Author Archive for Mark Nepo
Tasks
There’s the limb that came down in
the last storm. And the peach tree we
want to transplant. And the furnace needs
to be cleaned. And I promised to water the
plants while you’re gone. And I want to buy
you that necklace I saw you linger with when
I was waiting on the sidewalk. You held it
like it reminded you of the strong part of
your heart. I don’t know where to begin.
I keep staring at the maple bowing to the
October wind, its leaves turning inside out.
I think it’s going to rain. I spread the tasks,
even the ones I want to do, spread them
with my silence like a broom brushing
a puddle off the driveway. Mira is curled
under my desk. I ask her if she wants a task,
the way we ask if she wants a treat. Her tail
thumps in her sleep. More tasks like treats
wait at work. Which keep the world going?
Which keep us from ourselves? I’m
coming to like things as they are.
Grace Notes
In learning to play piano at the age of forty-one, I worked my fingers far enough into that uncanny dimension that all pianists know, regardless of their level of skill, where the hands, briefly, beyond all logic, start to behave more quickly than the mind that tries to read the notes or position the fingers. I had practiced enough weeks that I was ready to tackle my first piece of Bach, a minuet taken from a collection he created for his wife, a book that she herself copied, which has come to be known as Bach’s Notebook for Anna Magdalena.
In the eighth measure of that minuet there appears a note smaller than the rest. Almost ghost-like, it hovers very near the others like a barely seeable angel or a hummingbird whose path is more readily seen than its body. It surprised me. My teacher called it a grace note; a note that though played has no time; a note that though heard takes up no time in the measure of the song; a note that matters, though it is timeless. And therein lies its grace.
Now, eighteen years later, I realize this is another means to understand the paradox of epiphany; of moments that open and transcend their sense of ordinary time. In truth, every glimpse of eternity I have ever encountered has forever affected how I see and hear though it has taken up no time in the measure of the song. And seeking out the great sages and mystics throughout history, listening to their wisdom as it reverberates in the moments they are indistinguishable from life itself, I find over and over that the humbling instant in which we are washed along with the swell of the Universe is a note of grace.
When such a moment occurs, when the mind is touched by something larger than its ability to understand, when the heart is moved by something deeper than its capacity to dive, when the impulse to speak is stirred by the presence of something that cannot be named, things happen that defy the boundaries of time. In such moments we are made aware of a unity that is always present but seldom clearly known, and the flood of that presence, even when its conscious wave has passed, changes the life of the being who encounters it.
Moments like the moon, full and stark, rising over the garage between the oak and maple in the urban backyard of a friend as we barbecue and suddenly, the moon is calling in its white silence, drawing the smoke and fragrance out of the meat into the sky, and we, without a word, feel coated with a timeless film of light from another world, the same as cavemen preparing their game at the mouth of their cave.
Moments like the morning of my annual cat-scan since having cancer, and just as I leave the house, I walk the garden to see a cardinal splashing water on itself in the birdbath, and I am struck at our role since the beginning of civilization, at how we place things in the earth to collect water that will attract birds of color, how we really want something to call us to our thirst. How in the wet redness of the cardinal’s throat against the yellow of the primrose, I somehow know that everything will be alright.
Moments like watching my friend’s oldest cat adjust to being blind. How all at once, the cat’s attempt to make its way around a single room is clearly the hidden patch of softness we keep tucked behind our heart. How the soft attempts of the cat to find its dish without a clue so mirrors the soul groping within us for a life to carry it.
Moments of soft, relentless grace like the other night, celebrating one of our birthdays, the cake put between us, the lights turned off, all of us caught watching the sparkler on the cake, each of us peering from our own personal seat of darkness, gathering as we do, fixed by the hiss of light flaring between us, feeling the sparks fly, afraid one might burn us, hoping it does.
The Slowing of the Land
There is a day
when the road neither
comes or goes, and the way
is not a way but a place.
—Wendell Berry
We drive to Bangor, take a right at the blinking yellow light, another right on Hastings Court and then down a dirt road to Blue Dog Greens. Twenty-eight acres of agreeable land tucked between the railroad tracks and Black River. Dennis and Genevieve live there, very simply, in order to tend this organic farm. It’s a sunny, wind-blown day in July and close to thirty of us show up to help harvest the garlic. About an acre to pull up, shake off, carry, rope and hang in the rafters of the open air shed; high enough that the animals can’t nibble the harvest away.
After a few rows, I get the hang of it: pull the stalk up directly, so the garlic underground won’t break off. Some come easy, as if waiting for us to finally bring them like a birth into the world. Others hold back, as if saying we’re not ready, leave us be. Either way there’s a tug as the roots break free. I pull up fifty or so and stop to stretch my back when I hear the wind bending the oaks and maples at the edge of the field. I can see the bunch of us scattered through the beds, bending and pulling in the rows. And something wells up in me. For a moment, I feel part of some unannounced community that has come together and come apart for all of time: the coming together to harvest, to pull what we can from the ground, to dry it out and wait; so it can feed the lot of us when the ground freezes up and things seem rough.
This is such hard work, not our pulling up the garlic, but the slowing of the land till it yields something edible and sustainable; the hard work of these two and the small band of earth-lovers who come and go to help. And though we think of bounty when we think of harvest, I realize that the process is much more complex and telling, endemic of resiliency on earth: the land is broken of its grip so it can receive a seed, then watered till the seed can take root, then covered and protected from birds and rabbits and coons, then weeded to keep the other wild things from suffocating what is slowly growing. And finally, when the edible thing has grown its own roots, we come along and tear those roots, so it can feed us.
This is not harsh but intimately natural, only callous when we forget what harvest means. Only wasted when we don’t make the intimate connection to how this process works in our own lives: how everything we love and want requires this slowing; until what matters takes hold enough that we can break its roots so it can feed us.
Lifting the Net
I’m a bird who’s found his way to the forest.
–Po Chü-I
Sitting alone in the place of practice, the
cranes rise beyond the mirror I avoid and
I put down the great perfection and dream
of a path that shimmers in the mountains
that have always called, the ones that float
beyond the village I keep alive in my mind,
the village of counters and complainers.
The problem in living is that the soul, like
a horse dragging a plow for someone else,
can’t find its way back to wonder. But the
soul has to live in the world. So taking off
the harness isn’t the answer. Somehow the
soul must lead. Then the harness loosens
and becomes a teacher.
And the mind, what of the mind?
Like the tumblers to a safe that only
holds light, it is only of use until it
opens itself.
Water Doesn’t Lie
A thousand years ago, a colorful bird
flew out of an ancient tree in Persia, just as
a thoughtful boy opened his eyes. He never
saw it lift, only sweep over him in flight. This
is how he came to speak of God: as something
lifting out of view, as something sweeping over
us once we’re awake. Five hundred years ago, a
young woman saw her father beheaded in one
stroke by a desperate man leaning off a horse.
She would always fear horses and had a series
of unforgiving men and the last told her as he
left, “It was the desperate one, not the horse.”
A hundred years ago, my grandmother and
dozens like her, desperate for freedom, rode
the hammock of the sea to America. It took
weeks for the ground beneath them to stop
swaying. And thirty years ago, my father
couldn’t breathe on land; kept dreaming
of his mother’s crossing. Compelled, he
built a boat and taught me how to sail.
Now when I can’t breathe, I make it to
the sea where God fills me like a sail. At
times, I’m lifted by a wave I can’t see.
Pilot Light
Sorry. As soon as I talk about it, it moves out of view. Let me try again. There is a teacher, a teaching, a moment that keeps working me. I became aware of it four years ago when I met several burn survivors; heroic individuals whose faces have been removed, whose limbs have been disfigured. They have nowhere to hide. Inside is outside for them. I could see their beauty, each like a lantern broken by the storm; their flicker steady and bright though everything that carries it seems shattered. Two years later, my own struggle to lose weight gave me compassion for those who are covered by too much. I realized no one sets out to be overweight. And since, I’ve had silent conversations while riding the train: the obese man’s eyes meeting mine; his crying out: “I don’t know how this happened. I’m not what you see! I woke up in this mountain. I’m trying to get out!” Now the teacher, the teaching, the moment was saying: You see, some are stripped away and some are buried. But everyone is in there. And just last month, my good friend Eileen lost her mother at 88. At the funeral home, I was fixed on this picture of Margaret when she was 35. Her eyes kept flashing vibrant, with a sense of self, and a sense of what holds the world up. Things I never saw in her Alzheimer eyes. Now at the grave I’m watching one of her ancient friends sigh as small birds named Margaret fly from her mouth. Is this the passage no one can escape? Must we all struggle with not being seen for who we are? Is this the turning point in our journey? Is being who we are anyway the threshold? We are all burned. We are all buried. We are all trapped in some way by the cataract of years. We are all fresh and lighted within. So pass nothing or no one by. The light is on. The teacher, the teaching, the moment is waiting.
Losing Yourself
We’re having lunch at the harbor,
salads and tea, and Bob starts talking
about losing himself in certain pieces
of music. Not losing track of time. Or
forgetting to meet me in half an hour.
More that who he is pools, for the mo-
ment, in a larger sea. He says it’s scary,
’cause he’s not sure he will come back
as himself. But being drawn out this
way makes him feel alive. Now Susan
talks about the small woodpecker who
flew into our window during the week.
How she found it in the flowers, fright-
ened but alert. How she tried to help it.
How she pinched its little legs and no-
thing. It had broken its toothpick of a
back. She put it in a towel, in a shoebox.
When I came home, I saw her holding
the little thing, its soft eyes flitting. It
was drinking drops of water from her
finger. I will never forget that drinking.
The next day the little one died. Susan
is still sad. Says she won’t be the same.
We peck at our salads and drink our tea.
The light spills between us. The three of
us drinking from each other’s fingers.
A Steadfast Teacher
—If we want to be held, we have to behold.
I admit that well into my thirties, I felt this natural yearning to be seen and heard which in time became urgent and draining. But over the years, I slowly came to realize that being held is more important than being understood. When held, I don’t care so much about being seen or heard; because being held is being seen and heard in a way that affirms our very existence, much the way that the warmth of the sun affirms a flower into blooming. And being present is the soul’s way of holding the mystery of life itself, which attended will reciprocate and hold us back in an embrace we call wonder or awe.
I still want to be seen and heard and understood for who I am, which bestowed without agenda are the gifts of love. But the absence of these affirmations no longer rules my life. It still hurts to be ignored, especially if I’ve shown myself completely. And it still feels thwarting to be misunderstood, especially if I’ve spoken my heart as plainly as I know how. But the truth doesn’t need to be explained to be true. And the elements don’t withhold their innate power because we turn our backs to them. We are like tall leaning trees. We sway in our humanness every which way, while our spirit roots firmly in an ever-deepening connection to the earth.
As vulnerable beings we never lose the need to be seen and heard and understood. But without a felt sense of our connection to the web of life, these needs can rule us, overwhelm us, and even devastate us. Without this larger first-hand connection, I can become dependent and even addicted to external validation. Yet when I can somehow find the courage to be present enough in any given moment, I just might feel the tug of all we are connected to. It is this tug of connection that can restore the authority of our being. To be sure, this felt lifeline between our very core and the Universe won’t eliminate loneliness, but it will right-size it. This felt presence of everything larger than us won’t eliminate pain, but it will absorb it.
This means that when present enough to behold the Universe, we will be held by the mystery. I confess that I know I am being held by the nature of things when I feel this ache way inside. When young, it appeared as a sadness I couldn’t explain. And I thought if I could just get rid of it, I might be happy. But after cancer, I began to realize that this deep ache is the tuning fork of my soul. It is how I know I am close to what matters. In truth, this deep and nameless ache in the presence of beauty and suffering has been a steadfast teacher and friend. It breaks me open to truth when I am too busy or numb to take in beauty. And these breakings of the heart are awe-filled events from which I don’t recover but through which I am uncovered.
All this has led me over time to accept that the heart is a muscle that wants to be exercised. And though it feels like we will end each time the heart is broken, the heart only breaks into a larger version of itself. When I am present to this process, I am broken open. When I withhold my presence, I am just broken. I only know that after my heart is broken, I am still here. And each time, I breathe deeper. I stand taller. Each time I wake to an unexpected ability and urge to be kinder.
The One True World
Though it’s all one world,
when we close our eyes to the outer life,
we open our eyes to the inner life,
and we are made to blink
so we can live in the one true world.
Centering Clay
Dig something you think
might last from the earth
and wedge the air from it.
Then clean the wheel, the
one which spins on its side,
the one which goes nowhere.
Slap the clay on the wheel
and sit forward with your
legs firmly planted. Brace
your forearms against your
thighs. And wet your hands.
Let the wheel spin. Keep
your hands steady against
the clay which wants to
leave the wheel. Though
it feels like the wheel is
shaping you, try not to
think of anything. Like a
quiet worker shaping forms
for God to bring to life in
the fire, hold the clay, like
the sum of your time on
earth, in the center for
as long as you can.