These days, a work week seems like an eternity, and the weekend is a melting snowflake, practically gone before it hits the ground. As we gain in years, we seem to lose in time. As Einstein thought, time is relative—the more time we have under our belts, the less time we have left.
Marie Howe meditates on time . . .
Another Theory of Time
by: Marie Howe
So, I tell my daughter
—we are eating dinner, reading through the book of stories—
I’m worried about Jason. If I seem distracted, that’s what’s on my mind.
And she says, Take it out of your mind,
then dips and eats a dumpling, and says, But don’t take out Jason.
And this morning at the deli I say, I’m grumpy because
it’s the first day of school, and I’m thinking of so many things,
and she says, Take them out, and I say, How do I do that?
and she says, Think about Now.
I bite into my egg and cheese on a sesame bagel, and it is good. It is
Although it does bother me—
how she always wants to sit at the tiny deli counter
so near the garbage bins—eating meatballs for breakfast.
Then she says, I can’t remember the future or the past.
The local high school girls order iced coffee and whole wheat bagels
with nothing on them. My girl eats her meatballs,
and I stare past the cutouts of ham and turkey taped to the window
and think about the moment I want so much to leave
—how small it is sometimes, this Now==
how constricting, me with my bad teeth and aging elbows,
as person after person tosses their trash inches behind my back
before walking out the open door.
The daughter in the poem is wise. Truly, we can’t do anything about the past, and the future hasn’t even happened yet. So, that leaves the present, in all of its messy glory. Human beings spend way too much time lamenting past mistakes, old lovers, the “might have beens” Or we worry about upcoming final exams, deadlines at work, or doctor’s appointments.
I wish I could say I was as Zen as the daughter in Howe’s poem. I’m not. In fact, I’m already thinking about the coming summer months—my son’s high school graduation and subsequent party, future vacation, unedited poetry manuscript. And, in the last few weeks, I’ve also been haunted with thoughts of my sister Rose, who passed on January 20 four years ago. Future and past. I almost never focus on what’s in front of me.
I’m not proud of that admission. I think I’d be a lot happier if I could simply enjoy what I’m doing right now: sitting on my couch on a Friday night, watching the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Italy, and petting my puppy. It’s sort of a perfect moments, surrounded by all the things and people I love, doing the things I love to do.
I think that’s what writing poetry is all about. A poet captures moments, preserving the emotion and essence of them. When I sit down with my journal to work on a poem, one of the first things I do is just look around, see what’s in front of me. Often, the sound of the car driving by outside will cruise right onto the blank page. Or the snowstorm shaking the windows. Or the smell of brownies baking in the oven. All of those Now things.
And, when I sit down to tap out a blog post on my iPad, those Now things creep in, as well. Because, really, that’s all I’ve got. Even at the end of a long week (and this week was L-O-N-G), I only have this: the plate of poutine in front of me, and the smell of my puppy farting on her pillow beside me. That’s my moment. (By the way, all the pictures on your phone’s camera roll, those are captured Now moments. Visual poems, so to speak.)
I am going to try to be a little more Zen this weekend. Instead of worrying about the movie I’m showing at the library on Monday evening, or my lesson plans for next week’s classes, I’m going to try to take it moment by moment, song by TV show by poem by nap by walk by movie by meal. And I’ll probably be a lot happier for the effort.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for this evening about a poet friend enjoying a winter moment , , ,
Winter Zen
by: Martin Achatz
They’re skating on Lake Superior
these days, the water smooth,
hard as unanswered prayer.
Last night, my best friend
rushed to the ice after work,
spun and raced from the shore
to the edge of the world, as if
somewhere beyond the razors
on her feet were the fresh-shaved
cheeks of May and June, ready
to be smudged with lipstick
at junior prom.
