in which i explain myself

I've always wondered about those recording artists whose sophomore albums are named after themselves, and not their debuts as is the norm. Could they not find a title they liked? Did they run out of ideas? Maybe they had more artistic license the second time around and felt the album was more theirs.

Whatever the case may be, I seem to have done the same thing. My first post flew from my fingertips and shouldered its way in before I could explain what this blog's purpose is supposed to be. (It's a family trait, though. I have three brothers, of whom the oldest is the only one not named after someone in our family. The youngest has our mom's maiden name as his middle name, and the second is a junior. Although, technically, he's not. Yes, that's right, my parents forgot to put "Jr." on his birth certificate. Of course they didn't. That would make things too easy.)

So, the purpose of this blog is poetry. (You might have already figured that out.) Specifically, poems I like and poems I write. It's supposed to make me write more. We'll see how that goes.

In honor of the unseasonably warm day we had today, here's a piece about one of my favorite places in the world.

Franklin, Tennessee
by Catherine M Braun

Cicadas and porch swing creaks
serenade fireflies
as wet earth and mossy pond
perfume the air.
A slight breeze stirs,
reprieve from the still night.

This is the quiet time,
when the world winds down,
emptying the mind.
When there is nothing to do
but breathe the loamy air
you wade through
during the heat of the day.

If you stay long enough,
blood thickens,
weighing veins down
‘til they sink to the bone,
and the brick wall of humidity
you used to hit lung-first
disappears.

You think if God dropped you
into the thin air of the Rockies
you might just float away
and not touch down
‘til you reach the river Harpeth.

the present moment

I have been seeking to live in the present moment.

Well, it might be more accurate to say that I have been thinking about it. Which defeats the point, I know. But I have this problem of "living in my mind". I have a very active imagination (not vivid, mind you. Active. There is a difference) and I usually play things out in my mind. Including what I'm writing now. This is actually the third or fourth draft, although the previous drafts never made it this far.

This "living in my mind" can and does cause problems in real life. In some ways, it's a family trait. We tell each other things in our minds. It works like this: I need to tell my sister something, so when I think about what I have to tell her I imagine how I will tell her and what her reaction will be. And then, I think I have told her so she never actually gets the information. There are some important things I didn't know about until after the fact because someone told me about them in their mind.

So, "being here now" (to be trite and commercial about it) could be considered a coping technique for me. But the reason I really want to live in the present moment can best be summed up by the following passage from "Bread & Water, Wine & Oil" by Archimandrite Meletios Webber:

"We can only make decisions in the present moment. We can only enjoy sights and sounds in the present moment. We can only love or hate in the present moment. The present moment is the interface between ourselves and the rest of the universe, and, more importantly, it is the only point of contact between the individual and God. Of all the possible points of time, only the present moment is available for repentance. The past cannot be taken back and remade. The future remains forever outside our reach."

The past cannot be taken back and remade. I think living in the present moment might heal those things in my life I regret. It'll be a struggle. But I think everything worth having is worth struggling for.

What I'm struggling for can best be summed up in a poem I first heard sixteen years ago. It's by Edgar Lee Masters and is part of his "Spoon River Anthology". (I supposed "dramatic monologue" might be a better description than "poem" as I first heard it as part of the only theatrical production I was a part of in high school.)

Fiddler Jones

The earth keeps some vibration going

There in your heart, and that is you.

And if the people find you can fiddle,

Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.

What do you see, a harvest of clover?

Or a meadow to walk through to the river?

The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands

For beeves hereafter ready for market;

Or else you hear the rustle of skirts

Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.

To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust

Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;

They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy

Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”

How could I till my forty acres

Not to speak of getting more,

With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos

Stirred in my brain by crows and robins

And the creak of a wind-mill – only these?

And I never started to plow in my life

That some one did not stop in the road

And take me away to a dance or picnic.

I ended up with forty acres;

I ended up with a broken fiddle –

And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories.

And not a single regret.

So, on this journey I've started I'm praying for this: for no regrets, for no anxiety about the future, and to meet God in this present moment.

You're welcome to come with me.