Welcome back to the Poem of the Month! The POM has been on a long hiatus, but January seemed a fitting time for its return.
The last half of 2009 was a whirlwind of activity, including two weddings in my family – my sister’s in Georgia, and my own nuptials here in Seattle in July. As the brilliantly joyous summer months gradually slid into the back-to-school rhythm, there was a sense of return to that natural cadence of life. The holidays were, as always, a wonderful time to celebrate family and give thanks for the many blessings we have.
But life sometimes has a funny way of keeping our equilibrium in check. A year with so many wonderful experiences and memories drew to a close for me with an auto accident that, while thankfully had no injuries, left me with the hassle of scrambling to find a new car to replace my totaled Explorer.
Shortly after that, my 17 year old cat Emelye just stopped eating one day. Now I’m not a crazy pet person by any stretch of the imagination, but I began thinking about how she had always just been there – through college and grad school, through marriage, kids, the divorce, the rebuilding. While I am happy to say she’s fully recovered from her ailment, to have to begin contemplating something that has just “been there” suddenly NOT being there gave me an unexpected pause.
Early January brought news of the massive earthquake in Haiti, and probably like most of you, I was deeply saddened by the destruction and loss of life experienced by the Haitian people. As I watched the news coverage that morning, I fully imagined a nation in the throes of despair as what were once lives filled with normal, mundane things figuratively and literally came crashing down.
But even as life can dish out the harsh realities, I am still astounded by the ability of the human spirit to find the middle way – to recognize the small moments that temper those harsh realities. The photo of a small boy being pulled from the rubble eight days after the earthquake – arms opened wide and grinning from ear to ear – was, for me, one of those small things that had the transformative power to help restore our life back into that balanced equilibrium and perspective.
This month’s poem seemed a fitting celebration of those little things. Like Katha Pollitt, I don’t understand them, but am thankful every day for them.
Katha Pollitt
(1949 – )
What I Understood
When I was a child I understood everything
about, for example, futility. Standing for hours
on the hot asphalt outfield, trudging for balls
I’d ask myself, how many times will I have to perform
this pointless task, and all the others? I knew
about snobbery, too, and cruelty—for children
are snobbish and cruel—and loneliness: in restaurants
the dignity and shame of solitary diners
disabled me, and when my grandmother
screamed at me, “Someday you’ll know what it’s like!”
I knew she was right, the way I knew
about the single rooms my teachers went home to,
the pictures on the dresser, the hoard of chocolates,
and that there was no God, and that I would die.
All this I understood, no one needed to tell me.
the only thing I didn’t understand
was how in a world whose predominant characteristics
are futility, cruelty, loneliness, disappointment
people are saved every day
by a sparrow, a foghorn, a grassblade, a tablecloth.
This year I’ll be
thirty-nine, and I still don’t understand it.
