The baby comes with spring

I wrote this while waiting to have a baby, our third.

Due at easter
before the lillies?
before the lilacs.
but there may be crocuses,
fiddleheads, stretching up in curls
out of papery-brackeney nests,
out of damp dark dirt and leaves
the beginnings of lacy green on the trees?

Will the baby come with wet sidewalks,
nights warm enough for noise on the streets?
open windows?

even rain?
Thank God, thank God! The babe came. He sent us this baby--oh, I am filled with wonder--
and he carried me through that birth!
He answered my call and delivered me from my distress. Oh, I thank him with all my heart. God is my only treasure, and my great reward. He has been so good, so good to me.

The Only Salt Seas in Northern Lake Country

Written while waiting to give birth.

Small Whale
surfaces near my boat as I stand watching, waiting.
A fin slides along, just under the skin,
rides the length of the keel.
Sometimes bumps--push--
against the gunwhale.
Sitting astern, on my knees,
I wait for another sighting.
This silent companion,
more felt than seen,
glides along with us.
My paddle in hands, grasped firmly
to pull as hard as I can,
forward in great surges against the water.
We will slice though the grey,
splashes echoing against and under the small boat.

Perchance, if the wind picks up,
under this lowering sky,
we will ride peaks curdled with warm white foam,
slapping hard from one grey glassy hill
to another.
At our backs wind drives us,
faster than a runner to the far shore.

In our faces, we pull straight into the wind,
riding up and down the great swells,
now nigh four feet high,
one at a time, straight through and over
each solid hill of water,
nose high in the air,
pulling to the utmost,
from deep and low in our bodies,
in unison, singing strategy and courage to one another,
stroke and stroke and stroke and pull
across the long windy open water.

Or, given calm skies,
we may enjoy the gentle shelter of the quiet sunsteeped bay.
Along fingers of lake reaching through mats of hairy grassy rooty turf,
gentle through the sliding lillies,
sitting queenly open to the sun,
even slip, easy as a carved toy boat
past the narrow steep rocks,
right on by hidden tearing rocks,
under a low snag;
just around submerged deadheads
glide out into the open calm of the next lake.

Then--breathe easy,
rub our eyes
refill our water bottles from the deep still
open water
drink deep and long.

Basket of Eggs

Baby, you were so worth it! I worried so much. That birth was so hard.
You are so beautiful. I love you.
I wrote this while pregnant, hopeful and wondering about the child to come, trying not to count my chick before he hatched.


Crafted slowly, tenderly thoughtfully
this one is gilded, beauty-bright

This, covered in sugared violets, sparkles
in the Easter breakfast light.

Here, fern-green, unfurling fronds wrap around
this one, dark red, a soaking, velvet crimson.
This plain one, warm, hums like a honey bee.
One dew-damp from the morning chill,
another ringed with a quadrille of curliques

They nestle in the straw
in a circle softly mother-lined.

Behold! Tokens of inner wealth
glory-filled
vigil-waited
sunrise-light---

yet what's inside,
the treasure lasting,
is not ours yet,
till in our hand.

Do you "get" Poetry?

I've happened upon a few very good guides to poetry. I'd like to remember them for when the kids are older, as navigational guides. I'm thinking ahead to how we'll teach them all kinds of things, and starting a system for filing books I might like to read with them later.

Anyway, these books might help with what bothers and intimidates so many people about poetry. We know what to do with a story, how to read it; but we get lost when we enter a poem. You know, "what does it mean?"
I very much myself enjoyed reading The Roar from the Other Side by Suzanne U. Clark. I might use it with the kids in the late-grade school years. She nicely explains the standard list of literary devices, giving excersises for students. It made me want to take up my own pen. She includes great texts by new poets I'd never heard of, as well as some you'd expect.
I've just begun John Ciardi's How does a poem mean? This volume may be appreciated by anyone who has asked, perplexed, of any poem or all poems, "what does it mean?" It might work as a good textbook, denser than The Roar from the Other Side. By textbook, understand that I mean, as I said above, a good guide, not a dry manual. There are many unfortunate textbooks out there, useful for completing workbooks and putting one to sleep before big exams. A good text is written by one who knows and loves their territory. Like a good wilderness guide. When I was in staff training to become a guide for wilderness canoe trips, our guide was a man who knew the lakes we paddled. He knew our equipment. He knew how to navigate. He knew what we needed to learn.
He also loved the land. He swam in the (cold!) water each morning upon waking. I noticed, almost upon meeting him, that he loved the words for the animals, history, and plants of the lakes country. He spoke the names of things deliberately. There is a joy in the particular nomenclature of a place, words that record its particularity. He sang, as we paddled across long lakes.


A singing guide is one who entices his students to follow in his steps. Likewise, these volumes on poetry are each written by a poet. Who but a woodsman could lead others through the wilderness? Similarly, can one become even a decent reader of poetry without writing a few? Though I loved to read as a child and adolescent, I was a terrible writer. Writing wasn't fun, because it never worked out well. But poetry is a key that can unlock some doors.
In my review of the first semester of my ninth grade english class, taught by my first good english teacher, and one of my best, I, in typical nerdly fashion, profusely thanked her for opening poetry to me and even more lavishly thanked her for not making us write poems. The first excercise she assigned the next semester was a big batch of original poems. Ten poems, with no other instructions or limits; ten original poems.
This was so good for me. After dousing us with a sea of all types of the poetic form, she simply pushed us off the dock. And so I learned to swim.
Well, Mary Oliver, a quintessential American poet; accessible, accomplished, and delightful, makes a good guide for writing verse. It's hard! She presents different forms for metered verse which will build the literary muscles of tawny poetic jocks and novice slow-pokes alike.

Gibbie Says...

Papa, you are a shining light inside the snow.

Poetry for the weary pilgrim

My Lord, I have no clothes to come to thee;
My shoes are pierced and broken with the road;
I am torn and weathered, wounded with the goad,
And soiled with tugging at my weary load:
The more I need thee! A very prodigal
I stagger into thy presence, Lord of me:
One look, my Christ, and at thy feet I fall!

George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul


Sorry to any friends whose calls we have not returned. We have been knocked off our feet by a little virus, and life in general. (The question was "Raising sputum?" and the answer, sadly, was "Yes!") Thanks to Natalie for cleaning our house--she even cleaned the dreaded corner back behind the nursing couch! And thanks to Becky, for taking care of me and the kids with fevers last Sunday. And thanks to Myra and Doug for everything. And thanks to Lacy for special prayer help.

We are returning to health, and trying to get back into a rhythm where we can perform all basic functions again, so don't worry, but thanks for all your prayers. We have lots of things we are hoping to share soon. Much love, all of us.

the Diary of an Old Soul

Oh, eager, hungry, busy-seeking child,
Rise up, turn round, run in, run up the stair;
Far in a chamber from rude noise exiled,
Thy father sits, pondering how thou dost fare.
The mighty man will clasp thee to his breast;
Will kiss thee, stroke the tangles of thy hair,
And lap thee warm in fold on fold of lovely rest.
-George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul

This struck me. I so just want to find comfort today in God, my loving Father. Eager, hungry, busy-seeking child, that's me. He seems so distant, I lose track of how close and strong his love is, how he thinks of us always, and so tenderly.

This little poem is from a collection in which George MacDonald (one of my very favorite authors) presents a short stanza for each day of the year. Like much of his work, the poems run the gamut; some are gems, some impenetrable, and some are untidy at best. I love him not so much as a poet as as a teacher and storyteller.

I remember this from my own Papa, being in his lap, feeling his breaths go up and down, holding his big finger with my whole hand. It was he who explained to me that I never need be afraid of losing myself in God, that when I am most absorbed in God, most forgetful of myself, I will most truly be myself. And he told me that he loved me, and that Jesus loves me the best. So today this busy-seeking child wishes she could run to her king-Papa, find herself in his arms.

It's a Wendellberry Day!

Although I haven't found any time to paint or draw since the lovelings were born, my creative hungers have not slaked a bit. In fact, when pregnant with Ezra, I experienced one of the richest creative times in my life. I was consumed by a great thirst for beauty. It has continued since. Yes, I do miss serious drawing, painting, illustrating, printmaking, and ceramics, but my life has truly been no less rich for their scarcity in recent years. I have filled the barren spaces with cooking, fiber arts (aka, sewing) gardening, and other sources of creative life and beauty which also contribute to the running of our daily lives.
From a feminist standpoint, we must honor the work women have given themselves to over the ages. My own experience with little ones thus far, (in role that is quite traditional and old-fashioned for a woman and mother; I do do a lot of cooking and cleaning!) has shown me that this work is not mindless, it is not drudgery, and it is not easy! I am not saying anything about what any other woman or man's role should be. For myself I want to thank my mother and grandmothers, my mother-in-law, and all the beautiful women before me; thank you for your great hard and good work.
Part of a healthy domestic life, especially for the woman working from or in her home, is a thriving life of the mind. My literary life is thriving as I've entered motherhood. I read for ideas and resources in my work. I read for beauty. I read for sanity. I read for my daily bread.
How do I find the time? I read whenever I nurse. I have stashes of library books by each couch, in the bathroom, by the bed, in my garden basket--you get the idea.
In that light, I want to share a favorite author with you all. In honor of all our mothers, and in honor of my aunt who came to visit this morning and brought her wonderful friend who just happens to be a master gardener and looked over my garden, advising me; may I share this favorite poem.

MANIFESTO: THE MAD FARMER LIBERATION FRONT
By Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees every
thousand years.
Listen to carrion--put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself; Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark a false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry is one of the writers who has been getting me through. He also writes essays, and fiction. The above poem is the first of his work I encountered, and I keep coming back to it. His writing is one of the reasons I am planting a garden, using the solar oven, making our own clothes. He didn't say to do those things, but I have encountered many things in his words that have sent me looking for more in other places. I have found biblical themes played out in concrete ways I had not been able to put together in some of his stories and essays. Other times, my own ideas I have seen reflected back from new angles.

Paul and I are currently reading: Fidelity, a collection of short stories.
and I recently enjoyed: Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community: Eight Essays. He talks about the great beauty of culture when we know our food and land. He is stridently American. Not conservative, nor liberal in the common senses, but for the Land, for health, for thought and beauty and hard work.
I do not agree with everything he writes, even with everything in the above poem. (or at least with every way each thing could be taken) I do very much admire and respect this author, farmer, and philosopher. He has sowed good seeds in my life.

For more on domesticity and feminism, try: To Hell with All That; Loving and Loathing our Inner Housewife by Caitlin Flanagan. The Saint Paul Public Library has it!