Stillness
“Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.”
T.S. Eliot: “Ash Wednesday”
I got so caught up today—completing
the first video I’ve ever made on my own:
a homage to the life of my sister, Emily
(six years younger than I), who passed
away last September of stage four pancreatic
cancer—my video laced with ninety
treasured photographs of Em
in the company of family and a host
of friends, and a song I wrote for her
and play on piano …
I got so caught up
in this worthy activity I totally
forgot the cancer residing in my own
body, the treatment I have undertaken--
my system deprived now of a hormone
and anabolic steroid the cancer feeds on,
but that absence having also aggravated
vertigo I’ve lived with for twenty-seven
years, and poor eyesight: age-related
macular degeneration and ophthalmic
migraine.
I wish afflictions
possessed the common decency to arrive
one at a time, in somewhat righteous order,
a discreet polite procession, rather than
all at once, in a bunch, and in disarray.
How to find that measure, that mean
between the extremes of external
and inner existence (the Latin word mederi
meant “to cure,” the root of our modern
“medicine,” based on another root word
meaning “measure”). But how to avoid
the ambivalence, the Catch-22, of a cure
more discomfiting than the condition
it’s been assigned to assuage—and the urge
to both care and not to care?
Just sit still? Stillness? The moment I say,
or even think, the word, the state for which
it stands (or better yet, sits) sets in
and I do feel more at home with myself
in the manner we all desire, although
desire is no longer a part of the equation.
Buddhism calls it “mindfulness” (“As you
walk and eat and travel, be where
you are.”): being aware of “what is
happening right now without wishing
it were different.”
Lord God, you are here, but am I here
enough as myself to know you? Faith
and patience? Not easy to come by
in this hasty, overwrought era—and as
for myself, I am sorry to say, I do not
often sit with grace, or wait well,
although I’ve recently taken to saying,
“Stillness, stillness, stillness,” slowly,
softly, over and over again—my eyes
inactive, my heart on hold, my legs worthless,
extended, blanketed, my hands deployed
in prayer, my lips still, with nothing
to translate, assert, or explain; my soul
a species undeclared, allegiant only
to stillness …
So much Life--the fulness
of Joy--confined now to this chair
in which I sit as still as I can, making friends
with whatever surrounds me, whispering
an unfamiliar mantra: “Stillness, stillness,
stillness” again and again—lost in this
moment of measure: this mean which,
in my case, if not exactly golden, fits
well for the time being, and should suffice.
The Dark Night of the Soul
In the dark night of the soul it is often
only 9:46 in the evening, although I will
more than likely wake up, again, at 3:00AM:
the time F. Scott Fitzgerald set aside
for the “real dark night … day after day.”
I would never claim to have a corner
on the Divine, to own exclusive rights. I am,
when it comes to contemplation,
spiritual matters, a beginner, a feeble
child. I have yet to abandon my senses,
to throw them overboard, for I still
relish and enjoy cheese: gorgonzola
or cheddar with bacon, assisted in delight
by wine: chardonnay, pinot noir, or chianti.
As a tender child, I was allergic to my
mother’s milk, and never knew the phase
of being weaned from such sweet nurturing,
her gradual withdrawal from caresses,
and being set down from her arms to learn,
the hard way, to walk upon my own
two feet, to betake myself to the stage
of penance and prayer.
I do still pray, every
day, but not with secret pride or public
display or posturing—so I have nothing
to brag about on that score: not a single
“good work” to take pride in or laud
over others. The “beam” resides in my own eye,
and I never learned the art, although I knew
the words, of embracing medieval terms
such as “avarice” (discontent with grace
I’ve been granted but querulous when
I fail to find the consolation I crave);
“luxury” (satisfied only by what I find
nearest to myself, and therefore impure);
“wrath” (embittered by imperfection
recognized as such); “gluttony” (pleased
by the sweetness of my first taste of
spiritual exercise, but going to extremes
performing the rites); and “envy” combined
with “sloth” (outstripped by what I see
of goodness in others, and therefore
made lazy by sensual delight on which
I thrive). Truly a beginner, I was hardly
prepared for the road ahead: walking
along the way of the night, this road I have
recently set out upon.
Everywhere I go now,
I walk in darkness never known before,
walking on legs I no longer trust, my eyesight
a blur of anticipation—yet strangely thinking
(another distraction!), if someone should
take a photo of me on my death bed,
I hope my last word might be “God,” rather
than “Cheese.” Walking, can this be it, for me?
Has my soul been “drawn forth from a life
of sense”? On the verge of being converted
to spirit (as I somewhere once read, but only read
about), I have been “meditating” lately
(but who’s not been, on occasion, throughout
this odious troubled era we all share?).
I am conscious of making an effort, but not
with solid conviction, our souls unwilling,
reluctant, filled with repugnance within--
only seeming quietude and ease, but losing
that too in the end--abandonment, re-entry,
try again, and again.
I hope, I long to catch
just a glimpse of the “clear and pure light
of love”--that other Dark Night of the spirit.
Yet out on that narrow road, the way I walk
seems all wrong: overly cautious, careful,
not with the rhythm of a right and simple heart,
but hesitant, just plain false. I crave stillness,
but stillness must be discovered of its own
accord, not sought out, and least of all coveted.
I keep going, I walk on, weak, slumberous
in every motion, every gesture—my former
self not yet turned to nought, not yet dwelling
in holy emptiness, the first principal benefit
of the dark night of contemplation (beyond
mere meditation), knowledge of self
(one’s lowliness), not yet having perceived,
recognized the abundance the soul alone
contains, but going forth without being observed
(not worthy of notice), yet having escaped
(perhaps, but I still like wine on occasion,
and cheese) from restrictions of the lower self
and its senses—"Oh happy chance!”
I await the blessings of a state that still
seems severe, adverse, but blessings
may be at work within this trek from
created things to Eternal Now: the quenching
of all desire, genuine life stripped
to pure faith— residing in mercy, goodness,
and humility no longer just a pose, submissive.
I would be nothing in the most substantial sense,
receptive.
And so--secula seculorum
(forever and ever)--I keep walking as best
I can, walking on legs I no longer trust,
my eyesight a blur of anticipation,
but dwelling on benefits, blessings
I’ve never known before, and more
that may be waiting, further on—"down
the road a piece,” as the song says.
Source: Dark Night of the Soul,
St. John of The Cross
William Minor has published seven books of poetry—most recently Some Grand Dust (finalist for the Benjamin Franklin award); and Gypsy Wisdom: New & Selected Poems. A chapbook--Another Morning—is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He has also published two memoirs: The Inherited Heart and Going Solo: A Memoir, 1953-1958. Recent YouTube videos (with original music--Bill on piano) include the title poem from the chapbook, “Another Morning by William Minor” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epJ7eFylCoQ) and “A Song for Emily, My Sister”—mentioned in the poem “Stillness”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FoFHUmGwM2g
“Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.”
T.S. Eliot: “Ash Wednesday”
I got so caught up today—completing
the first video I’ve ever made on my own:
a homage to the life of my sister, Emily
(six years younger than I), who passed
away last September of stage four pancreatic
cancer—my video laced with ninety
treasured photographs of Em
in the company of family and a host
of friends, and a song I wrote for her
and play on piano …
I got so caught up
in this worthy activity I totally
forgot the cancer residing in my own
body, the treatment I have undertaken--
my system deprived now of a hormone
and anabolic steroid the cancer feeds on,
but that absence having also aggravated
vertigo I’ve lived with for twenty-seven
years, and poor eyesight: age-related
macular degeneration and ophthalmic
migraine.
I wish afflictions
possessed the common decency to arrive
one at a time, in somewhat righteous order,
a discreet polite procession, rather than
all at once, in a bunch, and in disarray.
How to find that measure, that mean
between the extremes of external
and inner existence (the Latin word mederi
meant “to cure,” the root of our modern
“medicine,” based on another root word
meaning “measure”). But how to avoid
the ambivalence, the Catch-22, of a cure
more discomfiting than the condition
it’s been assigned to assuage—and the urge
to both care and not to care?
Just sit still? Stillness? The moment I say,
or even think, the word, the state for which
it stands (or better yet, sits) sets in
and I do feel more at home with myself
in the manner we all desire, although
desire is no longer a part of the equation.
Buddhism calls it “mindfulness” (“As you
walk and eat and travel, be where
you are.”): being aware of “what is
happening right now without wishing
it were different.”
Lord God, you are here, but am I here
enough as myself to know you? Faith
and patience? Not easy to come by
in this hasty, overwrought era—and as
for myself, I am sorry to say, I do not
often sit with grace, or wait well,
although I’ve recently taken to saying,
“Stillness, stillness, stillness,” slowly,
softly, over and over again—my eyes
inactive, my heart on hold, my legs worthless,
extended, blanketed, my hands deployed
in prayer, my lips still, with nothing
to translate, assert, or explain; my soul
a species undeclared, allegiant only
to stillness …
So much Life--the fulness
of Joy--confined now to this chair
in which I sit as still as I can, making friends
with whatever surrounds me, whispering
an unfamiliar mantra: “Stillness, stillness,
stillness” again and again—lost in this
moment of measure: this mean which,
in my case, if not exactly golden, fits
well for the time being, and should suffice.
The Dark Night of the Soul
In the dark night of the soul it is often
only 9:46 in the evening, although I will
more than likely wake up, again, at 3:00AM:
the time F. Scott Fitzgerald set aside
for the “real dark night … day after day.”
I would never claim to have a corner
on the Divine, to own exclusive rights. I am,
when it comes to contemplation,
spiritual matters, a beginner, a feeble
child. I have yet to abandon my senses,
to throw them overboard, for I still
relish and enjoy cheese: gorgonzola
or cheddar with bacon, assisted in delight
by wine: chardonnay, pinot noir, or chianti.
As a tender child, I was allergic to my
mother’s milk, and never knew the phase
of being weaned from such sweet nurturing,
her gradual withdrawal from caresses,
and being set down from her arms to learn,
the hard way, to walk upon my own
two feet, to betake myself to the stage
of penance and prayer.
I do still pray, every
day, but not with secret pride or public
display or posturing—so I have nothing
to brag about on that score: not a single
“good work” to take pride in or laud
over others. The “beam” resides in my own eye,
and I never learned the art, although I knew
the words, of embracing medieval terms
such as “avarice” (discontent with grace
I’ve been granted but querulous when
I fail to find the consolation I crave);
“luxury” (satisfied only by what I find
nearest to myself, and therefore impure);
“wrath” (embittered by imperfection
recognized as such); “gluttony” (pleased
by the sweetness of my first taste of
spiritual exercise, but going to extremes
performing the rites); and “envy” combined
with “sloth” (outstripped by what I see
of goodness in others, and therefore
made lazy by sensual delight on which
I thrive). Truly a beginner, I was hardly
prepared for the road ahead: walking
along the way of the night, this road I have
recently set out upon.
Everywhere I go now,
I walk in darkness never known before,
walking on legs I no longer trust, my eyesight
a blur of anticipation—yet strangely thinking
(another distraction!), if someone should
take a photo of me on my death bed,
I hope my last word might be “God,” rather
than “Cheese.” Walking, can this be it, for me?
Has my soul been “drawn forth from a life
of sense”? On the verge of being converted
to spirit (as I somewhere once read, but only read
about), I have been “meditating” lately
(but who’s not been, on occasion, throughout
this odious troubled era we all share?).
I am conscious of making an effort, but not
with solid conviction, our souls unwilling,
reluctant, filled with repugnance within--
only seeming quietude and ease, but losing
that too in the end--abandonment, re-entry,
try again, and again.
I hope, I long to catch
just a glimpse of the “clear and pure light
of love”--that other Dark Night of the spirit.
Yet out on that narrow road, the way I walk
seems all wrong: overly cautious, careful,
not with the rhythm of a right and simple heart,
but hesitant, just plain false. I crave stillness,
but stillness must be discovered of its own
accord, not sought out, and least of all coveted.
I keep going, I walk on, weak, slumberous
in every motion, every gesture—my former
self not yet turned to nought, not yet dwelling
in holy emptiness, the first principal benefit
of the dark night of contemplation (beyond
mere meditation), knowledge of self
(one’s lowliness), not yet having perceived,
recognized the abundance the soul alone
contains, but going forth without being observed
(not worthy of notice), yet having escaped
(perhaps, but I still like wine on occasion,
and cheese) from restrictions of the lower self
and its senses—"Oh happy chance!”
I await the blessings of a state that still
seems severe, adverse, but blessings
may be at work within this trek from
created things to Eternal Now: the quenching
of all desire, genuine life stripped
to pure faith— residing in mercy, goodness,
and humility no longer just a pose, submissive.
I would be nothing in the most substantial sense,
receptive.
And so--secula seculorum
(forever and ever)--I keep walking as best
I can, walking on legs I no longer trust,
my eyesight a blur of anticipation,
but dwelling on benefits, blessings
I’ve never known before, and more
that may be waiting, further on—"down
the road a piece,” as the song says.
Source: Dark Night of the Soul,
St. John of The Cross
William Minor has published seven books of poetry—most recently Some Grand Dust (finalist for the Benjamin Franklin award); and Gypsy Wisdom: New & Selected Poems. A chapbook--Another Morning—is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He has also published two memoirs: The Inherited Heart and Going Solo: A Memoir, 1953-1958. Recent YouTube videos (with original music--Bill on piano) include the title poem from the chapbook, “Another Morning by William Minor” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epJ7eFylCoQ) and “A Song for Emily, My Sister”—mentioned in the poem “Stillness”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FoFHUmGwM2g