I awaken. I arise each morning. We all do. At first seeing, what is not seen — is the blank page. Upon it are wisps, remnants of elusive, felt dreams from sleeping. They haunt the unseen blank page like vivid watercolor drops that fade as they dry. Each new day, when we arise, pages have already been written… in dreaming, and other days, and then we awaken again upon a new page where we write our lives by living, breathing and being.
Blinking eyes, happily taunt-stretched limbs, the loud yawn of awakening, the guttural bellow of the flexed stomach releasing…
we may wake up with expectations and a schedule. We may be woken up by interruptions and demands. We may arise alone or crowded, or something in between… and we may want it, or not want it. We may wake up peaceful and content, afraid and worried, or neutral, or excited, or confused.
Still we wake up living and so we write upon the blank page of morning. Each blank page becomes filled with feelings, thoughts, actions, words — the seen and the unseen, and by choice and by no-choice — consciously and unconsciously.
For me, in the past year and three months, ever since a kitten was unexpectedly adopted… every morning, my blank page begins with the most persistent shower of warmth and affection — a cuddle like no other on my tip-top upper area of the chest with a complete nuzzling-in of a little face deep into my neck, where he purrs… and then sleeps, if I let him there long enough. He is soft as a marshmallow and just as sweet. He is a being who comes to me like a patiently timed magnet instantly attracted — upon my awakening. I do not write this on my page exactly, it is a repeating miracle shining upon me by a little mysterious being of love, brought here by my life partner. So, our pages can change in certain ways that are beyond us alone.
This young cat’s constancy, his persevering affection and gratitude changes my page of awakening. He softens and warms my voice and has been applying a medicine to my heart each morning that it has not known in this way and sorely needed at this time.
The unseen blank page and what I write upon it is up to me… because it is me… living and breathing. No one else can actually write it. Though others may influence and affect it. A life partner doesn’t write my pages for me but he writes beside me, and I with him. We fall asleep holding hands, waking up we are next to or near each other. Yet, everyone too… because everything and everyone are connected to all that is. We are all connected. If I forget that… my page can lose its strength. And if I forget that I am writing my own life by living it and that no one else can… then my page can lose its magic. That has happened before. That was something I wrote on pages of my life at one time. And… it is not happening anymore. Today I am writing a poem, as the silence holds my breath, writing, and being in spaciousness. That, for now, is all there is in this moment upon the page.
There is one more thing to say about all of this… shining sunshine upon others may not write upon their pages exactly, because it is our own pages we write on. Yet, what it does, is it uplifts and warms, it comforts, relaxes, and inspires, and can help to welcome in all kinds of goodness and healing.
Please Note: The article below was originally written and posted on a former version of this site. This article from 2012 has been edited and re-published in honor of Dr. Mary Oliver, who died earlier today.
Before you read the following article that I wrote after meeting Mary Oliver back in 2012, I would like to say a couple of things about her now, for today. Some of her childhood consisted of neglect, sexual abuse, and loneliness. Her life as a poet was the truest self she could be in this life, and the best. When young and throughout life, she found comfort, life, and what is sacred out in nature and with animals. She was a contemplative poet, with a naturalist’s passion for nature and simplicity. Every part of that encapsulation of her has given me hope and saved, affirmed, and encouraged me—as a survivor, poet, human, and naturalist soul. I send her well wishes on her soul journeys that begin today, and so much love and gratitude for all she shared with us. Shine on, dear Mary Oliver, holy voice for this earth—and what is so precious in this life.
Nov. 13th, 2012
Did you happen to feel a big bliss vibe yesterday? It could have been from me. I got to meet my favorite poet of our time, an inspirational goddess of poetry–Mary Oliver–yesterday. Because of this, I have residual Mary Oliver bliss that I know must be radiating out into the rest of this place. *big smile* Read on to learn what it was like to: see her, listen to her read her own poetry, get writing advice from her via the Q & A, how it was to meet her, and what it all meant to me.
I went to Marquette University with some of the best poetry loving friends, in order to witness Mary Oliver receive an honorary doctorate there. Mary Oliver’s smile, in reaction to the donning of the Doctorate robe, was such a revelation to me! In general she has a serious and drawn face. And quite suddenly, it burst open like a shimmering flower of tropical sunshine. It was a jolt–an amazing joy to behold. We then listened to Dr. Oliver read her poetry to us. It was an hour, which passed like a few minutes. After, there was a Q & A, and then a line formed for book signing. My best poetry buddy, Marci, and I got to speak with her briefly together, when our turn approached for signing—more on that later.
The main and briefly summarized impression I had from the poetry reading itself was of: Mary Oliver’s affinity and compassion for nature, her dog, and for the real connections of this life that she expresses in ways that soothe, affirm, and stir my soul. This is why she is beloved–her poetry is transpersonal and deep, yet accessible. The whole experience was holy.
In person, Mary Oliver is small, and she is older now, so she has a cane and white hair. She was very much like a fairy-godmother presence, especially while delighting in choosing which poems to read to us. She seemed to me to be mostly: witty, cute, wild, rebellious, tender, open-hearted, bold, wise and magical. Also, Mary Oliver’s heart and mind seem to have beams of focused energy, clear and strong, that are able to shine out upon the world–wherever she may be sitting, standing, or speaking in the moment. There is an air of serious concentration about her. And, it is clear, she adores the natural world, and has a passion for it beyond simple observation—she is in deep relationship. It is also clear, she deeply cares about people, no matter how humble, shy, and introverted she is. She made a tremendous effort to transmit her love and appreciation to us with grace, humor and oomph.
During the Q & A, a fiery passion came forth as she responded to a question, giving advice about how to be a successful poet. I can’t quote her word for word, but it was something I can paraphrase as this:
Forget about being successful! Spend every day caring about your writing. In this economy, forget about the nice car and nice apartment. Focus on doing the best you can, writing every day!
She did answer my question, which was something like, “Does poetry flow from you in the same way it did 10-20 years ago?” She revealed, in not these exact words, that inspiration doesn’t hit as hard as it did once; that things have slowed. And yet, there was a new book in front of her and she mentioned another was on the way. She told us that she never had trouble with writer’s block. That if there was a little of it, she knew the answer was always connecting with the earth and being grateful, and it would come back, and flow. She also mentioned that, if anything, she wrote too much. I could tell that having inspiration leave her would be like an athlete suddenly becoming immobile with no hope of future mobility. It would be devastating. But I don’t really think that will happen. Her very being has become poetry, just as Whitman had described.
Her eyes are full beams of mystical presence…they struck me as powerful, yet gentle–a concentrated energy that I really haven’t ever seen in someone before. Her eyes are full, with presence–that is it—fiery, grounded, watery, elemental. Her life has been a discipline of not only presence, but deep relationship with all presence.
Speaking of those poetic goddess-like eyes, I had a chance to look right into them, across a table, at the book signing. I was feeling extremely shy and in awe, but I managed to say awkwardly, but honestly, “Thank you Dr. Oliver. I love you.” There was a significantly silent pause as she looked down at the book I had given her, before she wrote in my copy of Swan, then she said quite slowly and deliberately, “Well…I don’t know you, but…I love you too.” Then, she looked up and gave me the gift of presence, looking intently into my eyes–really looking. All I could do was smile at her with love and gratitude. It. was. awesome.
What I have always known, since I was 12 years old—was presented to me in the flesh yesterday, as pure and utter gift: A great poet speaks for and to the soul, as much as to the person. She is voice for the soul, for presence. She is also the medicine.
”For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.” ~ Mary Oliver
Those words of Mary Oliver’s came to me as we all listened raptly to her, reading her poetry to us.
I felt, indeed, that I was hungry and cold, and maybe even a bit lost, and that she was feeding me (us) and my deeper self–like a mother bird feeds her babies. Yes, I felt that yesterday with Dr. Mary Oliver, and it was bliss.
This concludes this fun series of daily poetry that I began in honor of poetry month. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have. I love the discipline of the haiku. I have been writing poetry since I was 13 years old, but have rarely had a regular practice of parameters like the sonnet or the haiku. It is worth doing! In mid-life now, writing poetry is as joyful and mysterious a flow as ever–and even more satisfying. Poetry, at its best, is a voice of truth and of the soul. Thank you for listening to mine.
April 23 One inch closer to my goals. Meanwhile this world has lost its mind alright.
April 24 Everything shifts with weeding, letting go. Garden of what is real now.
April 25 Dreams are riddles decoded in patterns of the following day.
April 26 What do you like so much that you want to chase it? And what chases you?
April 27 Perpetual waves of ocean, sun rise daily— our love, enduring.
April 28 That weight is gone like heavy snows melted turning into bright lit Spring.
April 29 The kids frolic as we step into our deeper selves of skylark too.
April 30 I know the dragon that bites you. For she bit me too…insomnia.
Haiku For Poetry Month: April 1st to April 6th By CS Sherin April 6, 2018
To celebrate poetry month I have been writing daily haiku! It is fun! Remember, poetry is the language of the soul. It is nourishment, a salve–it is necessary on regular days, it is essential on trying days.
Poetry became a part of my practice at age thirteen. It simply flowed from me. My mother was astonished. I accepted it without question. Because people are not always so open to poetry, I have most often kept it private. Now that I am middle-aged, I seek to share my poetic voice more. And, I do have a couple of books written, waiting to be published! I keep the poetry that comes from me sacred. I share it with love.
Words have power to unite, divide, heal, free, enlighten. Poetry takes that power into a naked truth that illuminates what is unspoken, and what we long to express and hear.
Happy poetry month!
April 1 2018 Is the joke that we wait for a magic that is already herein?
April 2 She embodies all love I’ve known so far. Bright daughter, magic.
April 3rd Whenever we kiss, the snow melts a bit. Endless Spring love, Jeff.
April 4th With all of the snow we could build a snow person who could melt this Spring.
April 5th Rejection stings me. Relentless persistence is what the cat taught me.
April 6th When nothing makes sense the only thing that matters is breath, movement, love.
Celebrate the Irrational and Transcendental Pi that is Pi Day, with Pi facts and the inspiration of dreams, tea, and Adventure Time through poetry
by CS Sherin, 3.14.2018, updated 3.14.2019
We traveled to Australia.
We look younger.
We see the strange and unfamiliar
as well as things that look
just like home.
We are traveling with other tourists.
I am on a tall ladder-like platform, and
large Afghan-type dogs appear.
Four of them.
One comes to me specifically.
I am to put my hand on his back
and he will lead me where we need to go.
The dogs were blue at first,
then turned black, and last, white.
They can puff up their hair
when they want, and smooth
it out again at will.
We end up at a long corridor of
open dorm beds that are like
a partial camper-sleeper/barracks.
Some female family and acquaintances
are there too, it turns out.
I choose to sleep halfway
in the corridor of beds.
A woman across from me exclaims
that she knows she is sad because
when she is happy she feels horny.
I roll my eyes and think, I have to put up with this?
Another woman playfully-not playfully
taunts me about not knowing
what a former friend is doing now. I don’t need to know, I think, irritated
by these arrangements. And then,
the alarm awakens me.
Today, in waking life,
I saw the pi symbol formed
by tea leaves at the bottom of
my tea cup.
And has never happened before
on Adventure Time
Finn drank from a cup
with the pi symbol on it.
My amazement was complete.
So I dove into all the
alluring pi facts…
the Old Testament,
the Greeks all
knew it to some degree.
Archimedes to really find it.
Madhava of Sangamagrama found
more of it.
Within the atom and through
computers we find more of it
Wherever there is a circle,
there is pi (I smile
thinking of all the mandalas I create)
Pi is not a root–not algebraic.
It’s patterns never repeat.
Pi measures emanating ripples well,
and probability determination,
the unchanging ratio of any circular
circumference and diameter.
This is the day that 3.14159 (and so on)
tapped my shoulder
with it’s waking life answer —
a mysterious, romantic, infinite
irrational answer —
to my night of dreaming, and day of waking…
just those first forty digits could hold the answer
to our universe.