that was the gift
Oh boy, I’m writing a bunch of poems at once which is really disconcerting, and also really satisfying–well not satisfying, but kind of exciting. Like there are all these ideas that pop up as I’m walking around or drinking coffee or talking to someone about something unrelated (and just now I stopped typing this post to scrawl a few lines in my notebook). I’m bopping from one to the other and writing and writing and writing whenever I have a chance and it’s so great (but also so frustrating because I have all this other stuff to do to keep the whole rest of my life out of the toilet). There’s the one I started off of last week’s writing prompt, and one I’ve been writing for the better part of the past decade I suppose, and another one I’ve been writing for my whole life/since my older son turned sixteen.
This morning I had a great conversation with my older son and he said his thing and I said my thing (which, I know, is the definition of conversation) but the topic was a bit loaded and new and so required that we approach with the trust that each of us genuinely values the other and wants the other to be happy. Imagine that. It was extraordinary. There are a lot of beautiful things in my life, which happens to be set in a broader time in history that feels especially broken. And all of the beautiful things in my life are uncertain and fragile and transitory. And that knowledge is often quite paralyzing. I love this poem from Jane Hirshfield about just that. Our opening phrase is “If the gods bring to you…” what? What have the gods brought to you? How should you care for it? How should you love it. How, as Hirshfield asks, would you want to be loved? Yikes. Let’s not fuck around today, okay?
Each Moment a White Bull Steps Shining into the World
If the gods bring to you
a strange and frightening creature,
accept the gift
as if it were one you had chosen.
Say the accustomed prayers,
oil the hooves well,
caress the small ears with praise.
Have the new halter of woven silver
embedded with jewels.
Spare no expense, pay what is asked,
when a gift arrives from the sea.
Treat it as you yourself
would be treated,
brought speechless and naked
into the court of a king.
And when the request finally comes,
do not hesitate even an instant—
Stroke the white throat,
the heavy, trembling dewlaps
you’ve come to believe were yours,
and plunge in the knife.
Not once
did you enter the pasture
without pause,
without yourself trembling.
That you came to love it, that was the gift.
Let the envious gods take back what they can.
