The First Geese of Spring

Photo by Julia Craice

I saw the first geese of spring this morning while standing on the porch, watching my son point to them from the driveway. When the geese depart and when they return are sacred times for me. They mark the coming and going of the dark season. There’s a letting go and letting in that happen in parallel — deeply corporeal in form. One of those wordless knowings that come through like a prayer or an intuition or a long forgotten scent worthy of time travel.

The little motions of springs remind me of Emily Dickinson’s dashes — breath ballooning out in space that has been created through ritual you made over the years without even realizing it. Here returns the body in prayer. Something to do also with Rumi’s love dogs — the longing you feel is the answer. I might cry now.

In Vermont, it’s sugaring season. Everywhere sap lines are strung between trees, silver buckets tapped into the sides of sugar maples. Soon the annual posts from sugar houses full of steam. There can’t be a more perfect way to begin the movement towards spring, the long poem of her becoming, but in a sugar house covered in the sweet smell and warmth of boiling sap.

~

All winter I have sought the comfort of tea: tulsi, nettle leaf, chamomile, red clover; mint and lemon balm and lavender from my garden.

Photo by Loverna Journey

Lately, I have been writing about forgiveness, flipping Tarot cards, and logging daily “morning pages” in my journal. I have been sitting before a single lit candle for exactly 12 minutes trying to meditate while my body engages in a wrestling match. I have been making soup, buying bread, walking through town alone with oat milk lattes (Lost Monarch’s are the best) and buying books like an oragami of salvation.

Yesterday, I bought The Book of Mythical Beasts & Magical Creatures for my youngest son, who lately has been obsessed with Greek Myths via a podcast called “Greeking Out.” He wakes me in the morning and I ask him to tell me his dreams, which he almost never recalls. Instead he tells a story, I dreamed of worms and a wormhole in the ground the same color as worm skin. Today in the half fog of before coffee, his story included imagery that I could tell came from his beloved myths… the head of a beautiful woman attached to the body of a bird, to which I cringe.

~

The geese form a recitatif between winter and spring: an interlude, a break, something to take me from my domesticity. They seem both archaic and otherworldly. In the fall, they cry into dark night, but in the spring, the are flush with the wild winds of March, the cracking open of the winter shell.

Until I grew older, I never understood the value of these seasonal touchstones. Though I grew up in the woods, I lived divided from my body as a young woman and long into adulthood, and thus the physical world. Spring hurt me. It felt like a cruel joke in the crushing sea of trying to get by, surviving the daily onslaught of tasks and responsibilities; anxieties, hopes and dreams that always felt impossible, lofty goals that perhaps weren’t really even my own.

I did not understand how the planning of a garden, the starting of seeds indoors, the planting of that garden and the daily devotion to its life, could change a person. I did not understand the way we long for rituals of the earth and fill this void, in our time, with consumption in all its varying chimeras. I did not know the way the geese could be the supple dash of Dickinson:

Oh March, Come right upstairs with me –
I have so much to tell –

Or that my son’s devotion to a flock of chickens and two ducks could teach me something about the way he longs to be loved. I did not let myself walk long enough alone in the woods to fully recognize the parts of me that came alive in that landscape; I had not learned how to nurture myself this way or how to seek new paths through the trees, trails and road, in order to keep my vision of the world alive, to warm the visionary within.

You can be told that you possess everything you need within you. Those words can become a mantra for years, but our awakenings are not fully our own, they happen in a different time, a landscape and place both fully of the body and otherworldly or “a beautiful and strange otherness.” Human biologist Paul Shepard in Francis Weller’s book The Wild Edge of Sorrow says, “The grief and sense of loss, that we often interpret as a failure in our personality, is actually a feeling of emptiness where a beautiful and strange otherness should have been encountered.”

Weller writes of how animals shaped who we are as a species; they were the first things we depicted in cave drawings. They continue to speak to us in the myths and stories of our ancestry. Their beautiful and strange otherness, however, has been all but lost in humanity’s relentless desire to conquer and control.

But I wonder, how do these lost parts of our soul inform the wretchedness of our world? Can they still provide for us if we do not provide a place (space) for them? In the face of so much loss–loss of our planet, loss of our home, loss of ways of life, loss of nature, loss of small places like a corner store, loss of our connection to the physical world and so on–and the violence of systems of oppression, how do we find hope?

At the edge of winter, many around me are breaking like the shattered ice of waterways. The tides within pull us apart; we heave forth, throwing ourselves against the shores in the splitting sun, breaking down little by little until we flow freely. We are struggling, now, to find our way in yet another new world. And in the face of all this, we are planning our gardens in the shape of our souls. Waiting for the geese to return. Boiling sap into maple syrup that will cover our oatmeal and pancakes and biscuits come next winter.

The open water, the open soil, the open field, the open sky, form the long and supple dash of all that we hope for and can only really be known through the “beautiful and strange otherness” that we were born longing.


Books & things:

I’m currently reading Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro who also wrote The Remains of the Day. It’s definitely a page-turner and a deep dive into human psychology. I’m told the ending is devastating.

I recently read the poet Anne Boyer’s memoir on illness, The Undying: A Meditation on Modern Illness, which won the pulitzer. It’s a breathtaking account of her immersion into the cold, impersonal institution of modern medicine.

I recommend Toni Morrison’s short story Recitatif which we just read in my Intro to Lit class. It’s brilliant. You can read it here.

I’m teaching a monthly writing workshop online through the Howe Library. More about that here. There’s only a few spots left. So sign up if you’re interested.

We just watched the first episode of The Stand (based on Stephen King’s novel about a pandemic) last night. I highly recommend! It’s interesting to watch how they recreate this classic in light of current times.

P.S. Follow me to get these posts in your inbox every so often!

Write With Me

In the new year we reflect on our goals. It’s a time when we consider what we might set in motion, complete, or resurrect as writers. It’s time when I am reminded of a simple word that feels all-powerful: begin.

Now is the time to hone your practice and find your seat at the table, writing desk, or couch. Work with me to reach your writing goals this year. I’m offering weekly and bi-monthly coaching sessions for writers looking to launch their work in this new season.

Drop me an email if you’re interested in discussing possibilities. I currently have space for new clients: emilyclairecasey@gmail.com.

Photo by Danielle MacInnes on Unsplash

xo,

emily

Thresholds: The Sacred Rituals of the Everyday

On Monday, in my writing group, we read Maggie Smith’s poem “Threshold.” The three of us all thought of threshold differently. One, thought of the exact moment of crossing between as in the point when the light turns to darkness each evening. Another imagined a going between space, the movement from one thing to the next, as in a phase of life, perhaps. I imagined the threshold of reaching a limit, as in a threshold for pain. What do you think of when you hear the word threshold?

The first line of Smith’s poem:

You want a door you can be
            on both sides of at once.

Reminds me of the space I often occupy. I feel between things. I am on the threshold of middle age, not quite ready to accept this transition. Some would easily call me middle aged and others would laugh at the suggestion. It seems reviewers love to call women in their forties middle-aged. To make a note of it, as though we need this information in order to understand their work. I noticed it again recently in a review of Eula Biss’s new essay collection Having and Being Had, on class, property, the demands of capitalism, and how we spend our time. The word “middle-aged” feels like a stain or a check against her. Youth being the ideal of our culture, and entirely wasted on the young, or so they say.

field as threshold

Precision and exactness are something I secretly love, but also loathe. I know that, for example, scientifically speaking, I could identify the exact moments of change. But I prefer poetry as in the feeling one gets on the day that it becomes clear summer has crossed over into autumn. The sinking loss before I turn towards the next season with hope for all it has to offer.

Reaching the threshold could also mean reaching the pinnacle, the prime. But in my mind I think of limits. In many ways, because of my class, whiteness, education, I have fewer limitations than most Americans. The limitations I struggle with are mostly my own use of time and imagination, and my choices around how I make or don’t make money. I have always been pulled by the spoils of Capital towards a desire for comfort, wealth, status, money. But I am also, and I would argue this force is more powerful in my life, pulled by the desire to reject capitalism, to live in my own way, to support others with the work I do, and to write. To make a masterpiece of my own life is to focus on and relish the daily work I do and not its product, which brings me to the sacred nature of everyday ritual.

winter field: light turns to darkness

We make our lives sacred through recognizing what we most value and focusing on it. We do not let the voices of “not enough,” the voice of fear, overcome us. When it arrives we greet it, we welcome it gently–hello, old friend–but then we turn to our sacred, everyday rituals of walking in nature, lighting candles, baking, reading, friendship, and so on. These acts that give our lives meaning also make our lives sacred when we relish in them. Living under the pressures of capitalism, we need a daily refuge and reminder to turn towards what is true and right.

During this most sacred time of year, we battle the wound of Empire. We are taunted by the stuff we must buy, we must do, we must be. But we don’t have to do it. We can turn towards ritual instead. Make this season about the sacredness of your life. Sit under the stars and tell stories to your dear ones, light a bonfire and drink hot coco, walk quietly through the woods, along a lake or a river, through your town or city with all its windows lit up and its comings and goings, sew or bake or write or make, dance or run or twirl alone in your living room. I promise, nothing you buy and no gift you give for the holidays will render as much joy as these simple acts of renewal and gratitude.

with love,

-e

Embracing the Darkness: Francis Weller and the sacred life of grief

There are 20 days until the Winter Solstice, which means 20 more days of moving into the darkness before the light begins its slow return. The solstice makes a threshold between the waning and waxing of daylight, and is perhaps the most sacred day of the year for me, as I am one who has always been drawn to darkness and who at one point in her life turned toward nurturing light instead of darkness, which was no easy feat.

The darkness of November has always brought me grief often I name it Seasonal Affective Disorder. But this year, I moved into November on the heels of a private loss that evoked the deep life of sorrow in me. We all have these losses from time to time as humans on this earth, but we don’t always know how to cope with them, let alone embrace them. Swimming, in the perfect silence of the empty house, I thought of the grief we carry and often squander.

I walked through the woods and built a fire beside the pond and felt all the lives I would not live and the grief I harbored for the loss of each one. In the woods, I search for bones. I have found skulls, carcasses, the empty shell of a turtle. I covet the remnants of death because I want to draw close to death. I never want to turn away from that mystical doorway, and I want to let it soften me, just as grief will do if we allow it. But what I did not realize, until recently, is that I most likely covet death because the other forms of grief are not recognized or ritualized by my culture.

skull & fire

In his book, The Wild Edge of Sorrow: The Sacred Work of Grief, Francis Weller writes that grief is a threshold emotion and when we cross through it we enter the world of community, of conversation, of sacred ritual. If we compress the sorrow of grief, we also compress our capacity for joy. In our culture we don’t have sacred communal rituals for expressing grief and we limit and restrain the experience of grief, which is why, Weller argues, we are a culture of secondary satisfactions like entertainment and shopping, but also a desire for power, wealth, status, rank, priviledge. Empire, he says, is one of the most egregious expressions of secondary satisfactions –we always want more. We are conditioned by our culture to never feel like we have enough. This is one of our greatest sources of grief and loss, our greatest wound.

Primary satisfactions are much simpler and yet sometimes they remain forgotten in our daily lives: human touch, laughter, shared meals, story telling, kindness offered in times of sadness, and rituals that mend and tend to the sacred world around us.

Weller writes of the five gates of sorrow, which go beyond the first gate of loss through the death of those we love.

Here are Weller’s the five gates of sorrow as outlined on in Apprenticeship with Grief from the website Pathways to Resilience:

Gate 1 – Everything We Love We Loose: this is the only gate we recognize on a cultural level, and yet, we seldom give it the space it deserves.

Gate 2 – The Places That Have Not Known Love: this gate refers to the aspects of self we deny in order to fit into family, peer groups, and the broader cultural systems.

Gate 3 – The Sorrow of the World: tending our Earth grief. As Francis Weller puts it, “We are born expecting a rich and sensuous relationship with the earth and communal rituals of celebration, grief, and healing that kept us in connection with the sacred.”

Gate 4 – What We Expected and Did Not Receive: For Weller, this gate has to do with “the expectations coded into our physical and psychic lives” due to our ancestors evolving for at least 200,000 years in relational environments and societies. The contrast of our contemporary life creates a type of deep grief that, Weller believes, we seldom have the language for or space to acknowledge.

Gate 5 – Ancestral Grief: The grief we carry in our bodies from the trials and tribulations of our lineages.

This year, during November I nurtured my grief, I did not turn away from it, I lit fires every day–a candle, a bonfire, a small fire beside the pond, a fire in the fireplace, and the flames comforted me. I sat in meditation, willing myself to soften to the sadness I felt, to let it in, to let it speak. I lay in hot baths filled with bath salts my beloveds had gifted me, sniffing tinctures made for grief, eating pie, walking through the woods, dragging my children along behind, running, and gazing at the moon. And, amazingly, I did not get depressed. I cannot say what will come, but after all these years of running away from the grief without even realizing it, I have finally sat still with it and let it heal me. That is the work of grief and we must engage it if we are to find the wild joy of our living.

I hope to make these next 20 days of darkness sacred through the rituals of lighting fires and candles, sharing food with my family, laughter, and snuggles. I will also be writing here about grief and sorrow, and how embracing this time of darkness can lead to a richer, fuller life, not constricted by a denial of grief. I hope you will join me.

-e

A Field Guide to Writing About Nature & Place:

landscape with milkweed

This Saturday is the first of two writing workshops I’m facilitating on nature and place at the Orwell Free Library from 10am – noon. I have been listening to Braiding Sweetgrass during my walks and around the house and thinking about my relationship with the land, nature, and place.

In her book, Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer, writes about her indigenous ancestors’ relationship with the land:

Children, language, lands: almost everything was stripped away, stolen when you weren’t looking because you were trying to stay alive. In the face of such loss, one thing our people could not surrender was the meaning of land. In the settler mind, land was property, real estate, capital, or natural resources. But to our people, it was everything: identity, the connection to our ancestors, the home of our nonhuman kinfolk, our pharmacy, our library, the source of all that sustained us. Our lands were where our responsibility to the world was enacted, sacred ground. It belonged to itself; it was a gift, not a commodity, so it could never be bought or sold. These are the meanings people took with them when they were forced from their ancient homelands to new places

I first felt the awe of a landscape when I traveled to the Rocky Mountains from my childhood home in northern Minnesota. Then, a girl of sixteen, I sensed something I would now call reverence for those mountains. I traveled off and on for many years, chasing that sense of wonder.

But more recently, I have begun to learn how to know one place deeply and well. I walk the same acres of land day after day and find intimacy, comfort, joy, and discovery. While visiting a new landscape can inspire us, intimacy with place offers a deeper reverence the more acquainted we become.

The changing of the field that rolls out in front of my lawn reveals a way of being in each day depending on the season. The turning of the leaves signify a turning inward in my own body–a return of the energy that moves outward. While the first bright green of spring opens me up to a newness that fills me all summer–a magical abundance that brings late nights around campfires, walks to the pond, kayaking, hiking, and adventure.

In her book, Kimmerer discusses the difference between a relationship of commodity and one of gift giving, which was her native ancestor’s economy. With the sharp eye of anthropologist and instinct of a poet, she examines the way these two economies shape our relationship to the land and to each other.

Join me Saturday morning to explore your own way of being in relationship with place and nature, and to consider the nature of the gift giving economy in our own communities.

-e

The World is On Fire

Morning meditations on the state of the world.

Photo by Keith Jonson on Unsplash

Reports have surfaced that women in immigrant detentions center are having forced hysterectomies. This is not new to human behavior, but we did imagine that it would not happen again, especially here in our own country again. The entire West Coast is on fire. Hurricanes are ravaging the Gulf Coast. Our human species is suffering through a plague and some are so angry that they have to wear a mask for protection that they’re storming schools. Black people continue to be lynched by the police and vigilante racists, which has happened for over four hundred years. There have been months of protests demanding an end to police violence and at these protests people are shot; in one instance, by a young, white seventeen year old carrying a large gun did the shooting and the police did not think of him as a suspect when he walked by with this large and illegal gun.

This is my report from the end of the world.

I live on the edge of a field that leads to a forest that leads to a pond where beavers rule. It is a kind of heaven to know a landscape intimately and to watch it turn with each season. The earth, if we can see, offers immense beauty and worthwhile joy.

field

I want you to know that human beings did love the world. They loved nature and animals. They even loved each other. But we could not evolve quickly enough to save ourselves and because we became a disease that destroyed everything we touched, earth dispelled us. I like to think of it as an eviction.

We spent so much time planning elaborate schemes to lock each other in cages where we tortured and abused the encaged and called it justice. We looked into the eyes of those that looked like us except for some minor detail we’d created, and called them beasts, told them they deserved to die. We took those that sought refuge at our border and stole their children and locked them up or gave them away. We did not feed or love or offer compassion. We cut their bodies open and stole their histories. We lost all empathy, the one thing that might have saved us. I cannot really begin to explain the problem of greed, the desire for power and control, the disease of dominion.

The way we abused each other will remain the single most extraordinary feature of our species. The intricacy and intimacy of it. The blindness of those who called themselves good, whatever that meant. They were all too busy making money to pay the mortgage, the student loan, the car, the insurance… the list is endless, truly. It was hard to get out from under that yolk. It seemed that every day there was something to be bought that might make our lives almost good enough.

I can only speak for the America I know. We did not love but for the shimmer of something we called wealth, which also, somehow, equated to self. We longed to create the image of this in all that we did and on whatever scale we had access to–whether large or small–and at any cost whatsoever. The body of a woman, the face of a child, the square photo boxes we all looked at daily, the poisoning of water and air and food sources, the destruction of land–forests, oceans, deserts, frozen tundra, all of it, destroyed by us. The earth dug out and eviscerated.

There was love in all of us. I am certain. But the disease was too strong and we had years–centuries–of genetics that led us to abuse, to harm, to hoard. Each needed something we called an identity, and this identity was individual in that it did not exert itself in solidarity or for the good of the group, at least not often or this was never encouraged except in the form of something we called “charity” which seemed to only perpetuate those who needed it and perform a sense of superiority for those who offered it. It became an easy comfort for those who felt bad about the state of the world.

Identity seemed to require a sounding board in the form of a body onto which all bad thought was flung. Without this other, the identities of Americans floundered and they began to feel things–bad feelings of fear and anxiety, which were in fact just the normal feelings of human existence, but were entirely intolerable for most Americans.

They could not cull these feelings, nor learn to live with them, so off they ran to find a whipping boy. The psychology of it was rather obvious, but still powerful.

~

If you were here, if you are, then you know about the beauty. Everywhere the earth offered beauty and life. The abundance of creatures and plants and landscapes and water and sunlight and stars and moon phases. The feeling of wet grass on your bare feet on the first cool day of September or the lick of salt water after swimming in the ocean, the sun hot against your skin, the water cool. The smell of deep forest. I am certain there are many that know this beauty with great intimacy. But the darkness took us. We could not free ourselves, once entangled. We evolved into our own end and many, many human beings saw that end and tried to change it. I could tell you all the ways they tried. But in the end, they failed. So they lay themselves down against the soft and balmy skin of earth and knew the end would come and took comfort in hoping that without us, the earth would survive and it would be beautiful.

Ghosts of the Coming World

photo by Mihály Köles

Last night we sat under the almost full moon between the apple trees and garden in a friend’s backyard. I have been lonely in all of the usual pandemic ways. Underwater swimming upstream. How are you? I have taken to sketching birds during Zoom meetings–there are so many. Sometimes I walk to the pumpkin patch alone just to stand beside their fairytale vines on the hill and look out. Every week a new sorrow.

Mostly I want to live in the smallness of the world. To knit a story of the land, to make my own rituals that don’t involve capitalism, buying, making things look a longed for way. I want to gather before the bonfire to perform a ritual as old as dirt. But we have none. We have buying. We have the gods of stuff. We have more and better and slimmer and less wrinkles; we have music lessons and soccer and what’s best for my child. We have gear. Endless amounts of gear sold to us as though we too might scale a mountain free solo or become that woman in the Athleta catalogue serenely poised on a mountain in mountain pose. We have all the Patagonia in the world isn’t going to save the world and our sadness can’t be eradicated in perfect picture squares of neutral shades, raw wood, and white linen.

We bow down to the Gods of Capital like no other society in the history of the world. “Capital,” my colleague Nina reminded me the other day during a phone chat, “doesn’t care about gender or race or ethnicity or class. Capital uses them to get more capital.” I am not immune to any of this. Maybe I am writing this to myself, dear reader. There is nothing, it seems, untouched by consumerism. Nothing that can’t be repackaged and sold to us. And our refusal to see the way this has taken hold of all we do is killing the world.

Underneath the misshapen moon around the bonfire in late August, the three of us shared warmth. In the window from the house, my friend’s daughters peeked out, shining their flashlight like a tiny beacon from across the sea of the lawn. “Go to bed, girls,” she called. And suddenly they were gone, swept back into the comfort of their old wooden beds and fluffy quilts, their fairy books and stuffed animals. Perhaps, like I did as a child, they line their beds with stuffed animals before they fall asleep, a ring of protectors. Their silent prayer to the night fairy: please don’t let them fall into the dark sea of floor where the unseen disappears. Keep them safe.

This morning, endless crying, fights over the kitten. Pancakes shaped like chickens, maple syrup from a mason jar. This morning, coffee while we sit in our chairs, my husband telling me his dreams before work. This morning, the same ache of loneliness that never leaves like a phantom girl I refuse comfort or just from looking again and again at the way it all shapes and reshapes who we are, who we might have been, and what we will become.

~with love

How We Live Our Lives

There are two Canada geese nesting on the pond, but only one mate. My son and I go out in the kayak in the middle of May. The frogs are mating. Guttural and loud, the sound echoes from the shore of the pond. We watch them in the shallow water laying on each other. There must be hundreds of them who have traveled to the water to mate. The male holds the female in a hug called amplexus and she releases eggs that the male fertilizes. Some frogs laze alone at the water’s surface as though relaxing before looking for another mate. The males appear smaller than the females.

Mo in the canoe

            We paddle along the shore. Mo sits in the little indent behind my seat, a perfect perch for an eight-year-old. He notes the animals he sees: fish, turtle, Canada goose, duck, sandpiper, blue heron. Five baby turtles sunning on a log in the pond, slip under the water as we approach. They dive into the murk to hide. We are hot enough to wear t-shirts and worry about burning.

            As we approach the first nest, the two mallards—a male and female pair—swim off. They’re often visiting the goose but depart abruptly when they see we’re coming. She lays out flat with her long black neck along the ground, still and lifeless, waiting for us to move on. We paddle past to the deer head; its hide looks like clean white rubber from its time under the water. It’s face, barely recognizable—blackish mouth, eaten back and teeth protruding. My husband saw it there a few weeks ago on his maiden voyage in the new kayak. It appeared as a kind of horror-movie omen at first. But now, Mo and I like to visit it. We also visit the racoon carcass near the old cabin. We are waiting for it to decompose so that we can take the skull home, like treasure.

            In the time before, he went to school every day and I worked. At night, we ate dinner together, I read him and his brother stories, they went to sleep. On the weekends, I mostly graded papers or wrote or worked on other employment, but, we often walked to the pond or went to a movie, for sushi, to visit friends. Time now has changed. Days pass like afternoons. Yesterday, my husband sat on the porch reading all day. He wasn’t in a good mood. I went for a run and he and the boys came to pick me up at our friends’ goat farm. We chatted outside with our friends while the boys went with their two girls down to the pond. I fed the newest baby goat in their herd of nearly 300 with a bottle and discussed the library plant sale with Holly—no browsing this year, call ahead to order and then pick-up.

Will came back alone from the pond and Holly gave him a cup of fresh, warm goat milk, which he gulped down. I’m very thirsty, he hinted for more. I cherish these brief visits with friends even as I fear what may come as we begin to socialize again.

Back home, we eat dinner, we bring in the chicks, we tuck in the boys, we get into bed. The day passes, and little is accomplished in the way we had once imagined tasks should be completed, days filled with plans and lists. But we no longer rush. We sleep for as long as we can, we rise at seven or eight. We sip coffee in bed for an hour while scrolling on our devices or out in the garden listening to the birds.

The children play imaginary games with animals. Sometimes dragons. The games emulate what they know about the animals—territory, family units, conflict and friendship. Sometimes there is screaming and ranting and whining and so on. The regular sort of expected behavior during a time of difficulty or abnormality. But mostly we don’t mind because time stretches out and releases itself from limits.

Time moves back towards the cyclical kind of time that John Berger writes belongs to another era, one long ago. He writes of two kinds of experiences of time passing. “Our experience of its passing involves not a single but two dynamic processes which are opposed to each other: as accumulation and dissipation.” He says that time seems to move at two different rates. The experiences of deeper meaning, he insists, accumulate and therefore stop the dissipation of time. I interpret this as meaning we remember them more. The springtime hours are much more accumulative because plants grow rapidly, offering a physical sense of passing time, a way of holding it in our mind’s eye.

It is really only our bodies and the things we make that hold up time. Everything else lives in cycles that include and absorb death. It is the physical changing of our bodies alone that creates this concept as far as I can tell. Perhaps too, the desire to thwart death with posterity.

*

All week, I have felt quiet. I’ve reached a shore of silence. Please, sometimes I think, don’t speak to me. Then there are times I look over at my husband in bed, wrapped in his elephant blanket, and wonder who he is. Speak to me, I say, poking him. He grunts and rolls away.

On and on the days go, flowing out towards summer, a time when I usually pack up and head to Minnesota with the kids. Where I sit on the deck and drink coffee with my mom or lounge beside the lake with my siblings and their kids or spouses. Everything about this slower, sunny season in Minnesota or Vermont, feels like a luxury, and affirms my life choices, which are normally a source of anxiety for me.

I wonder what this different life would be like. One in which we are farmers or makers or stay-at-home teachers of children; one in which we value our relationships with our family and the landscapes that surround us so deeply that we refuse to work excessively in offices spaces or the like, and it’s somehow possible to live this other way. I wonder if Berger’s concept of time applies here. But, though I have read and re-read his passages on time in his book And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos, I can’t quite distill them. I only sense an affinity to his words, a knowing that I have held like water through my hands. A flickering that once passed can’t be made into words. There is a different way of knowing death, a way to make it a part of life. To draw up close to it and hold it gently near to you and it is in this way of knowing we return to another way of life lived close to the land, close to each other, in quietude. Our constant longing for more, fed by living. All our loss absorbed in the soil of the body, renewed.

My American Icon

John Prine

Last night as I was laying in bed scrolling I got the terrible news that John Prine had passed away from Covid19. He had been in intensive care for at least a week and his wife Fiona had posted that he was in critical condition on March 29th. He died on April 7th on the eve of the year’s second supermoon–the Pink Supermoon–which was the closet of all to the earth.

I can’t help believing that he walked those moonbeams out into the galaxy or some such thing. His words were that of myth and legend, the gentle and often hilarious or heartbreaking truth of our human existence. He seemed to understand both the loneliness of our lives and the intimacy that comes almost exclusively from ordinary life. He wrote often of porches, screen doors, lost love, kitchens, and country life and the story was mostly about how little we need in order to be happy but how hard it is to see this truth.

His songs make me love more, want less, and believe in the human spirit as a force of goodness known through truth.

Prine has always been a legend in my family. Three generations of my mother’s family loved him. My grandparents, my mom and aunt, and then us cousins. I’m one of the only family members who didn’t see him play live. My cousins got to meet him once while wearing homemade t-shirts that read in puff paint: “You may see me tonight with an illegal smile” and “Hello In There.”

One of the last memories I have of our grandma is her dancing with my sister Hannah around the cabin at Burnt Shanty Lake to Prine’s song “Big Old Goofy World”. Later, in the dark of the deck, she wiped her eyes and told my aunt and mom how much my grandfather (who had died nearly twenty years prior) would have loved to be there.

According to my mom, her father loved everything about his life as a high school civics teacher and was filled with an immense gratitude for the small pleasures. These simple pleasures are what Prine most celebrates. But he was also an iconic writer of protest songs like “Jesus the Missing Years,” ” Sam Stone,” and “Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore.”

John Prine

It’s hard to say what Prine meant to America. He wasn’t exactly a household name but he was known and deeply loved and a revered song-writer. He saw through the greed of his industry and remained loyal to his own heart, voice, and vision. He offered a kind of homespun wisdom that spoke to us. At least for me, he reminded me of what was beautiful and sad and interesting and hilarious about this life. And for that I am grateful.

When I think of what our country is going through right now–the absolute sham of our presidential leadership, the insanity of how this pandemic is being handled on the national level, the greed and cruelty of the president, the division among us–it is Prine who stands as an icon of everything we could be but aren’t. It is he who would sing about the people that keep on keeping on despite the insanity–the people everywhere that are making the supplies we need, working in hospitals, grocery stores, gas stations, warehouses, and delivering our goods. The people we call heros because they are giving their lives for us. So we can stay home and stay safe. And of course, they are not being properly compensated or protected.

More than anything, I wish he could write a song about dying in the middle of a pandemic and send it to us. I know it would be good, his best, heartbreaking & true.

-e

lyrics I like:

I’d like to build me a castle of memories just to have somewhere to go.

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Make me an angel that flies from Montgom’ry
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go

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Blow up your TV throw away your paper
Go to the country, build you a home
Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches
Try an find Jesus on your own  

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Ya’ know that old trees just grow stronger,
And old rivers grow wilder ev’ry day.
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in there, hello.”

Interview with Fiction Points: The blog of the alcohol and drug history society

Two nuns and a penguin approach you at a bar, and you tell them you’re a writer. When they ask you what you write about, how do you answer?

Holiness and death. Everyone has something sacred and something to which they devote themselves, whether it be spiritual or just an iPhone, or self-improvement which I think is just a part of capitalism. But mainly I write about death, indirectly. That we die and our lives are small and insignificant and trivial but we feel them to be immensely important and singular, and so they are and we are. I can’t get over this conundrum and so I write about it because in writing all the weird feelings and thoughts can become significant or they gain voices and lives of their own and I take comfort in this. I take comfort in beauty… continue reading

Happy February…

xo

-e