Earlier this week our new refrigerator arrived. When we bought our house some 13 years ago, the existing appliances were already old. Serviceable but moving towards extinction in true 1980's style. During our sabbatical in Montreal five years ago, the stove gave up the ghost and I learned the joys of being a landlord and having to replace a major appliance while living four hours and an international border away. For the past two years the old refrigerator had been leaking water and filling the bottom of the freezer with an ice swamp that needed constant attention. To avoid greater damage to our hardwood floors - and to bring the kitchen up to snuff after painting - we took the plunge and made the purchase with part of the pandemic stimulus check. I suspect sometime in the next 2 years we'll have to part ways with our prehistoric dishwasher, too - although I rather like taking it apart from time to time to clean and make minor repairs. But, as George Harrison wistfully reminds us: "All Things Must Pass."
Another – on the Roof –
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves –
And made the Gables laugh –
A few went out to help the Brook,
That went to help the Sea –
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls –
What Necklaces could be –
There is another layer to these quiet, ordinary times, too. Sometimes I find myself writing about this layer without knowing exactly why. It is a bit self-indulgent, I know, so I usually delete such postings without any sharing. But then there are times like today when, well, it feels like the poem by Pablo Neruda he calls "Keeping Quiet."
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth,
let's not speak in any language;
let's stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about...
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with
death.
Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.
Once upon a time I read an "Affirmation of Faith" somewhere that began with a
simple statement like: I trust that God is love. To which the gathered faithful were invited to say: Yes, I believe. And then a series of more complex and challenging statements were offered, and after each the people were asked to join in the affirmation IF they could. I wish I could find that again, but it seems it will remain an elusive and evocative gift (that's probably better left to my imagination.) But that is what these two poems feel like to me. Dickinson captures one quiet moment in time, while Neruda finds another layer. And I affirm them both - and probably more, too.
In these truly complicated times of righteous uprising and contagion, when leaders lie without shame and the innocent die in record numbers because of their lies, right now I can only be quiet. And add a poster from Nicaragua and Picasso's "Guernica" to my gallery wall.
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