Tag: Gregory Orr

Beauty Comes From Loss

Some say you’re lucky
If nothing shatters it.

But then you wouldn’t
Understand poems or songs.
You’d never know
Beauty comes from loss.

It’s deep inside every person:
A tear tinier
Than a pearl or thorn.

It’s one of the places
Where the beloved is born.

~ Gregory Orr, Concerning The Book That Is the Body Of The Beloved

One from my “saved poem” file from a poet who writes from knowing deep loss and nearly unbearable grief.

A poem that touches on the essence of my writing and my wabi sabi life. That beauty is found in life’s imperfections and comes from its losses. That with time, in a life sometimes broken, but mostly well-lived and much loved, such beauty becomes polished, like the grain of sand that becomes the pearl, rubbed inside the oyster’s shell. It’s like that for all of us – deep inside every person – if we choose to look at life this way

For the past many years my earrings of choice have been silver-grey freshwater pearls, embellished with tiny sterling silver beads, a signature design from Canadian jeweler, Effie Baker. They’re an interesting juxtaposition to the simple diamond studs that I always wear, my birthstone, and a Christmas gift many years ago from my husband. Last summer, after a long wait and good fortune, I gifted myself with a pair of baroque pearl earrings hung from antique Chinese silver and enamel made by another Canadian designer Soma Mo, first seen during covid and for many months sold out. In recent months, I’ve taken to wearing hers every day.

There’s something about pearls that speak to me of the feminine…originating from the watery realm of feelings and intuition…their voluptuous shape and subtle luster…how they become warm with wearing. These pearls remind me of the love in which these two women artists create…a love then gifted to me when I was attracted and responded by allowing myself to purchase them.

The beauty found in, and from loss, that when rubbed up against, as in life, becomes transformed. The beloved born in that.

What a poem and pearl earrings can evoke.
Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

Aftermath Inventory

famed Polish sculptor Igor Mitoraj’s winged Ikaria on exhibition at il Castello Maniace, Siracusa, Sicilia
May 2024


Aftermath Inventory

Shattered? Of course,
That matters.
But
What comes next
Is all
I can hope to master.

Knowing, deep in my
Bones,
Not all hurt harms.

My wounds?
If
Somehow, I
Grow through them,
Aren’t they also a boon?

My scars?
Someday,
They might shine
Brighter than stars.

Gregory Orr, The Last Love Poem I Will Ever Write, W.W. Norton & Co., 2019

One from the draft folder. For a morning when the night before, after my monthly Zoom with a friend, I opted for time with Walker rather than sitting at my desk, searching for a poem that might fit the week.

Maybe not exactly relevant, but eventually it comes around to this. The shattering. The reflection on hurts – given and received. Remembering that not all hurt harms. That it could be an invitation to lean in. Get real. Remember who and what matters most in the moment. At the time. Take the step, say the word to let them know.

My wounds. Your wounds. Our wounds. That when we grow through them, use them as compost for this day and the next, we might discover we’ve grown a well-lived and much-loved life.

My scars. Your scars. Our scars. Inevitable, too. Mark us among the living. The loving. Hearts broken by griefs shared, untold. Filled with gold, may they shine brighter than stars.

May we.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

A Voice From I Don’t Know Where

A Voice From I Don’t Know Where

It seems you love this world very much.
“Yes, I said. “This beautiful world.”

And you don’t mind the mind, that keeps you
busy all the time with its dark and bright wonderings?
“No, I’m quite used to it. Busy, busy,
all the time.”

And you don’t mind living with those questions,
I mean the hard ones, that no one can answer?
“Actually, they’re the most interesting.”

And you have a person in your life whose hand
you like to hold?
“Yes, I do.”

It must surely, then, be very happy down there
in your heart.
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

– Mary Oliver in Felicity, 2015 –

This wasn’t my original selection for my first Friday photo and poem for this new year. Initially, I was moved by Gregory Orr’s “Aftermath Inventory,” a short, unflinchingly exquisite poem from his collection, The Last Love Letter I Will Ever Write (2019), one posted this week on another poet’s site. It was the final line “My scars?/Someday/They might shine/Brighter than stars.” that stirred because of how I and many are feeling about this cusp of ending and beginning.

I chose not to write my “irregular” regular Monday post which would have dropped on New Year’s Day. Enough inspiring, heartful, hopeful, earnest prayers, blessings, quotes, and memes that I had nothing to offer to the mix, not wanting to dilute those kind and loving intentions. Though can there ever be too many prayers and blessings? Considering Orr’s poem, I thought of it as a humble gesture of my acknowledgment of the suffering of others, close and far, in war, illness, climate disaster, bereavement, poverty, homelessness, addiction. To stand in that unflinchingly, sorrowfully. Grateful for the hands I have to hold, for this world I still find utterly beautiful, loving it very much.

Many times, I start the year with a word. Choosing to forego the practice this year, life had other plans. Sitting one morning having my conversation with God, an Anne Lamott kind of help, thanks, wow conversation, I found myself inhaling to the word “comfort,” exhaling to “gratitude.” Over the days, it’s morphed to asking for grace on the in breath and giving gratitude on the out breath. Words, a mantra, a grounding for my being, body, and breath whispered many times a day. A voice from I don’t know where, or I do, having asked and been heard.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

May this new year bring you all that is good and true and beautiful, with grace and gratitude aplenty, and the courage and compassion to withstand its inevitable heartache and challenge.

The Beloved Is the World

Volubilis, Morocco, 2023

When we’re young there’s lots
We don’t know about
The beloved:
How he or she is only housed
Briefly in this or that body.

Mostly, the beloved is the world,
But we’re not ready to see
That yet, not able to bear
The idea that the beloved
Won’t necessarily gaze back at us
With eyes like ours, won’t
Wrap us in his or her arms.

We want risk, but comfort, too,
Comfort most of all.
We’re still clinging to our loneliness,
Not yet ready to be alone.

– Gregory Orr –
Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved

I think I’d heard of Gregory Orr. Read something of his when a poem arrives in my inbox, or crosses my Facebook feed. But this poem really grabbed me given its appearance this week during the still potent trifecta of faith traditions. From his publisher, Copper Canyon Press, Mary Oliver is quoted as having written about this volume: “What other poet do you know who would give his work such a title—ambitious and humble at the same time? He speaks now, in these many short poems, which in their entirety are really one long poem, of mysteries, of those things—emotions, situations, mind and heart states—which are beyond the definitive.”

In addition to poetry, and city happenings, my inbox welcomes me each morning with a variety of contemplative essays and musing . For one, this week’s theme has been resurrection: what it may have originally meant, how it’s been distorted over time and empire’s (mis)interpretation, and what it might mean in a renewed way today for us. Referencing contemporary theologian Matthew Fox, it offers that we “be resurrection” for ourselves and each other, by rising up and being counted through the commitment to hope and creativity…by being in love with Life.

Being in love with Life and recognizing that the beloved IS the world, are among travel’s most significant gifts to me. I carry home as “souvenir” the memory of my encounters with people, land and culture beyond my familiar, and I am renewed. I return empowered having traveled well with my self in “our” aloneness. And my curiosity, gratitude and imagination are enlivened.

tiny blossoms at Volubilis, Morocco, 2023

Very much taken by this poet, and the bit I’ve read about him and from him as I prepare this post, I’ll conclude with another of his poems from the same volume, perhaps as wise instruction and reminder for me as I begin my next round of poetry submissions…

“How lucky we are That you can’t sell A poem” 
How lucky we are
That you can’t sell
A poem, that it has
No value. Might
As well
Give it away.

That poem you love,
That saved your life,
Wasn’t it given to you?

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

sunrise on the Sahara, Morocco, 2023