day, like a jar of canned peaches in our root cellar, just so I won’t forget, ready to pull them off the shelf someday so I might share their sweetness with someone else.
photo by Joel DeWaard
Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement. …to get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed. ~Abraham Joshua Hershel
photo by Harry Rodenberger
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The evening comes slowly over us, over the cardinal and the wren still feeding, over the swallows suddenly swooping to snatch up mosquitoes
over the marsh where the green sedge lately has a tawny tinge over two yearlings bending long necks to nibble hillock bushes
finally separate from their doe mother. A late hawk is circling against the sky streaked lavender. The breeze has quieted, vanished
into leaves that still stir a bit like a cat turning round before sleep. Distantly a car passes and is gone. Night gradually
unrolls from the east where the ocean slides up and down the sand leaving seaweed tassels: a perfect world for moments. ~Marge Piercy “June 15th, 8pm”from Made in Detroit
So many fleeting moments pass by me, a shower of raindrops disappearing into a stream — I can’t capture and hold them. They run through my fingers like water, leaving behind a damp residue of remembrance.
Yet each a moment of perfection, even as I lose my grasp on it. Perhaps a written word or recorded photo, elusive as the relentless flow of time itself.
A moment gifted by God, a moment breathed, a moment observed, a moment vanished, lived fully, yet never to come again.
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O! my heart now feels so cheerful as I go with footsteps light In the daily toil of my dear home; And I’ll tell to you the secret that now makes my life so bright— There’s a flower at my window in full bloom.
It is radiant in the sunshine, and so cheerful after rain; And it wafts upon the air its sweet perfume. It is very, very lovely! May its beauties never wane— This dear flower at my window in full bloom.
Nature has so clothed it in such glorious array, And it does so cheer our home, and hearts illume; Its dear mem’ry I will cherish though the flower fade away— This dear flower at my window in full bloom.
Oft I gaze upon this flower with its blossoms pure and white. And I think as I behold its gay costume, While through life we all are passing may our lives be always bright Like this flower at my window in full bloom. ~Lucian Watkins“The Flower at My Window”from Voices of Solitude
Details of the life of poet Lucian Watkins are few: a black man born in 1879 in Virginia, educated as a teacher, a writer and poet, then served as a U.S. Army Sergeant during WWI in the Philippines and France, dying of an unknown illness in Fort McHenry hospital in 1921.
He leaves behind only a handful of poems, including the one above.
Among the sparse information available about Lucian are three letters written by him. This was a young man who earnestly wanted to have both a writing career and a “bread-winning vocation.” He describes feeling compelled to compose poetry, no matter what else he accomplishes.
The obvious challenges he faced – –as a black man looking for a suitable place to live in Illinois so he can attend a college where there are no other people of color nearby, –as a veteran of a most horrific war, –as a creative mind trying to find a way to make a living.
He writes passionately about the aspirational purity of a white flower outside his window. Its bright radiance represents what he longs for in his own life.
From his letter to President Bissell of Bissell Colleges in Effingham, Illinois in 1919 after President Bissell is unable to assist in finding him a place to live, having suggested that the war veteran might consider “doing light housekeeping” – essentially live as a servant in a white household:
“About this matter of a boarding place. While I had hoped to obtain board with a member of my own race in Effingham, I had not thought it imperative that I should do so. I feel sure that there is enough Christianity in Effingham to provide that a brother-stranger in their midst shall not die of hunger.
What would Jesus do?
It seems that some places in the south they rise more readily to our American ideal of democracy than in the North and Middle-West. ‘The Richmond Planet’ of Richmond, Va., states that ‘right here in Richmond, the capital of the late Confederacy, colored soldiers are welcomed to aristocratic Westhampton, and with no sigh of racial discrimination or antipathy to their being there.’
What is the matter with Illinois?
I am not sure as to what your question involves. We shall talk it over when I arrive. There must be a way that is just and that will be good for all concerned. Very respectfully, signed Lucian B. Watkins“
**This man was not only a poet. He was a statesman.**
And a few months later, to the Editor of Crisis Magazine, the publication for the NAACP:
I have tried my best to forget poetry since being here – this with the hope I could the better prepare for a sure-enough bread-winning vocation. But the spell is on me again. With me, this thing is a madness. I hope you understand me, as it is really a painful matter that I have never expressed to anyone before. I have always felt that people can never know as to what this fever means.
Had I the world to give, I would give it freely for my ability to concentrate my mental and physical forces on real money-earning work as I seem compelled to do in the making of a quatrain. Now unless I can get away from this verse-making obsession, I must fail in everything, because success as a poet means very little, in a material way, even for those who are called masters in the art.
I hope you will pardon me for this much of your time I have taken.
Though Lucian Watkins’ life was cut short by an unknown illness, and his portfolio of poetry is small, he is nonetheless a gift to generations of future poets and readers.
This black artist did not let the inevitable rainfall in his life discourage his world view; he himself is radiant with illumination, showing a budding cheerfulness. His work reminds us:
Something as simple as observing a resilient flower outside our window can help heal painful hurts and fulfill our deepest longing.
Something as basic as seeing life through different perspectives or lenses can make all the difference in how we feel about our existence.
In his writing, Lucian Watkins draws a thin line between joy and sorrow, embracing joy in a simple white flower in full bloom — before it, as will we all, fades away.
From this low-lying valley; Oh, how sweet And cool and calm and great is life, I ween, There on yon mountain-throne—that sun-gold crest!
From this uplifted, mighty mountain-seat: How bright and still and warm and soft and green Seems yon low lily-vale of peace and rest! ~Lucian Watkins “Two Points of View”
Flower gleam and glow let your power shine make the Clock reverse bring back what once was mine What once was mine Heal what has been hurt change the fate’s design Save what has been lost bring back what once was mine what once was mine ~Healing Song from Tangled
Some of the people of Jerusalem therefore said, “Is not this the man whom they seek to kill? And here he is, speaking openly, and they say nothing to him! Can it be that the authorities really know that this is the Christ? But we know where this man comes from, and when the Christ appears, no one will know where he comes from.”
So Jesus proclaimed, as he taught in the temple, “You know me, and you know where I come from. But I have not come of my own accord. He who sent me is true, and him you do not know. I know him, for I come from him, and he sent me.”
So they were seeking to arrest him, but no one laid a hand on him, because his hour had not yet come.Yet many of the people believed in him. They said, “When the Christ appears, will he do more signs than this man has done?”
The Pharisees heard the crowd muttering these things about him, and the chief priests and Pharisees sent officers to arrest him. Jesus then said, “I will be with you a little longer, and then I am going to him who sent me.You will seek me and you will not find me. Where I am you cannot come.”
The Jews said to one another, “Where does this man intend to go that we will not find him? Does he intend to go to the Dispersion among the Greeks and teach the Greeks?
What does he mean by saying, ‘You will seek me and you will not find me,’ and, ‘Where I am you cannot come’?” John 7:25-36
Where is my God ? what hidden place Conceals Thee still? What covert dare eclipse Thy face? Is it Thy will?
O let not that of anything; Let rather brass, Or steel, or mountains be Thy ring, And I will pass.
Thy will such a strange distance is, As that to it East and West touch, the poles do kiss, And parallels meet. ~George Herbert from “The Search”
I try to find you, yet you are not here. I’ve studied absence, fought to fill it in – courage comes easier with a grasp of why.
A secret’s camouflaged when unconcealed. I chose to not see/saw the thing too near? Absence turns thicker, muscled by its strain.
A moon in daylight, whitest blue on blue, surprises briefly, to appear surreal until it slips to rights…
… plain sight goes blind through chasing clarity. I looked for you, so couldn’t see you gone.
I sensed your not-there in its burning life. I listened out to feel its silence beat. It does not speak with any human mouth. ~Denise Riley from “Hiding in Plain Sight” from Say Something Back
Jesus arrived in Jerusalem in plain sight to the people there, but they did not trust what they saw Him do nor trust His Words, unable to fathom He could be the long-awaited Christ.
Their partial understanding of who they believe the Christ would be blinds them to the Christ who is right before their eyes.
Later on, the resurrected Jesus – appearing as a gardener, a stranger on the road to Emmaus, a figure cooking fish over a charcoal fire on the beach – is the Christ hidden in plain sight.
Jesus’ presence among us – a paradox from beginning to end. Our limited vision and knowledge challenge us to accept His divinity when we see only the man. Yet He is so much more…
The veil pulls back to show us who He is.
I am reading slowly through the words in the Book of John over the next year alongside my church family. Once a week, I will invite you to “come and see” what those words might mean as we explore His promises together.
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There is weather on the day you are born and weather on the day you die. There is the year of drought, and the year of floods, when everything rises and swells, the year when winter will not stop falling, and the year when summer lightning burns the prairie, makes it disappear. There are the weathervanes, dizzy on top of farmhouses, hurricanes curled like cats on a map of sky: there are cows under the trees outlined in flies. There is the weather that blows a stranger into town and the weather that changes suddenly: an argument, a sickness, a baby born too soon. Crops fail and a field becomes a study in hunger; storm clouds billow over the sea; tornadoes appear like the drunk trunks of elephants. People talking about weather are people who don’t know what to say and yet the weather is what happens to all of us: the blizzard that makes our neighborhoods strange, the flood that carries away our plans. We are getting ready for the weather, or cleaning up after the weather, or enduring the weather. We are drenched in rain or sweat: we are looking for an umbrella, a second mitten; we are gathering wood to build a fire. ~Faith Shearin “Weather” from Orpheus, Turning.
On the planet the winds are blowing: the polar easterlies, the westerlies, the northeast and southeast trades… Lick a finger, feel the now. ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
I’m still discovering, right up to this moment, that it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. I mean living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing, we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God. ~Dietrich Bonhoeffer from The Cost of Discipleship
Never before in the history of humanity have we had the ability to pull the weather forecast out of our pocket and know not only what to anticipate in the next 24 hours or 10 days, but even what is happening right now.
Prior to phone apps, we scanned the skies, checked the barometer, looked at where the weather vane points, monitored the thermometer, and put a licked finger up to test the wind direction.
As obsolete as those measures seem now, I confess they still make sense to me.
It’s a little silly if my phone says it is raining at “my location” and I can’t find a single cloud.
I want to know what is happening around me from my own observation, trust my own eyes, feel my own sweat in the heat, my chilly goose bumps in the cold, my wet head in the rain, my hair messy in the wind.
I want to know we’re all in this together, right now.
I want to live completely in this world, living now, finger held to the wind.
Then, having the information I need, I throw myself completely into the arms of God.
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