The Drift of Autumn - a Prose Reflection

I never realize it is time for autumn when reaching August's end.  Yet leaves begin to turn, and there is . . . something . . in the air I can't define, the hidden cue that signals change.  I grow reflective, nostalgic even, and as October comes in its chill splendor of leaf and shadow, sad.  Thoughts of what I have not yet accomplished crowd in and I struggle to keep up with time.  So much to read, so much to write.  So many yearnings to be with family, with friends, with new acquaintances.  The past has a strength that surpasses my own, and finally I give in and do nothing one day but sit and reflect, sit and remember, sit and write.  The season has won me over.  The trees of change have called to me irrevocably.  I drink the filtered light in my thirst for what it is that eludes me. I have become as one with those elements of earth that change yet run a fixed course by an unseen schedule.  Now I reach new energies, new creative outlets, mixing new with old to become Now.

Autumn Energy

After the summer days that called for laid-back do-nothing hours, this cooler weather that has entered our area calls me to DO SOMETHING.   As a matter of fact, I worked all summer revising and correcting my book manuscript, and now delight in seeing the finished, published product from All Things That Matter Press.  Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War has been a 3-year undertaking, begun out of a compelling sense of describing what happens to children during wartime.  The horrors of WWII disoriented the children caught up in that devastating time, and I felt it necessary to honor the experience as it affected children both in the midst of war and those on the perimeters.

Now that work is accomplished I move on to writing about the animals who have been rescued from their own horrors of abuse and neglect, finding new life with those who love and care for them.  The rescue organizations in our area do a magnificent job in spite of being overwhelmed by the needs of those who have suffered.   Cruelty is a common evil and works its terror upon us all, whether we walk with two or four legs.  We all inhabit the same creation and must share the consequences of cruelty as well as the beauty of compassionate care.

In the midst of this transition from one book to the next, autumn has come through the door of the seasons.  It brings with cooler temperatures the energy that has been dormant all during the high and dry heat of summer in this area.  I'm writing poems, carving wood pictures, beginning another book.  Autumn is good.

With October comes my need to share once more the beautiful poem by Robert Nathan.  If he had written no other poem than this, it would have been enough:

                                         Now Blue October

                     Now blue October, smoky in the sun,
                     Must end the long, sweet summer of the heart.
                     The last brief visit of the birds is done;
                     They sing the autumn songs before they part.
                     Listen, how lovely -- there's the thrush we heard
                     When June was small with roses, and the bending
                     Blossom of branches covered nest and bird,
                     Singing the summer in, summer unending --
                     Give me your hand once more before the night;
                     See how the meadows darken with the frost,
                     How fades the green that was the summer's light.
                     Beauty is only altered, never lost,
                     And love, before the cold November rain,
                     Will make its summer in the heart again.

The Morality of Deception

This morning our dog got loose from her harness during our morning walk. After several attempts to grab her before she got to busier streets, I reversed my strategy and started walking back toward our house. Katie, a Beagle-Jack Russell, is often craftier than I, so I wondered if this time I could trick her into coming home. She absolutely avoids any attempt to get hold of her -- it's a game she loves to play.

Her smile of joy and discovery at her freedom from leash and harness was obvious. But as I headed home, she bounded back too, keeping just enough distance from me as to escape any grabs I made for her collar. When we reached our house, I headed for the back yard, leaving the wooden gate open. She stopped in the neighbor's yard, watching me. And here's when I began the real deceptions: I went through a litany of names of her favorite people and dog friends among our family, as if I saw them in the back yard, greeting them in a very loud voice. Finally curiosity and excitement got the upper hand and she ran into the yard while I tried to shut the gate before she realized the underhanded ploy. Close, but successful.

I tried to make the best of it for her as she kept looking for all those wonderful people and dog friends. Explaining that they must not be here after all, I praised her extensively for coming home, and we went in where I fixed her breakfast. That was tricky, because the back door was still locked and I had to go out the gate again to the front door, but I was successful. The last time I looked at her, she still seemed a bit miffed at my trick . . .

So was the act of deception immoral, or was I enacting the deceit in order to bring about a greater good? The jury of one, Katie, has not let me know at this point, but because our four-legged companions are more forgiving than we two-leggeds can be, I'm betting on her letting me off the hook this time.

Writing Is Its Own Reward

Today I read an article by Parker Palmer addressing the writer's calling and the skills required, as he has experienced it (Christian Century, Sept. 7, 2010). His comments added another layer to the subject of writing as a calling, which has been something I've pondered over for the past several months. I ask myself if it is a legitimate reason for moving away from overt activism and devoting time to my writing. The votes aren't all in yet, but I believe the answer will be a strong Yes.

I never was very good at vigils or marches. My legs grew weary, my muscles began to ache, I was either very cold or very hot, or even very wet on rainy days. My concentration waned as my physical condition became more pronounced. Yet it was possible to write a poem or an article or letter to the paper voicing strong opinions (which often got me into trouble!), and my old bones did not ache from the effort. Sometimes words are as powerful in their way as actions, I have concluded.

My decision to move in the direction of the computer vs. the street has been a source of satisfaction and fulfillment so far for me, and I find as each day passes, the layer of guilt that nearly suffocated me at times for letting go of so many fine causes through my active participation has thinned out to mere gauze. Still there, but it does not nag. I think this is one of the unstated points Parker Palmer was making in his article: that we allow our words to be instruments for good.

This wrestling with the "to be or to do" dilemma now brings me to the first of what I hope to be an effective effort to draw attention to the evils of our world and push us to adopt new attitudes, through the power of the written word. This, in point, is my book Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War, due out very soon by All Things That Matters Press. I was drawn to that publisher at first because of the name, and have since discovered what a wonderful caring and professional group they are who work there. Deb and Phil Harris, the publishers, have many credits to show for their efforts, and they have developed a sense of community surrounding their authors to bolster our spirits and provide good advice on marketing what we have written. So I look forward now with great excitement to seeing my very own book put together collaboratively by them and by me, in its design.

To write about the consequences of war, Rachel's Children is a document that required a lot of discipline by me to stay on topic. Contributors brought varied perspectives to their stories. History was expressed in personal ways that a broad and academic study of such a war might overlook in the attempt to present sweeping accounts of strategy and statistics. These collected stories are what happened to children who now as adults remember that time in retrospect and wisdom gained from that experience.

To illustrate, here is an excerpt from the book explaining the background for the book:

"Children are repositories of the world’s memories. In times of war, they absorb through their senses the tastes, smells, sounds, sights and feel of fear, of terror, of violence, of the deepest pangs of hunger. These memories sink deep into the very cells of their small bodies, to affect them years later in a variety of expressions. The stories contained in this collection reflect the memories of those who spent their childhood in the turbulent times of what is commonly known as World War II. For many, the experience was one which defined loss for them: Of family members, of pets, of homes, or simply of a way of life which had seemed safe and predictable."

And a poem commentary:

we cannot live forever in that time
life refuses to indulge our memories
yet we know and we remember
so that grandchildren will be witnesses
to our stories

Poems Are Necessary

Recently, I ran across an interview with Daniel Halpern, who heads up the National Poetry Series. It is in the July/August issue of Poets & Writers. This particular comment, on possible changes in cultural sensibilities toward poetry, is worth sharing: "In this country and probably everywhere, poetry is the first thing people turn to during times of crisis or transition -- weddings, deaths, 9/11, for instance. It's always the poem that seems to be capable of carrying the emotional baggage. Whatever that represents, it's the thing that makes poetry so consistent over the years."

I'm not certain that in "times of crisis or transition," folks I know would turn first to poetry to address their concerns, but it is true that poetry can speak with a voice that prose is unable to do. I find that friends often use a poem to provide support to someone undergoing a rough time of it, and during a funeral or memorial service a poem is a frequent part of the service or placed in the bulletin. Why is this? Music and poetry share the same genetic makeup, and both can get through the mazes of stress and grief or worry in ways that pure prosaic words fail to do.

Maybe it's because I have loved poetry ever since high school, when I was unable to express my own feelings adequately. Words can sing, but I couldn't find them in my own mind until I began a serious reading of the poetic literature of the ages -- introduced by caring teachers of English literature. My early attempts at writing poems were pretty dramatic and emotional, especially the love poems. But they were the next phase of my fascination with words and what they mean. The bards of old, David with his lyre, Shakespeare and ensuing poets of all times, are clear evidence that their music and poetry were the fare of kings and emperors, of those in power who need nothing more than the mystic words to confirm their power. I wouldn't be surprised if Eve's first words to Adam when she morphed out of that rib were in the form of a couplet, the content of which has been lost in the dust of time. Perhaps some of you reading this have ideas about what she might have uttered. Later, no doubt, they were transcribed on to a rock, which has never been discovered in the archaeological ruins of another time. Who, I wonder, will find it, the inscription of creation?

No doubt this is the point where I end the blog with a poem of my own, but I feel inadequate for the task after what I've noted here. If anyone out there comes up with something, let me know. You can find me right here.

Excerpt from my book

I have a book coming out soon: Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War. To give readers a glimpse of some of the entries I will provide a few blogs with samples in the hope that you will want to read the whole book when it comes out through All Things That Matter Press. Here is the first of several selections:

The year 1939 marked the beginning of a war eventually affecting the entire world in one way or another for the next six years. Although the United States would not enter until 1941, in England and continental Europe, life began to change dramatically following the German military's invasion of Poland September 1, 1939. Hitler's armies showed little mercy for the inhabitants of countries considered for German expansion, its lebensraum.

Children began to hear their elders speak of impending war and then its beginning, without a full understanding of such consequences. Parents tried to reassure their children by saying that war was not good, but that little ones would be all right. Two days after Germany invaded Poland, Great Britain and France declared war on Germany, and Warsaw fell to the German Army by the end of September. In the beginning, France was spared from invasion, and children there believed assurances that they would be safe. Fathers in France and elsewhere, however, soon began to be drafted into the armed services.

A duck flies out of the pond. A rooster crows.
The field begins to wear brown. Grasshoppers
lose their summer green; the music fades
from their wings. Cannon boom like drums
of war over the hill, as dark-clad troops follow
the commands of death. A baby shrieks,
a summons comes to a home in France.
Poland is lost.

Time for Poetry

It is time -- it is time now
to rid ourselves of prose.
The government cannot lie
when it speaks to us in verse.

There are days when I find it hard to distinguish between lies and innuendos and the truth. Even my favorite columnists and online news and opinion feeds can't be trusted fully for truth-telling, nor can my favorite TV news and commentary programs be reliable all the time for unbiased delivery. It comes down to the necessity for me to forage through all the heavy-handed opinions and editorials and weigh them on the scales of reason before I buy into what is stated.

That's why I wrote the poem that closes my chapbook of poetry, "Let Us All Be Poets." Poetry, regardless of the words, is the metaphor for truth: truth of vision, of understanding, of perception. It is why even in my prose books of stories I have begun adding poems as commentary. Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War, my most recent book and soon to be published with All Things That Matter Press, carries poem commentaries on the experiences of those who were children during WWII. And now I embark on another collection of stories, to tell of animals who have been rescued from disasters and terrible conditions of abuse and neglect, and now are ready for homes of care and compassion.

Stories have a way of fitting together into long and connecting episodes, but run the risk of overstatements or missing the pathos or joy of an experience. Thus poems set things right again and speak beyond fact, telling the truth. We cannot live without poetry. The ancients knew that, yet in our own time it is often taught in such a way as to drive the sensitive and perceptive among us away from stanzas into the mire of prose unenlightened by reality. Even in biblical literature, it is the Psalms, or Jeremiah's and Isaiah's departure from prophetic prose into poetry that informs us most deeply. It is the metaphor and ancient hymns of gospel and epistle that reveal the essence of the divine most clearly. Poetry is the essential thread for revelation.

Just once, I'd like to hear a candidate for political office make a pitch for votes by voicing promises in the form of a poem. I would in all likelihood vote for that person in a heartbeat over one who fills the air with emptiness and false hope, with manipulated charges against opponents that are at best only partially correct. Let's hear the truth in place of hype and chicanery and silly innuendos. Let's hear a poem.