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Report from a Far Place by William Stafford

Posted by Diane Morrow on September 28, 2014 in Blog, Healing Poetry, Writing and Healing Prompts

I’ve never thought about words as snowshoes. I’ve never even walked in snowshoes—or seen them up close—I’ve only ever seen them in pictures—but I do love the connection William Stafford makes here in his poem, “Report from a Far Place.” When I was a kid and we lived in Michigan we used to walk to school often in snow. When the snow was very deep I would walk behind my brothers–they would break the snow first and I would step into their footprints. That memory is very vivid. Following became a way to navigate the snow. We could call words anything, I suppose–anything that might become meaningful–but here he’s calling them snowshoes: Making these word things to step on across the world, I could call them snowshoes. They creak, sag, bend, but hold, over the great deep cold, and they turn up at the toes. In war or city or camp they could save your life; you can muse them by the fire. Be careful, though: they burn, or don’t burn, in their own strange way, when you say them. Words as a way to navigate the “great deep cold.” What great deep cold needs to be navigated? This week? This year? This lifetime? What words could make particularly good snow shoes? The poem, “Report from a Far Place,” is from Someday Maybe, 1973 I found it at a community college faculty site which contains many other Stafford poems The photo is by Kim...

Satellite Call by Sara Bareilles

Posted by Diane Morrow on September 14, 2014 in Blog, Healing Grief, Healing Poetry

A couple weeks back I wrote about William Stafford’s poem, “A Ritual to Read to Each Other,” and those lines that seem like such clear instructions: the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe— should be clear; the darkness around us is deep. After writing about the poem, this song, “Satellite Call” by Sara Bareilles, came to mind. Itself a poem. It seems to me as if in these lyrics Bareilles is following William Stafford’s instructions. Sending out a satellite call into and across the darkness: You may find yourself in the dead of night Lost somewhere out there in the great big beautiful sky You are all just perfect little satellites Spinning round and round this broken earthly life This is so you’ll know the sound Of someone who loves you from the ground Tonight you’re not alone at all This is me sending out my satellite call I also think it’s just such a pretty song. The video here is a live version, her singing at the piano in Indianapolis. I’ve also included a link below to a video version with lyrics. I love the idea of writing going out like a satellite call. So that we can become both receivers and senders. If you could send out a satellite call what would you say? And if you could receive one, what would you most like to hear? The song is from her album, Blessed Unrest. A video of the song with lyrics is here. The piece about Stafford’s poem is...

A Ritual to Read to Each Other by William Stafford

Posted by Diane Morrow on August 30, 2014 in Blog, Healing Grief, Healing Poetry

I came across this poem thanks to Daniel Sperry, a cellist who has been working on a CD of William Stafford poetry combined with cello music. In his Kickstarter campaign, which I stumbled across (and which is now fully funded) he includes a few lines from William Stafford’s poem, “A Ritual to Read to Each Other,” which I don’t believe I’ve ever heard before. It inspired me to go find the whole poem. The poem begins: If you don’t know the kind of person I am and I don’t know the kind of person you are a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star. I like the way this poem calls us to responsibility. We may not know much, but the little we do know we have some responsibility to share, if even in conversation—to share something of ourselves, at least now and then—to say something true, perhaps, rather than what is expected, or might be approved of. Or to simply make the effort to show kindness. Even when it’s a risk. Even when we can’t know how it will be received. The poem continues: For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dyke. Here he seems to be talking about the listening piece of conversation. How we receive what is offered to us—what is shared with us in conversation. a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break. How important it might be not to shrug or look away in response. How fragile the sequence can sometimes be. The pain that can be let loose on the other side when we turn away—those horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dyke. And we are the ones, at least some of the time, who can keep that dyke from breaking? Simply by paying attention? And looking for opportunities to keep the sequence from breaking? Two more stanzas and then the poem closes: For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep, the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe— should be clear; the darkness around us is deep. Ah, such urgency. I appreciate that. And I’m wondering now why he gives this poem the title he does. So that we might realize this is something we may need to read and understand not once, but over and over, like a ritual, or a practice? Maybe? May you be awake this week. May you be encouraged in becoming awake—and staying awake. The full poem can be found at WilliamStafford.org, a site set up by the Friends of William Stafford. Daniel Sperry’s Kickstarter can be found here. The photo was found at morningmeditations.com See also: A piece on Kindness by Naomi Shihab...

Happiness and High School Sophomores

Posted by Diane Morrow on August 17, 2014 in Blog, Happiness

Last May, at the end of the semester, I asked my sophomores to simply write a sentence or two on an index card about how they would define happiness. I did this so that this fall, when I have them back as juniors, we could use this as a starting place in our discussion about happiness. I love these definitions, and find the range they came up with rather fascinating. The next step I’ll be taking with this is to have them work in small groups to sort these definitions into categories—to begin to get a handle on this range of definitions. Meanwhile, here’s a sampling of what a group of high sophomores wrote on index cards when asked to define happiness: (You could, if you like, turn this into a writing prompt. Which ones resonate? Which ones don’t? Why do you think that is? How do you think you would have defined happiness when you were a high school sophomore? How has the definition changed over time?) Having fun and accepting yourself and accepting others’ personalities. A feeling of joy and excitement and very little, if any, worry. Having a smile on your face. Feeling included. Smiling and feeling joy or delight. Expressing gratitude. At peace with yourself. A good feeling. When your smile lights up for some reason. Being yourself without worrying what others will think. Not judging yourself. Being loved by others. Satisfaction with your life and the life around you, regardless of the ups and downs that occur. Happiness doesn’t have a definition. It all depends on the person. Joy or enlightenment gained from someone or something. Experiencing pleasure. Being at peace with yourself. The loss of memory of negative thoughts; the state of pleasant thoughts. Something that makes you feel fulfilled. Anything that makes me feel happy. Doing things you love with people you love. Finding your partner in crime. Money. Being able to wake up in the morning and feel like you can do anything. When we experience that feeling inside us that makes us feel content or bubbly inside. A warm puppy. A good book. Food. A day off. Love. Xbox. A good tv show. Delight, where nothing can get in your way. Joyful peace of mind. Having peace of mind with pure sanity. Joyfulness. Being content. Being hilarious. Being thankful even if you have only something small. Being grateful. The warm feeling you get inside from when things go your way or if you are simply do something you love. This feeling can only be described as sunshine. Children and animals. Innocent things in life. Things that comfort us and make us feel good inside. Realizing that you’re loved. The moment of warmth on your skin before you realize you’re flying too close to the sun. When you forget all the bad things and you feel content, weightless and ready. A feeling inside, warm and light, from doing something you like or being with someone you like. Laughter. Joy. Being content with what is happening around you and being in a good mood. It’s wanting to be kind to others. Feelings of joy and pleasure and other positive emotions. Satisfaction with your current situation and acceptance of the way you are. A state of being in joy, no matter what it is...

Meditation as Housekeeping

Posted by Diane Morrow on August 3, 2014 in Blog, Writing and Meditation

In The Peaceful Stillness of the Silent Mind, in a chapter called, “Introduction to Meditation,” which I also wrote about a few weeks ago, Lama Yeshe talks about two kinds of meditation: analytical meditation and concentration meditation. He compares meditation to housekeeping and then talks about how both types are necessary. He writes: By gradually developing your meditation technique, you become more and more familiar with how your mind works, the nature of dissatisfaction and so forth and begin to be able to solve your own problems. For example, just to keep your house neat and tidy, you need to discipline your actions to a certain extent. Similarly, since the dissatisfied mind is by nature disorderly, you need a certain degree of understanding and discipline to straighten it out. This is where meditation comes in. It helps you understand your mind and put it in order. But meditation doesn’t mean just sitting in some corner doing nothing. There are two types of meditation, analytical and concentrative. The first entails psychological self-observation, the second developing single-pointed concentration. I’m a very slow learner. But I think I’m gradually beginning to get a sense of what meditation actually is—as opposed to what I used to think that it was. Meditation is not doing nothing—or trying to get the mind to do nothing. It’s more like, I think, corralling the mind to do something—and something different than having the ordinary scattered, fragmented mind that I so often have, a mind going here and there, from one thing to the next, depending on what is happening around me and that all getting mixed up with memories that are triggered and preconceptions and plans and who-knows-what-else. If I try to extend this metaphor of housekeeping it seems to me that I could begin with analysis—house observation as a metaphor for self-observation—and this could begin with questions. What needs to be done? What are the problems in the house? What room is most crying for attention? In my own case: the floors. They’re dusty in the corners and littered here and there with small pieces of who-knows-what. Ah, and the sheets need to be changed, and, in a more immediate way, the dishes need to be taken out of the dishwasher and put away and the dishes in the sink need to be put in the dishwasher and I need to do laundry because I’m going out of town in a couple of days. The list could go on. It seems that even when I just begin to do analysis—and with something as simple as housecleaning—my mind begins to move in different directions. Things begin to pile up. So . . . perhaps after preliminary analysis what I need is some focus! Some concentration. Perhaps I have to pick one thing and focus and concentrate on that. And, in order to do that, I need to prioritize. What needs my attention first? With taking care of the house—or the garden—or preparing for a new school year—or anything—I’m continually going back and forth between focusing on a task and then observing and analyzing what needs to be done and then choosing the next task and focusing. Seeing how I’m already doing this in ordinary things makes it a little easier for me to imagine applying this...

Good in the Beginning

Posted by Diane Morrow on July 28, 2014 in Blog, Writing and Meditation

I came across another piece of advice about meditation that I found useful, and thought I would share it, this from The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, by Sogyal Rinpoche, a book that was recommended to me about fifteen years ago and was one of the first books I ever read about meditation. In a chapter on meditation, called “Bringing the Mind Home,” he talks about a method for making meditation more powerful and useful. He calls it, “Good in the Beginning, Good in the Middle, and Good at the End.” Good in the beginning refers to setting a positive motivation at the beginning of the work. Good in the Middle refers to doing our best, and having as clear a mind as possible, while we’re doing the practice. And then Good at the End is remembering, when we finish, to simply dedicate the work—that it will become of benefit to ourselves, and, if this makes sense to us, that it will also, in some way, begin to benefit others. I like the symmetry of this advice and the way it can frame one’s work, and I’ve been trying to put it into practice, not just for meditation, but for writing as well: Good in the Beginning: May this writing be for the benefit of myself, for all who come across it—and for all sentient beings. Good in the Middle: Trying to stay clear and aware and focused as I work. Good at the End: Remembering to dedicate the work—may this writing be of benefit for all sentient beings. I think there could be countless ways to adapt this. What could make your own work good in the beginning, good in the middle, and good at the end? The book, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, can be found...

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