Random Discoveries – Day 950

Random Discoveries? – Photo: L.Weikel

Random Discoveries

How many times have I mused about the random discoveries we make in our day to day lives that actually feel like they’re messages? How many times have I picked up trash beside the road or looked at a billboard I’ve looked at a million times before and known with absolute certainty that it was meant for me to find or see in that moment? Even seemingly random tickets in line at the DMV can feel like a Hallmark card to me. Yeah, this is a theme I come back to over and over again.

I’ve made some pretty bizarre discoveries in the decades we’ve walked and picked up trash along the way. The other day was one of the odder discoveries. But in a peculiar way (naturally), I made a connection between what I found crumpled and tossed into the thicket beside my country road and my son – whose presence I’d felt very close recently.

I’d seen his initials on license plates at least half a dozen times over the past two days. I overheard random mentions of ‘1111’ or turned my head quickly when someone called out, “Karl!” in the grocery store. (No one was with me at the time.)

These things happen occasionally and they make me smile. Sometimes I ache and wish the connection was stronger or could segue into a conversation, but I’ll take what I can get. I’ll feel the hug. I’ll send the love right back at ya, Karl.

An Odd One

But the discovery the other day was different. I noticed the papers crumpled up in the grass as I walked by. The grass is tall along the roadside at that spot and initially I only saw one wad of paper. The other was actually a few paces further along.

The first one I picked up, while balled up, was still fully intact. It was clearly a poem ripped out of a book. So was the other, but that one had been ripped with less care, the bottom corner obviously remaining with the binding.

“What’s the message, Spartacus?” I asked as he eagerly nosed the balled up waste and looked expectantly toward me for a treat. Absently, I fished for a treat in my pocket and tossed it to him, which he deftly snagged mid-air.

Tucking the leash under my arm, I used both hands to smooth the page. I felt my heart skip just a bit faster. “Huh,” I said. “Good one, Karl.”

Poetry Thicket – Photo: L. Weikel

A Poem

Here in the middle of nowhere (see the photo above), I found a poem entitled ‘the bluebird.’ Not being a poet myself, nor a student of that genre, I had a feeling I should probably know who wrote this, but of course I didn’t. My Google search once I got home immediately yielded the name of Charles Bukowski.

Its words are haunting. And I can easily imagine my son thinking some of the thoughts expressed in the piece. But beyond that, it reminds me of Karl because he played the part of Moonface Martin in the musical Anything Goes when he was in 7th grade. He had a solo: Be Like the Bluebird.

I can’t even credit the book from which the pages were torn. But the two poems (I’ll share the other one tomorrow night) feel raw and important; at least important enough for me to pay attention to them and give them another venue in which to be read and contemplated. Do they hold a message for you? For me? For any of us?

Or are they just random discoveries?

the bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see

you.

 

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whisky on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he’s

in there.

 

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

 

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody’s asleep.

I say, I know that you’re there,

so don’t be

sad.

 

then I put him back,

but he’s singing a little

in there, I haven’t quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it’s nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don’t

weep, do

you?

(T-161)

Mary Oliver – Day Sixty Eight

Mary Oliver – 9/10/35 – 1/17/19

I feel an undeniable resonance with Mary Oliver’s love affair with Mother Nature. The way in which her words reflect my own yearning to hear the stories and know the essence of All Life makes my heart both ache and sing.

The following poem felt like it was speaking to me today, and I want to share it with you. Surely she knew we would be reading it this very day? One day after her soul broke free of the cocoon lately stalked by the fourth sign of the zodiac? By every word, it feels that way to me.

 

The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac

– by Mary Oliver

1.

Why should I have been surprised?

Hunters walk the forest

without a sound.

The hunter, strapped to his rifle,

the fox on his feet of silk,

the serpent on his empire of muscles –

all move in a stillness,

hungry, careful, intent.

Just as the cancer

entered the forest of my body,

without a sound.

 

2.

The question is,

what will it be like

after the last day?

Will I float

into the sky

or will I fray

within the earth or a river—

remembering nothing?

How desperate I would be

if I couldn’t remember

the sun rising, if I couldn’t

remember trees, rivers; if I couldn’t

even remember, beloved,

your beloved name.

 

3.

I know, you never intended to be in this world.

But you’re in it all the same.

 

So why not get started immediately.

 

I mean, belonging to it.

There is so much to admire, to weep over.

 

And to write music or poems about.

 

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.

Bless the eyes and the listening ears.

Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.

Bless touching.

 

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.

Or not.

I am speaking from the fortunate platform

of many years,

none of which, I think, I ever wasted.

Do you need a prod?

Do you need a little darkness to get you going?

Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,

and remind you of Keats,

so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,

he had a lifetime.

 

4.

Late yesterday afternoon, in the heat,

all the fragile blue flowers in bloom

in the shrubs in the yard next door had

tumbled from the shrubs and lay

wrinkled and fading in the grass. But

this morning the shrubs were full of

the blue flowers again. There wasn’t

a single one on the grass. How, I

wondered, did they roll or crawl back

to the shrubs and then back up to

the branches, that fiercely wanting,

as we all do, just a little more of

life?

From her book of poems, Blue Horses © 2014

photo by backyardgardenlover.com

(T-1043)