Finnish: The feeling when you are going to get drunk home alone in your underwear—with no intention of going out. (pronounced CAHL-sahr-ree-CAN-neet)
Let’s say a woman worked in the garden all day
pulling up old kale and bolted chard and harvesting
potatoes and garlic and onions, and let’s say
her whole evening plan is to stay home
and shower and not get dressed,
and sip on a glass of wine, or whiskey
until she is sweetly light-headed,
well, wouldn’t it be lovely if there were a word
to describe her aspirations? A word
she could write in her calendar to be sure
no other loud plans swooped in. A word
she could say if her friends called and asked
what was happening tonight. And if
no one should call, she could say it to herself
for the joy of saying it—Kalsarikännit—
as she toasted the air, clinking her glass
against all that isn’t there.
And the wind on her skin, so brisk.
And the wine, so heady, so dry.
Posts Tagged ‘words’
Kalsarikännit
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aloneness, drinking, Finnish, wine, words on August 28, 2022| 10 Comments »
Meeting the Holidays
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, grief, words on December 22, 2021| 18 Comments »
They mean well, of course,
the people who say things
such as, The holidays are hard.
And they’re right. Like not hanging
the blue stocking on the fireplace.
Like not needing to hide the red hots
because there is no one who will steal them.
But these moments are no more difficult
than a Tuesday. No more heartbreaking
than two weeks ago when
my son did not chastise me
for not clicking my heels
before I pulled my snowy feet into the car.
Firsts are hard, people say.
But, sometimes, I notice,
it’s the second that’s harder.
Or the third. Or it’s just all hard.
Or, miraculously, it’s not hard at all.
I am learning to translate
anything anyone says as,
I am holding your heart in mine.
I am learning to meet every day
as a holy day full of sacrifice,
grace and invitation. I am learning
grief is so different for each of us—
sometimes showing up as closed sign
at the door of the inn. Sometimes
showing up as an angel with a message
we can barely understand. Sometimes
showing up as a king with a strange
and fragrant gift reminiscent of sorrowing,
sighing—though it’s woody and warm,
and feels important, perhaps, even wondrous.
I Don’t Know
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, not knowing, spring, surprise, words on May 3, 2021| Leave a Comment »
Today, I notice something green
spearing through the dirt
in the garden, and only
because there are eight such spears
rising in perfect rows do I vaguely remember
last year I planted bulbs there,
but I don’t remember what they are.
How much of the beauty we plant
do we forget?
There is so much in me that grows
because of words you have sown.
I doubt you remember them,
I don’t remember them, either,
only that your words were kind
and now they have taken root.
Who knows what the flowers
will look like? I water them, though,
trust I’ll be delighted when they bloom
into a garden of beautiful I don’t know.
One Divining
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, water, words on April 29, 2021| Leave a Comment »
using words
as dowsing rods—
there, the current inside
Why It Matters What We Say
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communication, connection, desert, friendship, jude Janett, words on February 21, 2021| 2 Comments »
My tears mingle with yours and the dry world is watered again.
—Jude Janett
Parched and dusty,
the inner desert
forgets it was once a wetland.
Barren of confidence,
arid with self-disdain,
it forgets how to grow things
not covered in thorns
and spines.
Then you with your love
reach across the afternoon,
a brief shower of words,
and the whole inner world
remembers how it is to be lush,
to be nurturing, to be green.
Conspiracy
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cartoon, friendship, words on October 18, 2020| 5 Comments »
Sometimes when walking
or driving or sitting in a chair,
I thrill to see some words of yours
float through the air—as if
a cartoon thought bubble
cut loose from your thoughts
filled with calibri sweetnesses
and times-new-roman puns—
and I pluck the words
from the sky and wrap them
around my wrist. They bob
above me like a helium balloon—
sometimes I almost believe
could carry me away.
The Gift of Themselves
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged agreement, friendship, poem, poetry, words on January 24, 2019| 2 Comments »
And when they say, I am going to eat ice cream
until I feel better, perhaps say, What flavor?
And when they say, I am going to cry myself to sleep,
perhaps say, May the night hold you as you cry.
What is it in us that wants to say, Don’t cry?
And since when has trying to stop the tears worked, anyway?
My teacher speaks of the greatest gift:
to give a person themselves.
I think of when I told my friend I did not feel beautiful.
She did not rush to argue with me.
She let me outline my reasons.
She hummed in soft agreement.
Her nods nourished me like a clear lake.
I threw my stones of self-doubt in its waters till it stilled.
So when they say, I feel terrible, perhaps say,
Yes, it is a difficult day. Perhaps add a knowing hum.
Add a nod. A hug if they want it.
And give them their own words,
how they shine like daylight,
bright enough they see, perfectly, themselves.
Revelation
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged holding on, poem, poetry, revelation, unknowing, words on October 12, 2018| 1 Comment »
Perhaps when we don’t know what to say
we have at last arrived at the one true thing—
and in our thrill to share it with words, dilute it.
It is like the seed, perhaps, that in sprouting
at last understands its purpose, only
now it is no longer a seed.
How easy it is to lose revelation.
Not that it is ever gone—more that it
drops its petals, and we are left
holding an empty stem, trying
to remember how beautiful it was,
failing to see how beautiful it is.
In Praise of the Books that Change Us
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, poem, poetry, transformation, words on August 14, 2018| Leave a Comment »
The words that will change us
remember, perhaps,
when they were first found
by the person willing
to serve them—
they carry in their serifs
a willingness to wait,
late nights of wrestling silence,
the wing of receiving, the joy
in sharing the gift.
When we read them, they enter us
like tiny notes in a score we never knew
we were part of until one day
there is music everywhere
and we are the ones being sung.