little girl, get up.

I forgot to write down the author of these, but oh well.
This one is about a writer named Annie Dillard:
“Her experience of the world and God is filled with both awe and terror to which she responds with praise and protest.”

I forgot who wrote this one too but I think it was the same person:
“Whereas teleology asks, ‘What is the good?’ and deontology asks, ‘What is the right?’ the ethic of response asks, ‘What is the fitting?’”

I’m also rereading Eat, Pray, Love, one of my favorite books. This is after she’s been praying. The last sentence always makes me want to simultaneously break into sobs and break into praise:
“I’m here. I love you. I don’t care if you need to stay up crying all night long, I will stay with you. If you need the medication again, go ahead and take it – I will love you through that, as well. If you don’t need the medication, I will love you, too. There’s nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression and I am braver than Loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me.”

to be continued…

I am in transit;
I live in terminals longing for the airplanes.
Sitting in black leather chairs,
staring at berber carpeting,
listening to the
kindly disembodied voice of Terminal B.

I am a creature of this century,
possessed by a desire to move.
Put me behind a wheel and I’ll
buckle my seatbelt and set foot to pedal:
Away I go.

It’s an escape thing;
when things get hard I
board a plane / train / automobile
to Wherever.
I say I love to move,
but I guess really I just love to flee.

This isn’t healthy and it feels like
your stomach feels when you’ve eaten
too much pasta and your teeth say:
I want the crunch of an apple to wake me
and to fill me with goodness.

Well I’ve love moving like I love pasta
but I should put down roots,
let my toes be buried in moist black dirt,
spread my fingers to the wind
and smile benevolently at
Spanish moss on my stomach
and birds on my shoulders
and be an oh I don’t know
apple tree.

The Thought of Something Else

BY WENDELL BERRY

1.

A spring wind blowing
the smell of the ground
through the intersections of traffic,
the mind turns, seeks a new
nativity—another place,
simpler, less weighted
by what has already been.

Another place!
it’s enough to grieve me—
that old dream of going,
of becoming a better man
just by getting up and going
to a better place.

2.

The mystery. The old
unaccountable unfolding.
The iron trees in the park
suddenly remember forests.
It becomes possible to think of going

3.

—a place where thought
can take its shape
as quietly in the mind
as water in a pitcher,
or a man can be
safely without thought
—see the day begin
and lean back,
a simple wakefulness filling
perfectly
the spaces among the leaves.

I’m sorry: I forgot to remember
you’re loved.

Oh, you with your brash questions,
demands for honesty,
pleading for lies:
You, be still.
You’ll hear something
in the wind or in my voice.
Be still and I’ll say a word,
“Love,” or a variation on the theme.

Oh, you are tired and such a fighter,
your body and your words
twist and turn,
seeking in one motion to injure,
and to save yourself from injury.
Oh dear one: be still and you’ll see something
in the sky or in my eyes.
Be still and I’ll whisper
“Mercy,” or some other shade of it.

Oh, you are broke and bedraggled,
bereft of what you had,
gambled it on some broken melody
and lost. Oh you – be still,
so dear to us, be still.
You’ll feel something in the breeze
or on my fingers;
Be still and I’ll tell you
“Grace,” or something like it.

And will you hear me and my empty words?
(Words only someone else’s breath could breathe
properly; words that float on some crimson
air from another place; words that sound
bastardized from this impure mouth – oh,
I will place this coal to my lips,
and maybe these words will sound in unearthly accents,
inspired, divine – divine enough to convince a soul
it’s loved.)

Or will you keep wrestling, hearing only
your own ragged breath?