For our December meeting, we have the tradition of meeting at Interlachen Country Club, four people host it. Last year we read Caroline Kennedy's Collection of Christmas writings (poems and stories). We stayed along that course, and this year for December we each shared a poem. Not necessarily our favorite one, but one that meant something to us at the moment.
Three were missing. One had something at work pop up, and two had parents in the hospital. It used to be missing for kids sick, now it is parents.
I thought of a gift for each of my "book sisters". A pink natural pearl bracelet. I love mine. J gave it to me when I started Chemo. I am still wearing it, every day. It is something pink, but not screaming at you pink. Understated. Now J gave me (for keeps) the FINISH STRONG rubber bracelet. I love my jewelry.
I tried to think of a neat and tidy phrase to tell everyone when I gave them the bracelet. I couldn't. I gave a little talk.
Thank you to everyone for their kindnesses. I might not seem like I need others, but I do. I need my friends. I am so so grateful. Everyone does something different. One drops off an orchid, one cooks soup, one drives me to the doctor's, walks the mall with me, texts me, emails me, sends cards, drops off dinner, DVD's, books, buys me a soft bra. All together, these kindnesses make a beautiful bouquet.
I am thankful for God's love, always and forever. His love is shown through community. His love is so strong. His love is the center of all. His love heals.
In all things, be thankful. I can say I am thankful I got cancer, as I have learned so much, grown deep inside, and been redirected. God didn't cause cancer, but He used it to get my attention. Cancer made me learn to Be Still. Be thankful in every situation, as they all make you who you are right now.
THEN I forgot to tell about the pearl and nacre, so read that in the email I sent out. It was a precious, precious moment, the lunch. One you want to grab hold of and want it not to end. You know if you try to hold on to it, it will disappear. Moments are not physical things, maybe that is why when they are precious, even more precious.
Exactly why was yesterday lunch precious? I saw good friends opening up, tears in eyes, talking from their hearts. Celebrating community. Not afraid to say, not only do we need each other, we enjoy being with each other and we are committed to this community. The first Friday of the month lunch goes on the calendar in pen, what else is more important to write in, besides family and parents? So many of us travel, have homes in cooler climates. But when we are in town, we are at lunch!
I have pasted the poems into this blog entry also. Enjoy. Wish you were here!
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Dear dear friends,
Friday was precious, just a precious moment in time.
"Of great value, highly esteemed, cherished."
For so many reasons. Top of the list was all of you, who have been carrying me through the past eight months. And who continue to. We carry each other. How bursting with happy I was to share a gift with you all!
And poetry. Reading our choices, with some words of our own, gives us each a time to open up to each other. I love hearing your quiet thoughts. It also means each of us were able to contribute. Each of us came knowing we were a part of the success (or failure) of yesterday's moment. NOT that we need to do homework, but I love that we were one large conversation, and everyone was interested and engaged. This was wonderful! I remember my mom's etiquette phrase - a guest has the responsibility to sing for their supper.
And L, was inspired to write. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Yes, I did have tears in my eyes. I love this group! I hope you continue to write, whenever you have the inclination. Just do it!
L won the prize for the most work/ least words poem. But they are great words, and yes they could be on the wall for my grandchildren, whenever I have any....
We brought, some wrote, poems of celebration, relationships, character, cherish the moment, cherish the moment, cherish the moment.
Hostesses, you set the stage. Thank you R, B , M and C. The food, set up, decoration, gift to Eden Spa, all set the stage for the magical moment.
Topped off by C, our server today, who asked to recite her poem by heart. The Donkey. Sure, that's great we said. I don't know if you all heard, she said afterward as she was clearing our dessert dishes," Tell your kids to stay in school or they will turn out like me."
Finally, I want to tell you the end of my little talk, which I forgot to say.
In all things, be thankful.
In thinking about how to express thanks to all of you, the biggest thought in my mind was gratefulness and thankfulness in all things. What comes to your mind? Pearls!
Remember how they are made. A grit of sand enters the soft insides of an oyster. The oyster, once realizing it can't get rid of the sand, knows it must do something to soothe the hurt. So it builds nacre around the sand, layer upon layer. Mainly calcium carbonate, but also other compounds. Builds and builds. These nacre- covered sand grains are the pearls we know and love. So, from something negative comes a beautiful pearl.
Beauty from trials.
Pink, well you know why they are pink.
B, B and J, we will catch you with the gift next month. We send thoughts and prayers for health and comfort and peace for your family, B and B.
I am so looking forward to Jan 7th, B and J. Remember we are reading Franzen's Freedom.
Please let us all be ON TIME, as we all cherish our time together.
I love, love, love that each one of you really wants to hear the thoughts of others, and contributes so much to our conversations. So good to hear from everyone. Yesterday was just so neat!!! Don't you feel engaged and alive?
I will attach the poems I have, but I am also pasting below C's poem The Donkey. Boy it is powerful. Yes, it is more for Palm Sunday, but, well, hearing it from our dear server at lunch made it even more powerful and meaningful to me.
Much love to you, Sara
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HERE FOLLOW ALL THE POEMS!!!
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Read by C, our server at lunch. She recited this by heart.
THE DONKEY by G.K. Chesterton
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
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Read by L, tracked down by L.. she saw this in an Anna Quindlan book, thought it was part of a longer poem, took two weeks tracking down the longer poem. This is the length. And it is untitled. We think it needs to go on the walls of our grandchildren's rooms.
Untitled, by Gwendolyn Brooks
Exhaust the little moment.
Soon it dies.
And be it gash or gold it will not come
Again in this identical disguise.
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Written AND Read by L. Her first (and hopefully, of many) poem:
Books tingle the imagination, rekindle the past,
Arousing expectations of what is yet to come.
Teasing us with adventures outside our comfort,
Reading stretches our vocabularies,
Opens our boundaries.
Each new book a kaleidoscope of words.
The Authors challenge us.
Their interpretations beckoning us
To peel away at the enigmas of this life.
Nurturing strengths yet to be discovered.
Discussion is a luxury which opens us to interpretations,
exercising our learning and allowing many shared insights.
How would my life journey have been these past 20 years without my Book Sisters...
I would certainly have read many books,
oblivious to the many varied perks of sharing a novel with dear friends.
I imagine it would be like snorkeling without a mask or a friend;
it can be done, but, how sad to miss all the colors, the magic, and, most importantly, the sharing.
Sara, dear friend, how grateful I am to your dedication and commitment to our Book Group.
Your passion for reading, your gift of leadership with the joy you bring to learning
has provided a loving platform to a sisterhood of incredible women,
We have grown in to the autumn of our lives while sharing our joys.
Along our journey we processed our sorrows and cushioned the inevitable losses.
Our children have grown and we celebrate the news of graduations and college.
Their new adventures and the many accolades of each endeavor spark our enthusiasm.
Wedding Bells thrill us and happiness explodes within our hearts with the arrival of each new grandchild.
Life is complicated, very busy and, sometimes, we wonder where the time has gone...
But, no matter what...
We always have the first Friday of every month.
It remains a constant and dependable platform on which we thrive.
A history of learning that stretches us in spite of many distractions,
Yet, most importantly, solidifies a companionship of beautiful women celebrating the wonder of life.
Thank you for lovingly keeping us together.
==========================
Read by R:
i thank You God for most this amazing
by e e cummings
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:f or the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
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Read by J:
I Hope you Dance, Mark D. Sanders, Tia Sillers
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give fate a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Living might mean taking chances
But they're worth taking
Lovin' might be a mistake
But it's worth making
Don't let some hell bent heart
Leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out
Reconsider
Give the heavens above
More than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
(Time is a wheel in constant motion always)
I hope you dance
(Rolling us along)
I hope you dance
(Tell me who)
I hope you dance
(Wants to look back on their years and wonder)
(Where those years have gone)
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Read by M, who says the young mothers in her Church group brought in this poem this fall, as if they had just discovered it. We all chuckled, as many of our kids had to memorize it in fifth grade.
If, Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
===============
Read by C, whose family says this every night
“The Light of God surrounds me;
The Love of God enfolds me;
The Power of God protects me;
The Presence of God watches over me;
Wherever I am, God is,
And all is well.”
--James Dillet Freeman
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Read by B, we all are this
Reading Myself To Sleep
Billy Collins
The house is all in darkness except for this corner bedroom
where the lighthouse of a table lamp is guiding
my eyes through the narrow channels of print,
and the only movement in the night is the slight
swirl of curtains, the easy lift and fall of my breathing,
and the flap of pages as they turn in the wind of my hand.
Is there a more gentle way to go into the night
than to follow an endless rope of sentences
and then to slip drowsily under the surface of a page
into the first tentative flicker of a dream,
passing out of the bright precincts of attention
like cigarette smoke passing through a window screen?
All late readers know this sinking feeling of falling
into the liquid of sleep and then rising again
to the call of a voice that you are holding in your hands,
as if pulled from the sea back into a boat
where a discussion is raging on some subject or other,
on Patagonia or Thoroughbreds or the nature of war.
Is there a better method of departure by night
than this quiet bon voyage with an open book,
the sole companion who has come to see you off,
to wave you into the dark waters beyond language?
I can hear the rush and sweep of fallen leaves outside
where the world lies unconscious, and I can feel myself
dissolving, drifting into a story that will never be written,
letting the book slip to the floor where I will find it
in the morning when I surface, wet and streaked with
daylight.
=================
Read by M, about the moments
Snow Geese, Mary Oliver
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task to ask of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath as we do sometimes
to stop time when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match, which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.
=================
Read by B, who thinks of Peace at Christmastime
The Man He Killed, Thomas Hardy
Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
I shot him dead because—
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although
He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like—just as I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
No other reason why.
Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.
===========================
Read by me. A poem of redemption. Of being set free. Christmas.
The Christmas Sparrow, Billy Collins
The first thing I heard this morning
was a rapid, flapping sound, soft, insistent…
wings against glass (as it turned out) downstairs,
where I saw a small bird
rioting in the frame of a high window
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of glass into the spacious light.
Then a noise in the throat of the cat,
who was hunkered on the rug,
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in on the cold night
through the flap of the basement door,
and later released from the soft grip of teeth.
On a chair, I trapped its pulsations in a shirt
and got it to the door,
so weightless it seemed to have vanished
into the nest of cloth.
But outside, when I uncupped my hands
it burst into its elements
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.
For the rest of the day I could feel its wild thrumming against my palms
as I wondered about the hours it must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spikey branches of our decorated tree,
breathing there
among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
its eyes wide open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
picturing this rare and lucky sparrow
tucked in a holly bush now
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.
