Faith

Faith
after David Whyte

What is there to have faith in?

Only the slow crossing of the moon

only the way a bean splits its two fat lobes
and the stalk beneath unfurls

the way a child grows without our noticing,
an inch, an inch,
until she’s gone past the old mark on the frame

or a tree, drawn from a narrow curve of wood,
a handful of leaf,
to branches that part the wind.

After these fall rains, the garden rises,
thick with grass, lettuce, beggar’s tick,
everything growing, everything changing.

And yet I have no faith.

Not in me.
Only in the slow pull in me.

A child cannot tell herself to grow.
And yet she does.

Sarah Webb

++++++++++

Faith—Theme

Faith has gotten a bad rep.
Her name taken,
used as a shield against
the seeker, the troubled,
the questioner, excluding
the non-believer, the Other.

Now those who would seek Faith
don't mention her name, fearful
of the wrath of those who stole
her reputation and wanted her strength
without being willing to bear
her questing, her journey, her passage
through dark nights, dark woods,
faint path through places seldom traveled
for Faith requires
we walk her path alone.
We form a company
of travelers.


Faith—Restatement

Faith asks us to trust the teaching
to walk in the dark, on the faint
path that she assures us
has been trodden before.
To follow it where it leads us
down from this high mountain
into the canyon
with the wild rivers running,
scaling cliffs that seem
impossible from a distance
to gain a further mountain
though we see not the path
’til we walk it. Sometimes knowing
its presence only
by the soles of our feet when
the dark night, the dark woods
leave sight useless. Faith
is the evidence of things hoped for,
the presence of things not seen
’til the moon rises,
once more showing
the path we are on.


Faith—Coda

Those who have
lost faith in Faith
have left behind
the faithful, looking
for a new ...
no they will not use
that word, it's tarnished.
They seek the way
which seems untrod,
though seekers tell
of its landmarks,
seen and not yet seen.

—Jeffery Taylor

++++++++++

This is the piece I wrote in response to the David Whyte poem “Faith.” I have used initial caps for Faith. Maybe not the usual form, but it makes the word “faith” stand out for me. It helps me to discover what I meant by the poem. Thank you so much for the writing group. There are experiences I have buried so deep—which are unresolved. They just seem to creep out almost unnoticed when I write with the group.

I was a pastor to a tiny group of proud atheists in Pennsylvania. It was a sort of circuit, long ago Universalist. One church (gorgeous) first occupied in 1723 on the Susquehanna river in the tiny hamlet of Sheshequin. They had a woman pastor in the early 1800s! The other church in Athens, built in 1845. We soon attracted progressive Christians and progressive Jewish folk. It was fascinating. Needless to say, it was quite a ride. But with the help of the prompts and the safe and caring circle which you so carefully tend, lots of work is being done!


Poem as prayer
By one who professes no Faith.
Yet the faithfulness of the moon
Has touched him deeply.

And the poet has patience, watching the moon rise
Night after night over cold snow.
A kind of spiritual practice.
Watching night after night until Faith comes.

Prayer has been his door on Faith and not the other way around.
The sitting came first, then the prayer, then Faith.

David Whyte suffered.
He does not tell us this in his poem.
Could he have written this poem had he not suffered?
Did sitting in his suffering come first?

Moon rise over cold snow—and I am back in Pennsylvania
The noise of the life-flight helicopter in the frozen darkness
Trudging over black ice in the dark, alone
Toward wounded, hurting, frightened people
In ER, in ICU, in the family waiting area.
Responding came first, then prayer, then—almost unnoticed—Faith.

Faith: day after day with cantankerous atheists
Night after night with suffering people.
I hardly noticed Faith when it came
Like the moon, slender and barely open.
Maybe love is more important
But Faith, in its own quiet way
Has never faded.

—Janelle Taylor

What the Day Gives

Prompt: “What the Day Gives,” by Jeanne Lohmann

++++++++++

Courage

To be happy, to choose this,
while tumbling about, uncertain, in the ever-changing.

Sometimes, it seems a dizzying impossibility.

Or too remote.

Arms, straining,
not long enough to hold the things we never expected,
or wanted,
in the same space as well-being.

Sometimes, it seems we need only be reminded -- these things can go together:

Contentment amidst whirling sharp edges and unkind surprises;
Delight and mind-grinding difficulty;
Love yielding the right answer that angers,
while fear allowing softness that offers no comfort;
Gratitude for the very thing that destabilizes.

It is all both letting go and letting in.

The most beautiful form of courage: to be happy.

—Caroline Nelson

++++++++++

It's never enough.
                    But the Sea accepts all Rivers

I look in the mirror, liking to pick a fight,
searching for the weakest link.
                    But the Sea accepts all Rivers

I’m not doing enough,
I’m wasting time,
I’m missing out.
                    But the Sea accepts all Rivers

I should be able to do that—everyone else can.
Why am I not strong enough, capable enough?
                    But the Sea accepts all Rivers

I‘m afraid of failing.
Afraid of being a failure.
                    But the Sea accepts all Rivers

I’m my biggest critic.
                    But the Sea accepts all Rivers

                    The Sea accepts all Rivers
Don’t let the Perfect be the Enemy of the Good

                    The Sea accepts all Rivers
Look over your shoulder...There’s no one there.
No critic.
No one to find you out.


                    The Sea accepts all Rivers
That ugly, jagged edge we're ashamed to have
—the one we hide—it fits another’s perfectly.
Empathetically.
Wholly.


                    The Sea accepts all Rivers
Everything Belongs

—Jordan Spennato

++++++++++

"Where did it come from? What could be inside it?"

Prompt: Once there was an old man who lived at the top of a very high and dangerous precipice. Every morning he would sit at the edge of the cliff and view the surrounding mountains and forest. One day, after he set himself down for his usual meditation, he noticed something shiny at the very bottom of the precipice. Now even though it was very far below him, the old man had keen eyes and could just barely make out what it was. It looked like a rather large, black chest with gold trimmings—"Where did it come from? What could be inside it?"just sitting there atop a rock. “Where did it come from? What could be inside it?” the old man thought to himself... (From: http://users.rider.edu/~suler/zenstory/zenframe.html)

Kim Mosley

++++++++++

After Gram passed away in 2003, I was told that, being her first grandchild, I had her wrapped around my finger. She may have been wrapped around my finger, but I was her perfume, wanting to be as close as humanly possible, to seep into her, to be on her heart.

Though the distance between our houses spanned a dozen states, perhaps living afar fostered and supported the bond we shared. When we were together, we were unleashed with reckless abandon, our combination, deadly; the curly child-terror with twinkling green eyes and enough Hell behind them to frighten those who recognized the twinkle and the matriarch with enough seniority to give the child the green light as well as enough love to be her wingman.

We would reunite every Christmas Eve as she and Pop collected us from the snowy airport. Dressed to the nines for Christmas Eve dinner with the extended family, we'd arrive home at 5 Horseshoe Lane. Grammy and I would make a beeline for the parlor. Adorned in mahogany, bronze reindeer lining the center of the heavy wooden table, nothing else mattered but the bright red box Gram would have, waiting, atop the glass-paned cabinets. She'd reach up high, producing the Strawbridges seasonal chocolate box. My hands would fly to my mouth, the suspense of the past year bubbling up from inside me in the form of giggles. Stealthily, we'd make sure everyone else was either socializing or checking on dinner.

We'd jimmy off the lid and peer at the first layer of perfectly presented assorted shapes. Now, Gram and I didn't mess around; we knew Strawbridges’ game—they didn't include the box “legend,” decoding which chocolates held which fillings—better to let people be surprised. Well, we weren't having any of that shit. We were after only one type of treat: the caramel-filled chocolates.

Sadly, from year to year, we would both forget what specific shape these chocolates were—on account of my young age and her old age. But Gram was always prepared. She grew her nails long—perfect for evening back scratches. As we sat in the parlor, I would guess and hand her a chocolate. She would take it gingerly, pretend to examine it, smell it, etc. Then, she'd turn it over and very gently push her pinky nail into its smooth bottom, revealing the chocolate‘s filling.

“Cherry cordial—ugh!” We'd grimace at each other and quickly return the abomination to the box, its top pristine, seemingly untouched. We'd do this until we struck liquid, caramel gold. Then we'd both inwardly squeal with delight, look in the other room to make sure the coast was still clear, turn back to each other, beaming, and devour our treasures.

—Jordan Spennato