This morning I woke from a deep sleep. I crawled out of a bottomless dream place where I was still clearing out my father"s loft. I sat for a moment and watched the room come into focus. I was witness to my eyesight moving from blur to definition. I was an observer of the shift from blackness to color, dream to thought. I sat quietly not thinking about the day or what I needed to do. I breathed with unconditional breathes. There was the moment of muddy and then a few minutes later there was a shifting blue grey and then a depth of three dimensions. There were seconds and minutes, silence and clouds with colors that have no names.
I dressed and brushed my teeth and for yoga class printed out a poem by Wendell Berry about how to be a poet--it also seemed pertinent to how to be a yogi. I ate my cereal, walked the dog, drank a small cup of coffee and shunned the newspaper. I went to yoga without fear of what could I teach, what would I say or how would I focus. I could accept what came from silence from the minutes of observation. I could find movement in that stillness and words would come like little prayers to describe the shift of weight for tree pose or the variations of positions for sun salutations.
I dressed and brushed my teeth and for yoga class printed out a poem by Wendell Berry about how to be a poet--it also seemed pertinent to how to be a yogi. I ate my cereal, walked the dog, drank a small cup of coffee and shunned the newspaper. I went to yoga without fear of what could I teach, what would I say or how would I focus. I could accept what came from silence from the minutes of observation. I could find movement in that stillness and words would come like little prayers to describe the shift of weight for tree pose or the variations of positions for sun salutations.
My father is gone and I miss his house. I can visit there in my dreams. In the dream state I can tell my mother that I love her poems, in the same way Wendell Berry's poems speak to me. I don't have to be devoted to every line but I can breath with them in silence and let them spark insights into my day. I can learn to love waking up which I have been famous for hating. I used to clash with my dad everyday as I got ready to go to school. I have been given so many alarm clocks in my lifetime that I could start a clock shop. I can sleep through them with an incredible talent. But I am learning to love change. I am coming to worship dawn. I am making space to accept that shift from the oblivion of sleep to the consciousness and firmness of wakefulness where I can accept the true color that is deep inside of me.
HOW TO BE A POET
(to remind myself)
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down.
Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill -- more of each
than you have -- inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
How to be a poet
(to remind myself)
--Wendel Berry
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