Late Ripeness, Czeslaw Milosz

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,
I felt a door opening in me and I entered
the clarity of early morning.

One after another my former lives were departing,
like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas
assigned to my brush came closer,
ready now to be described better than they were before.

I was not separated from people,
grief and pity joined us.
We forget - I kept saying - that we are all children of the King.

For where we come from there is no division
into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be.

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part
of the gift we received for our long journey.

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago -
a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror
of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel
staving its hull against a reef - they dwell in us,
waiting for a fulfillment.

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,
as are all men and women living at the same time,
whether they are aware of it or not.

this is the winter

i am accustomed to the coldest winters. i am familiar with winds that sting and steal my breath. i am accustomed to steal winds. i only know winter to be a struggle.

winter on the east was a struggle. there were demons and dragons to fight off. i have found something rather remarkable about the L-RD. He very rarely marks me by my failures. I have found that in my most recent heartaches for holiness there are fights. there are fights within myself, cutting off heart-limbs that have lived so long for comfort. and i have found that in my failures, he whispers something of pride, encouragement, a keep going. there is company here, i think. (woman, you have had too many lovers. go and sin no more. let me give you drink never ending. woman you have met the messiah.)

and then i flew westward with his promises written on my heart. (woman, i will make you mine. i will make you look like me.) new years eve i woke up in my favorite room in california and for the first time in a long time, felt light. my heart secured only by balloon strings. and then the drive back -- i realized it again. i am so happy here. there is so much hope living in these hills.

it has been raining here. we are flooded and it is still pouring. but, on my drive home on the stretch of highway that runs along the pacific and looks down on the cliffs to my left and the hills to the right, i realize that california has never been more beautiful. the grey clouds brooding over the ocean and the breakers crashing on the cliffs and the coves and ragged coast line and the light that only sometimes breaks through, its all to my left. and the hills and valleys undulating, sprouting green and bursting life and looking like hidden mysteries waiting to be discovered, to my right. and it seems as though california has turned into ireland or new zealand. it seems as though california is magic.

and it seems strange to be aware of so much life in the winter. this is the winter where it rained and we came to life.

christmas in connecticut.

I know connecticut best in stripped down december. bare trees raised in pride. and there is a humility about connecticut in wintertime. it stands tall, unwavering, unashamed. connecticut in the wintertime is an old man, poised without a covering, merely skin on bones, a history but only a skeleton. there is no reason to suspect what he was like in his past - the dawn of his spring, the youth of his summer, the glory of his autumn. and now, we are at the death of his winter.

and my mother and i walk up and down its hills. atop of our hill where we have built our home on, and our history on, and laid plans for our future on, there are other hills peaking. and in those hills there are steeples peaking. every where i go, there are steeples peaking.

and these are some of the things that i like about coming home.

the year of forgiveness

i have found that in my year of forgiveness, i am repenting. i have found that my own need for forgiveness is greater than any mercy i might hand out to another - some gift of grace that i myself do not contain. and, i have found that every inch of me, every cell, and interwoven emotion and substance of being that might make up a soul is thirsty. i need grace to pour over me and through me and in me and create in me a new heart and a steadfast spirit. i have found that i need a grace willing to see me and i need it to matter. i need it to cover and go deeper and wider than me.

i have found that in my year of forgiveness, i am the one asking.

"My secret is that I need God--that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem to be capable of giving; to help me be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love." (douglas coupland - life after god)

new york was simply the place where we grew up. saw the whole world and decided who we would be. and, there was pressure to stay, and there were influences to bend us. as far as i can tell, there is no magic in these streets, no charm to move us.

only, we were shown the whole world, and decided where we would go. we navigated the streets against wind and dirt and grey, and came out with decisions, with poems, with more of the world in our bones. and, it hasn't left us. i take him with me into the mountains, i take him with me into the sea.

" In those days, at that time, declares the L-RD, the people of Israel and the people of Judah together will go in tears to seek the L-RD their God. They will ask they way to Zion and turn their faces toward it. They will come and bind themselves to the L-RD in an everlasting covenant that will not be forgotten." (jeremiah fifty, four&five)

memories, wisdom

years ago when i lived transatlantic, there was a beautiful woman with curls and strawberry in her blonde and she taught me about seasons about about writing. there were books to write her life in. i have been traveling and recording in a book of maps.

i spend a lot of days wondering how much more travel there could be. transatlantic. transcontinental. and, i wondered, how long can a season of transition last? but here i am. in a home, that isn't quite a home, but must be one for now.

this afternoon my father called from new york city on his way to jerusalem. this is his typical farewell, and today, a piece of advice. "kate, embrace it. be lonely. explore the feeling. that's something new, right? maybe a story will come out of it." and with that, he was off to the holy land.

and, on a different note, i bought a new book today even though the old one was not finished. it is bound with rope and pictures a nest. and, i hope i do.