Jane Hirshfield

I want to give myself

utterly

as the maple

that burned and burned

for three days without stinting

and then in two more

dropped off every leaf;

as this lake that,

no matter what comes

to its green-blue depths,

both takes and returns it.

In the still heart,

that refuses nothing,

the world is twice-born—

two earths wheeling,

two heavens,

two egrets reaching

down into subtraction;

even the fish

for an instant doubled,

before it is gone.

I want the fish.

I want the losing it all

when it rains and I want

the returning transparence.

I want the place

by the edge-flowers where

the shallow sand is deceptive,

where whatever

steps in must plunge,

and I want that plunging.

I want the ones

who come in secret to drink

only in early darkness,’

and I want the ones

who are swallowed.

I want the way

the water sees without eyes,

hears without ears,

shivers without will or fear

at the gentlest touch.

I want the way it

accepts the cold moonlight

and its it pass,

the way it lets

all of it pass

without judgment or comment.

There is a lake,

Lalla Ded sang, no larger

than one seed of mustard,

that all things return to.

O Heart, if you

will not, cannot, give me the lake,

then give me the song.

As our thoughts are with Diane right now I am compelled to think of her thoughts.  I enjoy the blog comments as much as the entries.  Diane, being the keen observer she is, preferred commenting to posting. Here is a smattering, in no particular order, of her wit and wisdom.  I wish I was clever enough to link them properly with their posts, but I’m not.  So I just put the name of the post with the comment.

This first one is my very favorite and gives me food for thought still:

Desert Latitudes:  1/24/05

Peter taught me the difference between boundaries and borders, and I have never been the same.

I think this whole conversation has been about borders. Boundaries simply make us different and valuable and permeable in our differences; borders divide us. Sometimes a fence can be a boundary, sometimes a border; we choose.
Michael showed me a letter to the editor in the Boston Globe, which quoted a mantra in recovery, “Identify, don’t compare.” Boundaries lead to empathy and identification, borders to comparison and competition.
I’m for boundaries, for Peter’s comments, for Indian givers.

Comment by di: fan of boundaries — January 29, 2005 @ 8:46 pm 

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Hey You!:  4/22/07  In response to the poem “Poem about My Rights” by June Jordan:

Hil, Did you get to listen to her reading her own, her own, her own poem? What a powerful use of language and of her own voice. Thanks, Hil, and thank your teacher. I am going to carry this lesson to the anorexic girls I work with, whose bodies are not good enough to go out in without changing, because they are the wrong …..and it’s not good enough that it’s their own.

Comment by anon — April 25, 2007 @ 5:54 pm

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Dirty Dishes: 2/16/05

I don’t know half the people commenting so why should I care who I’m talking too. I feel I have more license to step on toes (obviously) when my real name isn’t there. If I choose to be known I’ll use real name. I like the cleverness of the pseudo’s. No need to turn the blog into a red state. Speaking of which: http://slate.msn.com/id/2103764 Clever.

Comment by anon — February 17, 2005 @ 4:41 pm

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Cell Phone etiquette:  12/4/06

I find all cellphone usage a subsonic aural irritation.

However, I find people talking a subsonic aural irritation, so maybe I am just subsonically irritable.

Comment by anon — December 8, 2006 @ 10:02 am

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 One Horrific Day:  1/20/07

Awful, Chris, for all concerned. What ever happened to the safe and secure childhood? Was it a myth to begin with? In any case, I’m sorry that you and your kids and your town and our world offers everyone so much horror to deal with. Hope normalcy resumes soon so that the kids remember that events like this are the sad exception, not the rule.

Comment by anon — January 20, 2007 @ 8:07 pm

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 Hot Pockets:  2/25/06

Dear HHWH,
The plane on the tarmac doesn’t look so little, but it doesn’t go so high. Instead of saying, “We’ve reached our cruising altitude of 500 feet,” the pilot says, “We are now beginning our descent into the St. Cloud area.” My trip was painless, except for the loss of my suitcase. They haven’t found it yet, but my guess is it went on to Anchorage with the plane from Boston.
Thank you for the flowers and the news and the story about the nickel-hydride batteries (Honey, why did you put them in your pocket?) and the public acknowledgement of affection. 

Love, H:WW

Comment by Homefront — February 25, 2006

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The Malcolm Miller Family Prowler:  2/16/06

Isn’t Helen something, counting on her soundly sleeping self and her little posse to fend off intruders? I would have anxiously called the locksmith to install dead bolts on all the doors and windows, all the time deploring the society of fear and over-reaction to stupid things and under-reaction to huge wrongs that we condone. (Hotel Rwanda via Netflix did me in.)

Comment by homefront:waiting wife — February 16, 2006

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Thanks, Halo:  2/15/06

Halo was the last friend Patti made. I will always value her for her constant love.

Comment by homefront:waiting wife — February 16, 2006

Thank god someone out there is updating their blog.

Kathy just returned from China, Kenzie’s going to Africa, Sarah to Fiji, and  Pesky godson’s in Syria while Goose is still enjoying his life out west.  

by Adam S. Kibbe

Normally you couldn’t pay me to enter an area of this level of boundary-oblivious human density, but grandchildren must be free to enjoy these spectacles, and free of the curse of curmudgeonry. Last time Ivan hid under a blanket — this time he enjoyed it almost as much as his mayhemphilic younger brother, Avery.

Mike,

For those of us interested in pretty pictures, in particular Hubble’s magnificent pictures, here is an interesting explanation of how they go from the ugly raw data (full of cosmic ray tracks, awkward edge artifacts, and black-white) to the full-color eye-candy that we all know and love. The author gives away some tricks that I wish I knew back in my solar image processing days. Come to think of it, I may use some of those tricks now for some of my own ugly shots.

-rakkity

Mike,

For those of us interested in pretty pictures, in particular Hubble’s magnificent pictures, here is an interesting explanation of how they go from the ugly raw data (full of cosmic ray tracks, awkward edge artifacts, and black-white) to the full-color eye-candy that we all know and love. The author gives away some tricks that I wish I knew back in my solar image processing days. Come to think of it, I may use some of those tricks now for some of my own ugly shots.

-rakkity

“Honey, smell my nightgown.”

“It smells like vomit.”

“It’s the clean one you just washed. And my other two smell like this one.”

“You think I left them in the basement too long?”

“Did you vomit on them in the basement?”

“No, and I don’t know why they smell like that. It reminds me of my shirts that one of Matt’s friend’s threw-up on. It, too, was on the laundry table and I assumed I wasn’t smelling what I was smelling. Convinced myself until I stopped for lunch and found little chunks in the pocket.”

“Would you mind washing them again, on gentle, using Ivory soap. And, please, don’t let them sit in the basement.”

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In memory of George Carlin from Jen.

And this from her friend.

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The boys have been landscaping our yard, and adding fresh lattice under the porch. . Today they edged and weeded and contoured around the Rhododendrons.