To Begin Again

And so we set forth, once again, to bring you our thoughts on books, news of upcoming events, and the occasional rambling concerning culture or the liturgical calendar.

Thank you for following us here, and for bearing with us as we navigate the inevitable technical issues that face all of us who do business on the world wide web.

Yesterday was the birthday of poet Jane Hirshfield (many thanks to The Writer's Almanac for keeping us abreast of such important events). Central to Hirshfield's poetry is "a kind of holy delight" (Lisa Russ Spaar) and mindfulness that encompasses "a profound empathy for the suffering of all living beings" (Czeslaw Milosz). Probably the best summary we've read of her work is offered by fellow poet Rosanna Warren: 

Hirshfield has elaborated a sensuously philosophical art that imposes a pause in our fast-forward habits of mind. Her poems appear simple, and are not. Her language, in its cleanliness and transparency, poses riddles of a quietly metaphysical nature…Clause by clause, image by image, in language at once mysterious and commonplace, Hirshfield's poems clear a space for reflection and change. They invite ethical awareness, and establish a delicate balance. (from Poets.org) 

All of that to introduce this one poem particularly suited to these late winter days when spring is close but seems the farthest off (as well as a subtle homage to the handwritten word, also known as "the letter").

Hope and Love

All winter

the blue heron

slept among the horses.

I do not know

the custom of herons,

do not know

if the solitary habit

is their way,

or if he listened for

some missing one—

not knowing even 

that was what he did—

in the blowing

sounds in the dark.

I know that hope is the hardest

love we carry.

He slept with his long neck

folded, like a letter

put away.

Jane Hirshfield, from The Lives of the Heart