Author Archive for Mark Nepo
On and Off the Path
It’s the light above the path
that points to the path that
makes it a path.
The way the sun off the moon
lights the oar with the peace
we were looking for while we
sleep it off adrift in the boat.
It’s the light above the heart
that points to the heart that
makes each path necessary.
The way going there always
brings us here. The way loving
another always brings us
to ourselves.
It’s the light we drop and
leave that makes each
giving a path.
The way a carpenter builds
home after home; knowing
that the sawing, the planing,
the hinging, the building
is his home.
It’s the light we are but never
see that makes each soul a path.
The way the blossom of all
we feel and all we hide makes
the search for beauty unnecessary.
Going Inward
I’ve been walking the acre
of my soul. It’s been so long.
And there’s the hill I used to
sit on. I’d watch the stars reflect
in the river when it was tired of
running. I wonder what the view
is now. But it takes at least a day
to get there and another to sit still
in the grass and another to wait for
the stars to come out and another
for the river to tire. Sure life keeps
taking us away. But the only time
I’m free of fear is when I drink
from that river.
The Early Sky Is Degas Yellow and You Are Still Asleep
I love this time of day. The only leaves left are
small silhouettes against the sky. They will go
unnoticed once the world wakes. Yesterday
while we were driving, George was setting
up the sawhorses outside his shop. As we
rolled through Parchment, the sun I so love
flooded the intersection and I couldn’t see the
light was red. I started through it. You called out
and I blamed it on the sun. You questioned my
sight. We argued briefly. Then you wondered if
I should be using a table saw. I bristled at the
limitation. The sun then flooded on you. And
for a moment, I was able to drop my stubborn
denial that things are slowly breaking down.
For the moment, I could step out of me and
see how hard it is for you who cares so much
for everything you love. I know saying I’ll be
careful doesn’t always help. But as we turned
onto E Ave, I felt how much you love me. So
much goes unnoticed once the world wakes.
We are small silhouettes against the early
sky. I love this time of day.
Going Home
It was the middle of the day.
Early September. Light skirting
out from under the leaves. I was
taking the compost to the edge of
the yard when I saw you pinching a
pot on the old bench near the bird
bath we’d lugged from Albany. Mira
was lying in the grass, sun closing her
eyes. Something in the quiet light
made me realize that we were now
in this moment all we’d hoped for.
I put the can down and sat next to
you. Watched your hands shape
the clay. I wanted to run my fingers
through your hair. A small cloud
bowed and the sun warmed my
hand on your knee.
The Bridge and the Elephant
In the dream, I was working hard to finish a bridge in order to cross some river whose current was strong. It seemed important to get where I was going, though I couldn’t put where I was going into words.
Just as I finished the arc of the bridge, an elephant appeared in the water. It was stepping down the middle of the stream. When it was squarely beneath my unfinished bridge, it stopped to douse itself with water. Then it stared at me.
All at once, the sheen of the water on its back made me question why I was building a bridge in the first place. It made me question if what I was crossing really needed to be entered. It made me wonder: If I were to enter the stream rather than cross it, would I have a different sense of where I was going?
In the days since the dream, the image of the elephant under the unfinished bridge has made me consider obstacles differently. Now when I stumble before things I don’t understand, I try to remember the elephant dousing itself in the middle of what I thought I had to cross and ask myself: Is the thing in the way something I need to cross or enter? If it’s a difficulty involving love or fear, where will I be led by crossing it? Where will I be led by entering it? At each turn, I find myself needing to know: What must I face and what must I bridge? And when are facing and bridging deeply the same?
To Glow
Like light in the sun
spilling out of the sun,
the spirit within
beams its way
through all our cracks
till our most treasured
walls come down.
The coming down
of those walls is the
blessing we crave
and resist.
The coming down of
those walls—so the light
of the soul like the light
of the sun can help the
world grow—this is
the call of calls.
Doorways
How the door left open is a threshold to a new world, which we fear to go through. How the broken birdhouse tips the baby birds into each other till the one leaned on most takes the longest to fly. How the patch of wildflowers tries to drink of the fast-moving river. I confess I’ve been leaned on till I forgot how to fly. But I’ve been opened by simple kindnesses till others thought I was a doorway left open. They tried to go through me. In the beginning I felt violated, only because they didn’t ask. Now, years later, it seems this is my purpose: to be a doorway to all that can’t be closed. Yesterday, I watched dawn open its chest, letting all that light pour into the world. Today, I looked into the eye of a blind horse and saw its dream of endless fields. I know I have such a blindness in which I run. I know we carry dawn within us, though we search for it everywhere. How I’ve searched a thousand stories, listening for what keeps us going. When in pain or sensing great care, I’ve felt a beautiful sameness, as if the ache of being here is the breath of center we all come from and return to.
Luminescence
On the way home, hundreds of fireflies.
They flicker like your memory of Bennington,
the poetry readings at night in the barn. Crossing
the field of grasses, they were everywhere, their
abdomens glowing. They hibernate like us over
the long winter, some for years. Some burrow
underground. Others find safety in the bark of
trees. We’re all little glow worms holding out
for spring. But the night grasses at Bennington,
there you found the light in your belly. It glowed
in your eyes. I’ve learned that fireflies emit their
light by oxidizing a pigment called luceferin, after
Lucifer, the light-bringer. It’s unclear who named
this. Is it a dark warning against the intoxications
of light? It’s said that Caravaggio prepared his can-
vases with a powder of fireflies to create an iridescent
surface on which to paint. But before ground down,
fireflies glow to attract a mate. Just as we set ourselves
on fire to find the truest company. As I set my doubts
aflame when meeting you. They say in Southeast Asia,
fireflies flash all at once in very large groups. Bug
people call this spontaneous order. At night along
the river banks in Malaysia, the kelip-kelip make
the jungle glow. And in the Philippines, thousands
can be seen in the town of Donsol, blinking in
unison. I know we’re trying to do this as a people,
to light up all at once. I think this is revelation,
when things of the world light each other up. It’s
also the burn of suffering and the holding of
each other through grief. I’m grateful for the
one or two times we’ve fallen in this meadow.
Those Who’ve Fallen Through
Lyn Hartley is an independent educator who lives in the wilds of the Yukon. She tells the story of two skiers crossing a frozen lake at night. Sliding through the snow with flashlights, they came upon a moose fallen through the ice. The enormous creature was stuck shoulder high. It was clear the moose couldn’t get out and they alone couldn’t pull it out. The temperature was dropping. So they stayed through the night and, though the moose resisted, they covered it with their tent; settling in to shine their small lights on its face and on the edges of broken ice, to keep the ice from freezing into shards that would cut the moose. In the morning, when the sun reappeared, they went for help. Together they roped the moose and slowly pulled it to the edge till it could find its own way out.
This is a powerful metaphor for how to listen to and be with those who have fallen through: stay close and keep them warm, resisting the urge to prematurely solve the situation. If nothing can be done, sit with them, resisting the urge to abandon those who seem stuck. Offer your tent and stay with them long enough till the way out presents itself, not forcing a rescue. How I need to hear this. For life is long enough that we will have our turn at falling through and being stuck, and at coming upon the fallen not knowing what to do.
I love how we root in the earth and sprout in the world. I love how I learn from others as we find our original face. I admit that I need everyone when I fall through. I confess that I need to hold nothing back when I come upon you struggling in the hole of your own making. How I need the skill of heart that lets love meet truth like small lights on ice. In the truth of each other, there is a way out.
Waiting
How do they do it?
The ones washed ashore.
Who in a broken pile put
themselves together. Who
after the hurricane sort the
rubble for the nails that still
can hold. Who after being cut
dream of stitches. They are the
heroes. The ones who like an
old tree grow around anything.
The ones who grow another
arm, another leg, another way.
And what starts the growing?
Is it the rain on the turtle’s
back as she never waivers? Is
it the look of the fox before
he disappears in the woods?
At what instant does the break
in the bone realize it must
join its other half?
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