Moon Tonight by Gwendolyn Bennet Moon tonight, Beloved . . . When twilight Has gathered together The ends Of her soft robe And the last bird-call Has died. Moon tonight— Cool as a forgotten dream, Dearer than lost twilights Among trees where birds sing No more. Find this poem on Poets.org.
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Earlier this year I seemed to be running into the theme of edges and margins over and over. People who live on the edges of society. People who live in the margins on purpose to have the life they want. And what plants grow on the edges of fields, gardens, at the side of the road.
At the edge of something a transition can happen. When you get to the edge of your cultivated garden or even a farm field, what we like to call “weeds” grow in these neglected, undernourished places. Cultivation by humans ends here and the wild begins. Nature restores the land as wild by bringing in seeds that grow into plants that improve the soil and hold it in place, and feed native insect and animal species.
People who are part of a community, but feel mostly like they don’t quite fit, are at the edges. They’re the observers of the culture, the ones who see what’s coming, what’s about to change. The loneres, the seers, the oracles, the forerunners, or the Enneagram 4’s, of which I am one.
Earlier this year, watched a documentary about a family who does their best to live by the principles of permaculture (earth care, people care, fair share) and they do the least amount of work in exchange for money/outside jobs so that they can spend more of their time with each other. They gave up a lot of modern conveniences so they can live simply, which means doing a lot of work by hand just to survive. This is important to them, so they’re in the world, but just barely. They’re at the edges. They live a rather uncomfortable life for modern-day humans to stand by their ideals.
When you get to the end of a visit with family, there is that edge that blurs a bit (maybe with tears) as you say goodbye to your loved ones and drive away or watch them do so. I always find it takes me at least a day to acclimate to my usual life and adjust to them not being there, or to my having returned home. There is an edge when I leave them and a transition as I get back into my normal routine. I feel sad, like pieces of myself have gone with them. I’m unsure, out of sorts, and have to work my way through time until I feel more settled in myself.
Edges are uncomfortable and something I would probably avoid if I could. It would be less painful to seamlessly go from one experience to another without that transition, that in-between time. That bump in the road that marks before and after, then and now, this experience and that experience. Is comfort always in our best interest, though? It hurts to grow. It is unsettling to change, to be in-between. Yet we need challenges to change and mature.
I am living in the edges of my spiritual life. I was a charismatic Christian for the first 39 years of my life, albeit a questioning and a bit rebellious one. And then I found I couldn’t accept everything that was taught at face value anymore. I had to leave church. I didn’t fit the mold in many different ways and so I stepped into the wild. It’s been seven and a half years and I’m still in the edges. In the wild places. As I’ve read, pondered, thought, learned about and discussed spirituality from many sources, I’m less certain of some things and more sure of others. For instance, I no longer believe the Divine is exclusive to the Jews and Christians. How could I have even thought that? I used to struggle with those big questions such as:
Until Jesus came and died on the cross so people had a chance to accept salvation, where did those people go when they died?
And before Christ’s time, was it only the Jewish people who could be saved through their constant sacrifices and obeying rules and all the other nations out there went straight to hell because they weren’t Jewish?
And why are Christian people afraid of “Eastern religions”? Where do they think Christianity came from? I mean, I realize it’s been Westernized and even worse, Americanized, but do they really think Jesus was a white man who preached a lot of the stuff one hears in conservative circles today? About property and gun rights and hating certain groups of people because they’re different than us?
I could no longer go along with the idea that because the Bible was written in a time when women were not even considered people, we are still going to follow what is written about women today.
In spite of the fact I’ve parted ways with the church, I still find beauty in some aspects of Christianity. In some of the poetry and prophecies in the Bible; the classical sacred music; some of the liturgy, but that’s where it ends. I am tired of listening to men write books and blog posts about what they think God meant when he said this or that. I am tired of people being afraid of anything that doesn’t have a “Jesus Saves”, “God Bless You”, or “Hallelujah” stamped on it. Of people meeting raw grief, depression, questioning, etc., with a pat verse or cliche instead of sitting with them and holding their hand in their dark night of the soul.
What I am edging into is Celtic spirituality, nature-based, wild, and in the margins. I am searching for more of the sacred feminine in my spiritual experience. I am craving connection with a community yet don’t know if I can deal with the compromises involved in belonging to one. Rachel Held Evans, in her book, Searching for Sunday, admonished readers not to wait for the perfect church or spiritual community because it doesn’t exist. And I know she’s right. I’m just not willing at this point to belong to something that I can’t commit to 100% and that feels completely congruent with the deep, inner places of my heart.
Maybe it’s because I’m still living in the wild places; at the edges and margins of spirituality. I’ve changed so much in the past seven and a half years and will continue to. If you’re living in the margins, in any sense, but especially with your spiritual life, all you can do is keep your heart open; keep seeking, keep listening and asking. God/Goddess/the Divine hasn’t changed. Love hasn’t stopped singing over us and drawing us into an embrace. You are just as loved and just as watched over as those who feel solid in their spirituality. We are all loved, and still precious, still valued, even if we are living in the wild places, at the edges.
The Things That Count by Ella Wheeler Wilcox Now, dear, it isn’t the bold things, Great deeds of valour and might, That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the day. But it is the doing of old things, Small acts that are just and right; And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say; In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work when you want to play— Dear, those are the things that count. And, dear, it isn’t the new ways Where the wonder-seekers crowd That lead us into the land of content, or help us to find our own. But it is keeping to true ways, Though the music is not so loud, And there may be many a shadowed spot where we journey along alone; In flinging a prayer at the face of fear, and in changing into a song a groan— Dear, these are the things that count. My dear, it isn’t the loud part Of creeds that are pleasing to God, Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant shout or song. But it is the beautiful proud part Of walking with feet faith-shod; And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things go wrong; In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope when the way seems long— Dear, these are the things that count. Find this poem at Poets.org
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Beeches by David St. John The forest is its own thanksgiving Walking a mile or so from the road Past the lake & ancient post office I skim the long bodies of the beech trees The elegant ascension of their slender trunks A kind of gorgeous illusory play Of white bars against the dark ochre matting Of the earth below Peace is where you find it As here the last secret of the dawn air mixes With a nostalgia so perfumed by misery Only the rhythm of the walk itself Carries me beyond the past To say I miss you is to say almost nothing To say the forest is the sanctuary of ghosts Is only the first step of my own giving way— Not the giving up—just the old giving thanks You can find this poem in The Red Leaves of Night.
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A Song For Merry Harvest by Eliza Cook Bring forth the harp, and let us sweep its fullest, loudest string. The bee below, the bird above, are teaching us to sing A song for merry harvest; and the one who will not bear His grateful part partakes a boon he ill deserves to share. The grasshopper is pouring forth his quick and trembling notes; The laughter of the gleaner’s child, the heart’s own music floats. Up! up! I say, a roundelay from every voice that lives Should welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives. The buoyant soul that loves the bowl may see the dark grapes shine, And gems of melting ruby deck the ringlets of the vine; Who prizes more the foaming ale may gaze upon the plain, And feast his eye with yellow hops and sheets of bearded grain; The kindly one whose bosom aches to see a dog unfed May bend the knee in thanks to see the ample promised bread. Awake, then, all! ’tis Nature’s call, and every voice that lives Shall welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives. You can find this poem in Melaia and Other Poems.
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Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. You can find this poem in The Woman Who Fell From the Sky.
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When Giving Is All We Have
by Alberto Ríos
One river gives
Its journey to the next.
We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.
We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.
We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—
Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.
Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:
Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.
You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me
What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made
Something greater from the difference.
You can find this poem in A Small Story About the Sky.
Samhain by Annie Finch (The Celtic Halloween) In the season leaves should love, since it gives them leave to move through the wind, towards the ground they were watching while they hung, legend says there is a seam stitching darkness like a name. Now when dying grasses veil earth from the sky in one last pale wave, as autumn dies to bring winter back, and then the spring, we who die ourselves can peel back another kind of veil that hangs among us like thick smoke. Tonight at last I feel it shake. I feel the nights stretching away thousands long behind the days till they reach the darkness where all of me is ancestor. I move my hand and feel a touch move with me, and when I brush my own mind across another, I am with my mother's mother. Sure as footsteps in my waiting self, I find her, and she brings arms that carry answers for me, intimate, a waiting bounty. "Carry me." She leaves this trail through a shudder of the veil, and leaves, like amber where she stays, a gift for her perpetual gaze. Find this poem on the Poetry Foundation website.
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I don’t often read a book in one or two sittings, but October, October by Katya Balen was so good I had to. It arrived toward the end of last week and I starting reading it last night because it was already the 30th of October. This morning one of our cats woke me up at 5:45 so I stayed in bed and finished it.
This novel is written from the POV of October. I appreciated this single narrative as so many books these days skip backward and forward in time with different narrators which can be confusing. October lives in the woods with her dad. Her mother left when she was four and October’s never forgiven her. She fiercely loves her wild life with her dad, relishing everything from cold dips in the pond to climbing trees, cooking over an open fire, and growing their own food. On her eleventh birthday, her dad has an accident and she has to go live with her mother in London.
The story is told from the perspective of this sensitive young girl who just like any wild thing feels overwhelmed and out of place surrounded by walls, traffic noise, crowds of people, rules, clocks, etc. She misses her father and doesn’t know, like, or appreciate her mother, so she feels dreadfully alone and afraid. Her descriptions of how she is feeling when she’s overwhelmed by fear or anger or the noises and sensory input around her will probably be relatable to people who are highly sensitive.
This is a story of letting go of old and hurtful stories that we tell ourselves, how to see things differently, that new beginnings and new stories are possible, and that even in dark or confusing times, beauty, hope, friendship, and wild adventures can happen. It’s a story of changing, growing up, forgiveness of oneself and others, and a reminder that love surrounds us if we open to it.
I highly recommend October, October to lovers of exceptional stories with a vibrant protagonist you can root for and a feel-good, redemptive, sensible ending, those who enjoy YA or books in the 9-12 year old range. It won a Yoto Carnegie Medal in the UK and, if you like owls, this book features one. I won’t tell you more than that. Happy reading! If you’ve read it already, please share in comments!!
Theme in Yellow by Carl Sandburg I spot the hills With yellow balls in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins. On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling. You can find this poem on the Poetry Foundation website.
Life of Kim 