This has been a very special free verse poem to me for years; I first posted it here in March of 2006.

Thin Place

The road turns right almost as soon as it leaves the village, and
twists again in the other direction at a place where a

bit of lake-edge swamp comes up close to the pavement. That’s
where something changes, at that spot. I don’t know

what it is: but each time I come here, I get that same feeling
whenever I pass that stand of reeds: that I have left one

part of this particular world and stepped into another.

It’s the woods in part: woods almost always get to me, especially
when they’re near water. I know that. I do indeed

have a “thing” for woods and hills, because that’s where I first
sampled this particular taste, in taller forests and

bigger mountains, many years ago. But people report the same
feeling in deserts and dunes, on the top of barren

screes, on buttes, at wide silver water, along a shore at low
tide. There are sacred rocks well known to the people

who live close to them, and holy springs, and clearings that have
a certain radical peacefulness. Who knows? Maybe

there’s some phone booth on a Manhattan street corner that has
something special about it. I’m not willing to rule it out.

Up here in the Madawaska Valley there are miles and miles of wood,
and miles and miles (although not as many) of

riverside and lake edge. It’s lovely, wild, bony country. When
you’re here, you get clonked with the realization that

this is the civilized, highly populated fringe of the Canadian
Shield, and the Real Thing goes on and on, largely

unpeopled, for, oh, something like a thousand kilometers to the
north and west: a huge mass, terrifying in its

immensity. Is that vastness spotted, as this country is, with
places with this feeling? Or do you have to have people

there to notice the feeling? It’s the old tree-
falling-in-the-forest problem. (Would God be in this world if we weren’t here too? I think too highly of moose to believe otherwise.)

But there is that feeling here, just at the turn in the road and
on. It’s somewhat thicker and stronger where the

community has its white-painted house and its working buildings,
and thicker and stronger still on the island among

the reeds, where the log chapel stands. A sense of something
peaceful and yet gloriously alive Of Joy lurking

somewhere in the landscape.

The Celtic tradition had a phrase for it (Celtic tradition would,
of course!): it call places like this “thin places,” or so

I’ve been told. There are spots where this world and the realm of
the spirit come close together, some claim. That

may be; or it may be that there are some places, like some chords
in music, that evoke something spiritual in

people, as the smell of burning leaves can bring back childhood to
many of us; and that some places have more of

that power of evocation than others. Whatever. I don’t know, and
I’m not sure it’s all that important anyway. Even if

scientists could pin down the loci of the brain centers involved
and isolate the requisite stimuli, would it really make

any difference?

The important thing about this particular thin spot (or whatever
you want to call it) is that it fetched a holy woman — a

brilliant, passionate, fiercely courageous woman whose Godlove was
huge and whose energy was boundless — and

she found her own particular Madonna in these sandy pine woods.
Her cabin is on the island and the feeling there is

so thick you could almost slice it and use it for shingles. She
founded a community that keeps going through hard

work and cheerful begging and that has tendrils reaching far out
into the world. I come to visit this community

sometimes, partly for the community itself, but largely because
this place feels like a drink of cold water when you’re

really thirsty.

I was talking about all this to an old priest who lives here, one
who’d been close to the holy woman and had known

this place almost from the first days of the community. I asked
him the tree-falling-in-the-forest question: did that

woman find Mother Mary already here in the woods, or did her
prayers bring Mother Mary here? Mary had always

been here, he said; the woman had only named her and had taken
root here because of Mary’s presence. Question

answered.

But, he said, while there are places that call us toward holiness,
maybe it’s a two-way street. Maybe there are places

that we can help make holy. That felt right: I have known places
(my home church is one such) that seem to seep

the same feeling from their walls as I got from this place, as
though the prayers and joy and pain and angel-wrestling

of the people who had worshipped here had, in some fashion, sunk
into the very fabric of the joint. The priest said (he

had known her very well) that the woman’s cabin was like that; it
was, for him, full of the scent of her agony. What

had that agony been? I asked him. “That Love goes so unloved,” he
answered.

Maybe — I don’t know — if we could be completely open to God’s
love, as we never seem to be able to do, maybe we

could *make* more thin places. Maybe by love and prayer we could
clear some of the rust and debris that evil has left

spotted on the face of this earth, the scars on the faces of God’s
children, by facing them front-on and loving them as

best we can.

A more radical thought: maybe we could work on becoming ourselves
the thinnest places we can manage to be. Not

thin in the sense of meagerness, as fashion models are thin — in
fact, now that I think about it, the “thin place”

people I know are as often as not quite comfortably upholstered –
but thin in the sense of transparency: being as full

as we can hold of the love of God, and leaking it like crazy.
Highly permeable membranes. The priest himself was

like that; he leaked a deep and quiet peace.

Sounds simple, becoming a thin-place person; but in fact, it’s not
easy at all. Our notion of love often isn’t Love but

ego, and it needs to be stripped down to the chassis and rebuilt.
It means giving God leave to do whatever we need to

undergo if we’re to become the vessels God wants us to be. That
may involve being opened and stretched in ways

that I, for one, find terribly painful at times. God’s hand is
very tough on the clay at times, and if you think that’s

rough, you should see what he does to brass.

And sometimes it seems like it’s all for nothing. Listening to the
priest talk about the woman who had lived here, I felt

like a scant and wavering taper next to a glowing potbellied
stove. I feel muffled off from God’s love so much of the

time. I can take only a sip at a time of all the living water on
offer, however much I want to gulp it down. I’ve got my

areas of indifference or cruelty, spite and self-serving. I too
don’t want to see or be seen too much or with any real

accuracy. I too don’t love Love, or at least not often or nearly
well enough.

But the thin-place places and the thin-place people don’t judge
us; they call us, fetch us, offer us the startling gift of

grace, get lodged deep in our inmost selves. They tell us, here,
this is what Love tastes like, this is what Love’s

supposed to be. And nothing else ever really feels the same –
which is good, really; it keeps us from looking for

God’s Love in things and people that aren’t equipped to give it.
It helps if you can see that the idols are only plaster;

you can even feel sorry for them.

God-love is alive and active in this world; God’s fingerprints are
all over the landscape. That love bubbles through

among these particular pines and rocks and in communities like
this, but it also surfaces in all love: in a mother’s

gaze on her sleeping child, in the affection of friends or care
for strangers, for all love is ultimately God’s, love passed

on. It’s in the stillness of contemplation and in the action that
flows out from it. It’s yeasty and unstoppable and willing

to suffer anything to get through our stubborn unlovingness to
reach us. It’s here. You just have to be willing to step

into your particular woods, stand still, breathe deep, and open
your soul to it.

Combermere, Ont.

For Fr. Emile

Hat tip to Johnathan, who first posted our mutual buddy Kevin’s poem. I loved it and had to share it’s reach.

I like cold beer and noisy housewives

and little kids with rosy cheeks

who tell the truth. And good friends

who embarrass me and see all the things

that made me blind. I want to hold your

hand and walk in the park and get caught

up in your wheel of life. A thousand

little universes, the peaceful kingdoms,

the soft places to land.  I want to find

your comfort, that easy fireside existence.

I’ve seen so many glimpses of that tender

moment, soft sunlight in straight lines,

desire, and the most vulnerable of  hopes.

• today it occurred to me that we throw away too much compostable content around here…
• I could smell dirt when I stepped outside this morning…
• I had an urge to soak something….like beans….
• Sarah posted e.e cummings…
• I feel an itch to paint in tones of pale greens and yellows…

Maybe this is what the start of healing looks like?

We have built a table.

It is big.

We’ve joked many times that this will be a table to build a house around. A life around. It’s only a half joke.

We built it for $70 with framing lumber and a week’s time.

But this table is priceless.

10 2×8’s, yellow pine. We almost used Cypress, which had a nice Florida heritage idea to it, but I wanted imperfect, dentable, wood that would take on a nice patina in what will become a very normal life. So, plain, run-of-the-mill (so to speak) pine it was.

First, we ripped it into strips.

Then, two beads of glue on every side to be jointed. We gave close attention to how the grain was matching…or not. I wanted a sort of “butcher block” look.

Three boards, glued and clamped; the beginning of the top.

The legs were made of salvaged wood. Origonally they were the beams in some guy’s kitchen, remodled by my Dad. Then, they became legs for my mother’s work tables. Now, patina removed, they will be the legs that hold my table, pictured here with the frame.

Shortening them slightly. They had been “counter height”, 36 in, and we wanted the table to be a finished 32.

Learning to use the Router. It takes a little finesse to get it right! There are few dings and wavy lines here and there on my table…. patina!

Dad, bracing the legs. We used screws and carriage bolts. The table will need to be disassembled to be moved; it’s too big and heavy otherwise.

Lots and lots and lots of sanding.

Choosing a finish was hard! And I was considering distressing it with chains too. It became a debate between “honey” and “nutmeg”, though what I decided on hadn’t yet been presented.

The tops were ready for the planer. I LOVE the planer best of all the tools in the shop. Ugly, rough, imperfect things go in; smooth, refined, clean things come out the other side.

Clamping the top together. At this point, Dad started calling it my “aircraft carrier”.

Scraping the glue bumps; getting ready sand and grind the top.

Routing the edge. I went a groove that wouldn’t get dented too easily, nor be a food catcher.

Just taking a moment to appreciate that grain! I LOVE it. Each line represents a year of life. That always seems profound to me.

Break Time!

Sealing it to minimize warping, a real concern not using wood that wasn’t kiln dried and aged to the extent we would have liked.

I decided on a shade of stain between Nutmeg and Honey. It’s called…”Wheat”. I am using this photo to be true to the project’s process but I swear I look rather mannish in this one!

And here it is!!!! It needs to cure for a few days before we eat on it. I’m gathering chairs from various thrift stores and garage sales and painting them a royal, almost navy, blue.

It is The Table. I’m not sure how working with wood, smelling fresh sawdust, and Dad’s time heals exactly. Only that it does somehow.

I will build myself a table.

A solid one, of warm wood, from dead trees that once helped me breathe,

and now will lie down, planed smooth to a sheen,

with my babes all around.

For “our table” was really “her table” and so returns to him,

locked away from me now,

and I will not wait.
I see all things, even old things, pass away.

And blessedly, there can be made new, at the dawn of another life.

It will be my table, from my hands,

and that of my father.

It will help me to breathe.

So I will gather them to it, my babies, my loves,

and set flowers upon the center,

and never a cloth….

For old trees are aged and speak if you listen;

tell of knots and scars and lines on it’s face,

just like I have on mine.

So I will build myself a table,

and invite you to sit.

And we’ll breathe and eat and laugh and love.

Dead trees have new lives, and so shall I.

Well, kinda.

Yesterday my folks rolled in, camper and all, to spend about 10 days helping us with some major home renovation. On the list:

• finish the division of one long room into two, with closets, and built-in bed-berths for the boys
• refinish all the floors except the kitchen, bathroom, and master bedroom
• enclose the back porch, creating a mud-room
• paint both kid bedrooms; also sew quilts and decorate
• replace 4 windows

I am thinking of posting before and after pictures! What do you think?

In other news….a friend wrote this poem recently and I just loved it and wanted to share it.  It’s by Kristina Campbell. 

I wonder what it will be like when we are old 

and we paint

together

on Wednesdays

will we paint on Wednesdays?

and will our art belie our age?

or will I paint flowers and puppies

and children out skipping?

will I have my hair cut short

just because I am old?

Our children will come

and bring their children with them

and we’ll tell the same stories

again and again

but no one will stop us -

no one will say anything

they’ll just listen

and be thankful

that they have us at all

And after they’ve gone

we’ll sit at the table

together

alone

wondering how we got to this place

thankful to be in this place

where you still call me beautiful

and I still call you strong

where hours slip slowly

and memories mark time.

This is our favorite advent poem, discovered (for us) in Watch For the Light, a book of advent sermons and devotions divided one per day during the waiting time. I got the link from poemhunter.com

Black Rook in Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain-
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then –
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical
Yet politic, ignorant

Of whatever angel any choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur.
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance
Miracles. The wait’s begun again,
The long wait for the angel,

For that rare, random descent.

All this farm talk has me feelin’ sentimental for an old favorite song. Beit sung by Sting or Eva Cassidy, it’s a great one. Here’s the lyrics:

You’ll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
We’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I’ve broken
But I swear in the days still left
We’ll walk in the fields of gold
We’ll walk in the fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
You’ll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold

This little gem was on my friend Sarah’s blog.

We are most certainly poetry-kindred spirits *or* she simply possesses an uncanny ability to pick just the right poem to prick my senses. This one speaks of harvest time in September, a bursting-full of life image that I call to mind as I work the furrows of my garden, turn over this heavy clay, and contemplate how to keep squirrels away from my corn seeds. This is an image of a full and hearty life, healthy children and simmering warmth, and the radiant joy of gathering in after a day well done.

A Pot of Red Lentils

simmers on the kitchen stove.
All afternoon dense kernels
surrender to the fertile
juices, their tender bellies
swelling with delight.

In the yard we plant
rhubarb, cauliflower, and artichokes,
cupping wet earth over tubers,
our labor the germ
of later sustenance and renewal.

Across the field the sound of a baby crying
as we carry in the last carrots,
whorls of butter lettuce,
a basket of red potatoes.

I want to remember us this way—
late September sun streaming through
the window, bread loaves and golden
bunches of grapes on the table,
spoonfuls of hot soup rising
to our lips, filling us
with what endures.

Reprinted from “Saying the World,” 2003, by permission of Copper Canyon Press. Copyright © 2003 by Peter Pereira. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln.

My friend Sarah, who surely has touched a poetry-nerve within me and introduced me to words that will impact and imprint my life, has done it again:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

–e.e.cummings