Neruda

I've been in the habit lately of reading poetry before bed. Some writers' words are fluid and neat, with few breaks in thought. Others remind me of running over hot pavement, with expressions that are sharp, short, and emphatic. My favorite of all are the words with palpable passion, with texture and vivid imagery about the things that I too think about. This week I've been married to Pablo Neruda, and I've always felt like his thoughts are the ones in my own mind that I can never articulate or punctuate.

Because sometimes, someone else's words are better than our own. Here's to one of the best and brightest every scribbled on paper.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

 

For My Marmie

There's something about a mother and something extra spectacular about mine. Mothers know how to love you the best and comfort you the most. And they always make it seem that whenever you leave the nest, wonderful things are waiting for you. I hear my mother's voice when I think of what Marmie March says to her daughter in Little Women, "Jo, you have so many extraordinary gifts; how can you expect to lead an ordinary life? You're ready to go out and find a good use for your talent. Tho' I don't know what I shall do without my Jo. Go, and embrace your liberty. And see what wonderful things come of it."

Something that makes my mother perfect for me is that she knew what I needed at different times in my life. When I was little, she knew I needed lots of one-on-one time snuggling and talking. And let's be honest, not much has changed. When I was in junior high, and too nervous to eat in the lunchroom, she knew the perfect place for me was eating with her in her classroom. She never seemed to worry that I wouldn't eventually blossom, but acted instead like it was the bright spot in her day. Even now, my mother knows when to invite me home for a dinner pregnant with good conversation and the best flavors so that she can remind me that, yes, everything will work out for me (the big fear of my 20s). She knows when I've needed some coddling; she knows when I've needed a cheer.

 

My mother, for the record, is many things. She's a loyal friend, a disciple, a caring neighbhor, a fierce athlete, an explorer, a world traveler, and a wonderful grandmother. But, in honor of this Sunday, the mother in my mother is what I choose to celebrate. So here's to my Marmie, who has spent her life making everyone else's a beautiful thing.

Moving On Down

Last weekend, my friend and I made our way through the national parks in Southern Utah. I was surprised at how much the desert colors reminded me of a favorite t-shirt washed a hundred times: muted, blended, comfortable. At Dead Horse Point, we stood on what felt like the top of the world and looked out at endless, deep canyons. In the middle of them all runs the Colorado river, and per usual when I see rivers that size, the last line of A River Runs Through It crossed my mind. "I am haunted by waters..."

As someone who loves efficiency, I couldn't help but notice the roundabout route the river takes on its way to the ocean. It curves around rocks in big, horseshoe-like shapes and winds down canyons, over rocks, and through dams. And as far as we know, the river doesn't put up a fuss. It chooses to go around the things it couldn't go straight through and has kept moving despite hundreds of extra miles it takes to reach its destination had it been on a more express route. Staring out at it all, I could see the parallels to life. There have been times where I wanted to skip B, C, and D in order to get somewhere a little faster (both in literal and figurative journeys). I complained about unneeded loops, and I grumbled at the extra distance. But, like the river, I need to simply go around that which I can't go through and gracefully accept a new route if my persistent efforts with one don't lead me somewhere. And, most importantly, I need to remember that no matter the length of the journey, the destination is the same.

So here's to looking up, admiring the view, thanking the deep blue sky, and moving on down the river.