don't eat alone

It’s a little after sunrise,
an early autumn morning—
a chill of hope in the air;
the sunrise is the color of stories.
Today is your birthday.
I’m still keeping count though you
are no longer celebrating:
eighty-eight.

I live in a house you never
visited, in a town you
never saw; I have a new
job you knew nothing of . . .
and I wonder about the life
you lived before me: the
twenty-eight summers and falls,
the stories I never heard.
We were father and son,
yet so much more.

I have been quiet for a long time, I know.

One of these things I learned about myself is I grew weary of feeling I needed to respond to the issues of the day—and by “needed” I mean allowing myself the luxury of thinking I had something that had to be said. I stay somewhat amazed at those who have articulate and lengthy posts and articles ready to actually meet the schedule of the twenty-four hour news cycle and the growing brevity of our cultural attention span. I am not among them. Rather than succumb to what felt like the tyranny of the immediate, I chose to stay quiet. Not silent. Quiet. To give myself room to learn to listen better, rather than to try to become better at the quick draw.

Even as I write, I realize it was not all by choice. I have been quiet these days because they have been full of change and challenge, of death and life. Though my mother has been dead nearly seven months, learning how to live as an orphan feels brand new. I am overjoyed at my new job as an editor, and the chance to work with words that matter for a living, and I am adjusting to moving from the extrovert havens of the classroom, kitchen, and retail store to the, well, quiet of my cubicle where most of my daily conversations happen on the page. I am seeing myself in new lights, finding space I have not known in years. The rhythms have changed; I am learning a new dance.

My new job means a lot of time on trains going back and forth between Guilford and New York, which means I have read more books in the last month and a half than I did in the year previous. My heart and mind feel full. I have remembered experientially that to write one must read. As I work on what I hope will be my next book—and a book about grief (I think), I am reading all over the place: reading because of the writer, because of the subject, because of the beauty of the language. And I am reading books for no particular purpose other than to take the journey. Even as these days feel framed by sadness, I am content.

The variety of reading has created conversations. In The Orphaned Adult, Alexander Levy offered these words: “Most of us don’t want to know how ordinary we are, especially in our suffering.” Today, as I was rereading Nora Gallagher’s Things Seen and Unseen, I heard her respond, “The road to the sacred is paved with the ordinary.”

When I posted Levy’s words on my Facebook page, a friend who is also a member of the Dead Dad’s Club wrote, “When my Dad died, I didn’t want my grief to be ordinary because I was afraid that would make my Dad ordinary, which he most certainly was not. None of us are ordinary in that sense – beautifully and uniquely created, right? So my loss, while relatable, isn’t ordinary. It is uniquely created as well, yes? I find myself totally agreeing and totally disagreeing with the statement. Thanks for sharing.”

I read her words and responded, “I feel the same way. What feels most uniquely ours is what connects us to one another.”

The continuing refrain I hear as I learn to sing the songs of hope and sadness that make up the soundtrack of our lives is that what is new to me is not new. On the days when I feel like nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, I only need to look down and notice I am walking a well-worn path; I am not alone, even in my loneliness. And even that is not an original observation. I heard it along the way and remembered.

Earlier this week, I rode the Number 1 train from Penn Station up to 110th Street and Cathedral Parkway to visit the Cathedral of St. John the Divine because I had never been there and because I want to feel like I do more than go to New York to work and then come home. As I was riding back, I saw a poster on the wall in my subway car for a promotion called “Poetry in Motion”. I read the poem and took a picture. Here is the text.

Here
by Gary Snyde

In the dark
(The new moon long set)

A soft grumble in the breeze
Is the sound of a jet so high
It’s already long gone by

Some planet
Rising from the east shines
Through the trees

It’s been years since I thought

Why are we here?

A couple of stops later, a young couple got on the train—and by young, I mean teenagers. They were both dressed in black. His hair was curly on top and shaved to a fade on the sides. She had long black hair and bright red lipstick. Urban kids. They stared and talked only to each other, and then he saw the poster. He read the poem and then took out his camera, just as I had done. “I did that, too,” I said. He offered a faint smile and returned his focus to the young woman. I got off the train and joined life again above ground, mindful that neither of us had been the first to engage the poem, anymore than we had been the first ones to ride the train.

“There’s nothing new under the sun,” the writer of Ecclesiastes proclaimed in words far too easy to read as despairing. “ People may say about something: “‘Look at this! It’s new!’ But it was already around for ages before us.” (1:9-10, Common Bible) Yet, by the time he gets to the end of what he has to say, he appears to be as acquainted with hope as he is with grief: “Go, eat your food joyfully and drink your wine happily because God has already accepted what you do.” (9:7) Amen.

There’s nothing new under the sun, and it is new to me and you. Both things are true. The well-worn path to the sacred is in the ordinary. I’m learning to be quiet and listen.

Peace,
Milton

I spent the day in the yard installing the arbor and planting the climbing roses I got Ginger for her birthday. As I sat in the back yard, resting before finishing dinner, I thought of a poem I wrote as we settled into the house on Trinity, preparing for Ginger’s parents to move in with us. I found this revision.

these are

the dig in the dirt
go to bed tired
pull up the weeds
plant the climbing roses days

the creak in the knees
crust in the knuckles
come back in five years
to see how it all worked out days

the plot the resurrection
slam the door open
say thanks for the help
give thanks for the pups days

the wonder what’s next
dream a new dream
learn to live with the grief
walk this road together  days

the all that I hoped for
never saw it coming
sink roots yet again
keep our promises to each other days

the I’m with you
I’m with you
I’m with you days

Peace,
Milton

the end of poetry month

also marks the end of
a poet a protester
a prophet a priest
those are not often
captured in one person
he was already in his forties
when I learned who he was
a pastor asking questions
that didn’t come up
in most baptist circles
by the time I was in my
forties I was growing
into becoming a poet
and more of a protester
not because I was angry
as much as I felt the
weight of these sad times
tonight feels heavy
a poet is dead
a prophet is dead
let us speak what we feel
and not what we ought to say.

(for Daniel Berrigan)

Peace,
Milton

muscle memory

dishwashing always needs a soundtrack
so I let my phone play deejay and the
next thing I knew I was chewing on a
piece of grass walking down the road
even though we ain’t go money there’s
a place in the world for a gambler so
dance with me ‘cause oz never did give
nothing to loosen a jar from the nose
of a bear who was born in the summer
of his twenty-seventy year and out riding
fences for so long now you just look at
him and cry please come to Boston for the
springtime because I was so much older then

Peace,
Milton

nature walk

a few days ago we started our
twenty-seventh year following the
path among the stones along the
shore until stopped by the barrier
set to  protect the nesting plovers

today we spent a sunny afternoon
walking down to our little harbor
and then back down unfamiliar
streets past people in unprotected
neighborhoods as they nested

a nature poet would build a better
metaphor, but I see people who
live wingless in the floodplain of
the rising tides of grief hoping
they will not be left alone

Peace,
Milton

penultimate

it was the night before
though I suppose I could
say it was the last night
but that is not how I’ve
ever thought of it

nothing was ending
everything was beginning

we gathered everyone
we could think of in the
fellowship hall to tell
stories eat barbecue
and mark the moment

nothing was ending
everything was beginning

the guys gathered to share
communion afterwards
as many groomsmen as
Jesus had disciples
and then I tried to sleep

nothing was ending
everything was beginning

more than a quarter of
a century ago
we are sharing some wine
planning for tomorrow
and I’m ready for sleep

nothing was ending
everything was beginning . . .

Peace,
Milton

discovery

the longer I live
the more I find
I have yet to walk
where there are
no footprints

columbus didn’t
discover anything
he only became
aware of what
he did not know

Peace,
Milton

practice

I spent the evening
singing harmony
with a pick-up gospel choir—
songs I didn’t know
parts I didn’t know
offering me the
gentle reminder
that listening comes first,
then you sing.

Peace,
Milton

zacchaeus

when I think of the tiny tax
collector clinging to the tree
waiting for Jesus to pass by
I imagine my father there

a short man with low self-esteem
willing to go out on a limb
hoping love would call him by name
somehow my mother is there too

taking Jesus by the arm and
saying, “oh please don’t pass him by”
she spent her life calling his name
so he would know he was worthy

I believed the bible story
because of the way she found him
day after day for a lifetime
not just one afternoon for tea

Peace,
Milton