I used to look at those old photos of ghosts. Have you ever seen them? The ones of the monks in some ancient cathedral, walking down the aisle in their hooded robes, only instead of full height, feet on the floor, they appear to be waist deep in a river of stone tiles. The caption explained that those spirits were seen only after the tourist’s negatives were developed. This morning, walking the dogs while Chip watched the war in Ukraine on TV, I took a picture of the rain on the river, of what I imagined would show the heavens crying so I could match it to a poem or prayer for you today. When I went to upload it to my files, there was this heart of ice, floating just below the surface.
I wish I could tell you that means something big, for certain, but I can’t– although I do have faith that it does, and that it is more real than those old cathedral ghosts. I should say that it was more real. It has already drifted away on the tide.
In Zoom church this morning our priest said that these times can be an opportunity– in an odd kind of way– as people everywhere are calling for a different way of being– a way of peace, love, justice, compassion. A pandemic, natural disasters, war– Enough is enough already!
Yesterday I was so upset I roasted a chicken and baked cookies. Today I will write a check to a relief agency. All of it makes a person feel helpless, but I have to believe our humble prayers are working to plug those holes in the dam and holding back evil like the Dutch boy’s thumb.
I saw this poem first thing this morning ( was it another sign? Or only seemed so because of where my heart is?) It’s from Emily Dickinson’s Envelope Poems, a lovely book featuring copies of her handwritten poems. This one was on the triangle flap on the back of an envelope:
In this short life
That only lasts an hour
(merely)
How much- how
little- is
within our
power
She didn’t pencil in a question mark after power. She wrote only, How much– how little –is within our power. As a glass half-full person, I take heart that prayer matters. It is certainly better than doing nothing, or worse despairing.
I read this in Literary Hub on Friday, by Ukranian poet Iya Kiva, who, Lithub said, ” has lived in Kyiv since the summer of 2014, when she fled her native Donetsk following the outbreak of the war against Russian-backed separatists. For eight years Kiva has been one of several young poets in Ukraine to describe the simultaneous hopelessness of war and hope in a country seeking an independent identity.” Her also untitled poem (like Emily’s) says more than any news story about life in Ukraine now:
and when it came my turn to be killed everyone started to speak Lithuanian
everyone started to call me Yanukas
summoned me hither to their native land
my god I said I am not Lithuanian
my god I told them I said it in Yiddish
my god I told them I said it in Russian
my god I said to them in Ukrainian
there where the Kalmius flows into the Neman
a child is crying in a church
Holy Mary Mother of God, hear our prayers.
There was another found heart/prayer (they seem to be the same) too, this morning. I almost deleted it without seeing it (Trixie is not looking her best…) I’m so glad I didn’t, aren’t you?
