Jun 02 2008

Walking on water

This morning in my essay on “Revenge,” geomoo asked:

Does courage consist in part on walking on the water of uncertainty, buoyed only to the extent that we continually align ourselves selflessly with  basic goodness, instead of marching on the solid ground of rigid belief?

It reminded me of one of my favorite poems that I thought was too long to post in that thread. So I thought I’d just put it out there on its own with geomoo’s question.

The poem was written by someone I quote alot here, David Whyte. I have heard him talk about this poem and he always points out that it was written at least partly to talk about the love of his life, his wife. But he goes on to say that it is also about following the passion of our lives.

The True Love

by David Whyte

   There’s a faith in loving fiercely the one who is rightfully yours

   especially if you have waited years and especially if part of you never

   believed you could deserve this loved and beckoning hand held

   out to you this way.

   I am thinking of faith now and the testaments of loneliness

   and what we feel we are worthy of in this world.

   Years ago in the Hebrides I remember an old man

   who would walk every morning on the gray stones

   to the shore of baying seals, who would press his

   hat to his chest in the blustering salt wind and say his

   prayer to the turbulent Jesus hidden in the waters.

   And I think of the story of the storm and the people

   waking and seeing the distant, yet familiar figure,

   far across the water calling to them.

   And how we are all preparing for that abrupt waking

   and that calling and that moment when we have to say yes!

   Except it will not come so grandly, so biblically,

   but more subtly, and intimately in the face

   of the one you know you have to love.

   So that when we finally step out of the boat

   toward them we find, everything holds us,

   and everything confirms our courage.

   And if you wanted to drown, you could,

   But you don’t, because finally, after all

   this struggle and all these years,

   you don’t want to anymore.

   You’ve simply had enough of drowning

   and you want to live, and you want to love.

   And you’ll walk across any territory,

   and any darkness, however fluid,

   and however dangerous to take the one

   hand and the one life, you know belongs in yours.

 

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  1. or a song, or art that you’d like to share…please do!!!

    • Robyn on June 2, 2008 at 02:48
    • #

    …in about 9.5 hours.

    Robyn

  3. … from Nazim Hikmet, a Turkish poet who was exiled (after a long imprisonment) for writing “seditious” poems.

    ON LIVING

    Living is no laughing matter:

      you must live with great seriousness

            like a squirrel, for example–

    I mean, without looking for something beyond and above living,

            I mean living must be your whole life.

    Living is no laughing matter:

      you must take it seriously,

      so much so and to such a degree

     that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,

                            your back to the wall,

    or else in a laboratory

      in your white coat and safety gloves

      you can die for people–

    even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,

    even though you know living

     is the most real, the most beautiful thing.

    I mean, you must take living so seriously

     that even at 70, for example, you’ll plant olive trees–

     and not for your children, either,

     but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,

     because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

                              II

    Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery–

    which is to say we might not get up

                   from the white table

    Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad

                   about going a little too soon,

    we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,

    we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,

    or still wait anxiously

                   for the latest newscast …

    Let’s say we’re at the front —

                   for something worth fighting for, say,

    There, in the first offensive, on that very day,

                   we might fall on our face, dead.

    We’ll know this with a curious anger,

       but we’ll still worry ourselves to death

       about the outcome of the war, which could last years.

    Let’s say we’re in prison

    and close to fifty,

    and we have eighteen more years, say,

       before the iron doors will open.

    We’ll still live with the outside,

    with its people and animals, struggle and wind–

               I mean with the outside beyond the walls.

    I mean, however and wherever we are,

       we must live as if we will never die.

                           III

    This earth will grow cold,

    a star among stars

       and one of the smallest,

    a gilded mote on blue velvet–

       I mean this, our great earth.

    This earth will grow cold one day,

    not like a block of ice

    or a dead cloud even

    but like an empty walnut it will roll along

      in pitch black space…

    You must grieve for this right now

    –you have to feel this sorrow now —

    for the world must be loved this much

          if you’re going to say “I lived” …

    • kj on June 2, 2008 at 03:12
    • #

    this poem is very much outside of my usual style. it falls into the ‘spoken poem’ style, but has only been read in public once to honor a beloved writing group member who had passed away.  

    Walking on Water

    He told me that

    when we were in

    Uno’s and laughing and    

    you were drinking your way

    through the half-hour delay-

    such a small matter

    really as compared, as

    compared to our losses that

    year, that year the

    ground broke and God

    spoke His heart-splintering

    “No!”

    to us, once, twice,

    three times- well

    our raised glasses and our

    raised laughter became shrill

    whistles past the

    graveyard we’d stood in-

    stood in, in snow and

    stood in, in mud- frozen

    broken ground all around us- well

    he told me that

    when we were in Uno’s and

    you were laughing your way

    through the half-hour delay-

    my eyes stung locked on

    the vision of loss that

    engulfed me when you

    passed- how could I ever

    let you pass

    away from me- well

    the alchemist-

    he told me that the

    feeling wasn’t fear, no;

    no; what I’d felt was

    reverence-

    reverence for life.

    ~~kj

    • kj on June 2, 2008 at 03:26
    • #

    “you’ve simply had enough of drowning”    wow.

  6. I walked to the edge of the endless, boundless sea,

    Stuck in my toe and said, NO,NO NO, not me.

    • Edger on June 3, 2008 at 05:57
    • #

    Turn up your volume first… 🙂

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