January 23: Caddisfly Larva, Flight 145, Terry Godbey, "Rwandan Mother, 1994," Off the Top of My Head

When we lose our innocence--when we start feeling the weight of the atmosphere and learn that there's death in the pot--we take leave of our senses. Only children can hear the song of the male house mouse. Only children keep their eyes open. The only thing they have got is sense; they have highly developed "input systems," admitting all data indiscriminately. Matt Spireng has collected thousands of arrowheads and spearheads; he says that if you really want to find arrowheads, you  must walk with a child--a child will pick up everything. All my adult life I have wished to see the cemented case of a caddisfly larva. It took Sally Moore, the young daughter of friends, to find one on the pebbled bottom of a shallow stream on whose bank we sat side by side. "What's this?" she asked. That, I wanted to say as I recognized the prize she held, is a memento mori for people who read too much.

Dillard is right.  Children's senses are unfiltered, curiosity unlimited.  They hear things adults don't hear, smell things adults don't smell, notice things adults don't notice.  As we age, Dillard notes, we lose our innocence, and, with our innocence, goes our sense of wonder, as well.  The world becomes a place to be tamed and controlled, used for a purpose.  The universe becomes smaller and smaller the older we get.

I am at McDonald's right now, eating a burger.  My son is outside, in his snow gear, finding chunks of snow that are dinosaur eggs, pieces of ice that were spears in the siege of Troy.  In a little while, he'll come back inside, red-cheeked and breathless, returning from his expedition to the North Pole.  McDonald's is full of everything wondrous, like Christmas morning or Halloween night.

I wish I could see things the way my son does.  My vision is limited.  I have adult blinders on, too focused on what comes next.  I'm at McDonald's, but I'm thinking about cleaning my house tonight.  When I'm cleaning my house tonight, I will be thinking about the members of my Book Club coming to my house this coming Thursday night.  Thursday night, I will be thinking of Friday and the coming weekend.  That's the way adults work.  The present is just a layover to the past and future for us.  I can hear the announcement crackling over the speakers:  "Now boarding, Flight 145 for Saturday night.  Toilet scrubbing and vacuuming."

As a poet, and Christian, I know that the present is all we get.  The cheeseburger in front of me.  The French fries burning my lips.  And the sky outside, blue as a glass of raspberry Gatorade.  That's it.  Last night, I went to a basketball game with my daughter and her friend who's a boy.  I can't get that back.  Tomorrow, I may have a chili dinner at my parents' house, or not.  I may go to a movie.  Or not.  The future is an empty computer screen.

I accept the blessings I have now.  Try to notice them the way my son does.  Unfiltered and new.

Saint Marty needs to go now.  He has to catch his flight for the afternoon in order to make his connecting flight to tomorrow morning.

Terry Godbey and a lesson from the past . . .

Rwandan Mother, 1994

by:  Terry Godbey

          In three months, at least 800,000 people were murdered.

Her little girls are clotted with fat flies.
She screams to scare away the mob of vultures
and curses God for keeping her alive.
She cannot move her legs, heavy as cooking pots.

She screams to scare away the mob of vultures.
Still she sees the doctor swinging his machete.
He forced apart her legs, heavy as cooking pots,
fire blooming in her throat and belly.

Still she sees the doctor swinging his machete,
even a priest--men she did and did not know--
fire blooming in their throats and bellies
as they kicked and beat her, spit into her face.

Even a priest--men she did and did not know--
slashed her daughters' slender necks,
kicked and beat her, spit into her face.
She waits for the clods of dirt to drop.

They slashed her daughters' slender necks.
She curses God for keeping her alive
and waits for the clods of dirt to drop.
Her little girls are clotted with fat flies.

Off the Top of My Head