waiting with Ferlinghetti...

One of the truths I struggle with in trusting the first word of God in nature is the volatility of each season's transition. I affirm that the holy was first revealed as creation. I find solace in the reliability of experiencing spring becoming summer and summer shifting into autumn. The order of this rhythm is one I enjoy and count on like night becoming day only to return again to darkness. What continues to confound me after all these years are the surprises built into this rhythm. Intellectually, I know they exist. Snow almost always falls once or twice in April in New England. Likewise it is not unheard of for a blizzard to descend upon us in early October. Being startled is built into the sacred order. And yet our ordered irregularities still unsettle me. 

Perhaps that is one of the reasons they happen: to evoke awe and stimulate a sense of mystery within our souls. Beyond whatever purpose these natural oddities serve in keeping creation in balance, they also conjure reverence in me as well as caution. I regularly need to know that I am not really in control. Calamity and social chaos does much the same thing writes Max Fischer in a recent edition of the New York Times. His reflection of the social impact of the coronavirus includes the testimonies of those who have lived through war, disaster and economic collapse. "Planning tends to be tentative and short-term," in these realities. "People cultivate moments of joy when danger recedes, knowing it might not last. Violence and disruption remain painful, but at least there is no expectation of normalcy or control to shatter. Pain runs deep, but so does resilience. (Max Fischer, NY Times @ https://www.nytimes.com/ 2020/04/21/world/americas/coronavirus-social-impact.html?utm_ source =pocket-newtab)

Christine Valters Paintner puts it like this in her guide to living as if on a pilgrimage: "Conversion calls for commitment to always being surprised by God... a profound kind of humility is also demanded of us as we recognize that we don't know what will happen on our journey." (The Soul of a Pilgrim, pp.18-19) That is certainly how this year's transition from winter into spring feels to me: it is all up for grabs. Mixed into the uncertainties of whatever will unfold after this season of social distancing and solitude closes is the reality of a volatile spring. Wind storms and bitterly cold rains have preceded nearly balmy days of sunshine that are then followed by snow showers. In another section of The Soul of the Pilgrim, Paintner writes:

In Judaism, scripture is sometimes described as black fire on white fire. Black fire is the the words on the page. Midrash illuminates the white fire, the spaces between the words that are written. Through Midrash we explore the gaps in the story, the missing voices, the silences and the wonder that is sparked. 

This spring I am trying to experience seasonal transitions as black and white fire, too. There is certainty and surprise, order and disequilibrium, balance as well as weirdness. I have bulbs and wildflower seeds to get into the ground. I have outdoor repairs to accomplish. And terrace walls to reinforce and rebuild. And... I am not in control and mostly have to wait. I can't help but drift towards St. Lawrence Ferlinghetti's excessive, wise, insightful, beautiful and harsh poem he calls "I Am Waiting."

I am waiting for my case to come up   

and I am waiting

for a rebirth of wonder

and I am waiting for someone

to really discover America

and wail

and I am waiting   

for the discovery

of a new symbolic western frontier   

and I am waiting   

for the American Eagle

to really spread its wings

and straighten up and fly right

and I am waiting

for the Age of Anxiety

to drop dead

and I am waiting

for the war to be fought

which will make the world safe

for anarchy

and I am waiting

for the final withering away

of all governments

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming   

and I am waiting

for a religious revival

to sweep thru the state of Arizona   

and I am waiting

for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored   

and I am waiting

for them to prove

that God is really American

and I am waiting

to see God on television

piped onto church altars

if only they can find   

the right channel   

to tune in on

and I am waiting

for the Last Supper to be served again

with a strange new appetizer

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called

and I am waiting

for the Salvation Army to take over

and I am waiting

for the meek to be blessed

and inherit the earth   

without taxes

and I am waiting

for forests and animals

to reclaim the earth as theirs

and I am waiting

for a way to be devised

to destroy all nationalisms

without killing anybody

and I am waiting

for linnets and planets to fall like rain

and I am waiting for lovers and weepers

to lie down together again

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed   

and I am anxiously waiting

for the secret of eternal life to be discovered   

by an obscure general practitioner

and I am waiting

for the storms of life

to be over

and I am waiting

to set sail for happiness

and I am waiting

for a reconstructed Mayflower

to reach America

with its picture story and tv rights

sold in advance to the natives

and I am waiting

for the lost music to sound again

in the Lost Continent

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day

that maketh all things clear

and I am awaiting retribution

for what America did   

to Tom Sawyer   

and I am waiting

for Alice in Wonderland

to retransmit to me

her total dream of innocence

and I am waiting

for Childe Roland to come

to the final darkest tower

and I am waiting   

for Aphrodite

to grow live arms

at a final disarmament conference

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting

to get some intimations

of immortality

by recollecting my early childhood

and I am waiting

for the green mornings to come again   

youth’s dumb green fields come back again

and I am waiting

for some strains of unpremeditated art

to shake my typewriter

and I am waiting to write

the great indelible poem

and I am waiting

for the last long careless rapture

and I am perpetually waiting

for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn   

to catch each other up at last

and embrace

and I am awaiting   

perpetually and forever

a renaissance of wonder