Bear with me here . . . this might look a little circuitous at first, but I’ll get to the point. Eventually.
Trust me.
The Wonder of Small Things is the title of a book a friend of Annie’s gave her. I picked it up at her house one day and started thumbing through it and was surprised to see that I recognized some names. Natalie Goldberg—my all-time go-to writing mentor. Mark Nepo—both my daughter Justine and publisher Brooke Warner refer to him all the time. This anthology isn’t just a collection of poems, but, interspersed throughout the words of “peace and renewal” are moments where another writer reflects on a previous poem or topic with their own understanding of the work. It was quite engaging and I thought to myself I might even get my own copy.
And speaking of small, you know I’m a fan of the podcast Tiny Victories—(review here and here if you need a refresher). I’m such a big fan that when co-host Annabelle Gurwitch and Laura House announced that they were ending the series, I felt as if it was personal. Not like they did it to me, but because it was so hard to process. I just figured they’d always be there—on my podcast app, whenever I needed them. They invited listeners to make one last call to their “Tiny Victory Hotline” but I just couldn’t. It felt too sad. (I’m really happy that they are going to pursue new things, but you know what I mean.)
The title of Annie’s book also reminded me of poem, The Peace of Wild Things and its author, Wendell Berry. Before my dad died, we’d had several conversations about Mr. Berry and his poetry. Then, one day, my cousin Diane sent me another poem of his she liked, which felt to me like it had been written just for my dad. I printed it out and set it out on his desk so its message could be in the room as he lay in his bed sleeping, making his way to his last day. When he was awake, I’d read it to him. It was short, so often I’d read it a few times. He never really acknowledged my reading it or what it meant, but it was just so perfect for him, I read it anyway. It was this one:
Our Real Work
It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
I’m not the poet in the family—not even close. My sister was an actual poet and my brother is a songwriter, so kind of a poet. My mom wrote poems to celebrate special events like birthdays and holidays and she once wrote a poem about the time she and I hacked our way from the deck of our cottage in Maine for about 40 feet to the edge of the small bluff overlooking the water to make a path to a hammock. I only slightly edge out my dad, since I don’t think he ever wrote a poem, but he was clever and glib and could expound extemporaneously with the best of them.
However, in that weird way things move in and around each other in this life, I found myself moved to poetry after a night I spent with Annie in the hospital recently. Was it her 2nd time? Maybe it was the 3rd time? I don’t remember. The month had been a blur of emergencies and dire prognoses. Poetry seemed like the only way to commemorate the night we had just experienced together.
Here in the world
Hurry down to the hospital . . .
And wait for four hours to be admitted.
She had to stay in the hospital for the MRI
Then it took two days to schedule.
They sent her the wrong food.
She had to stay a little longer.
The procedure didn’t work.
I forgot my toothbrush.
I forgot my laptop charger.
They forgot the cinnamon for her applesauce.
The next option reeks of last-ditch effort.
Her doctor will be out of the country next week.
A nurse yelled at me for fixing myself a cup of coffee in a room
That someone else told me was okay.
We tried to sleep.
Then, a nurse came in at 6am and finally turned off the TV on the other patient’s side of the room, which had been blaring all night.
We looked at each other and smiled.
And in that small moment, that brief, tiny moment…there was peace.
Small. Tiny. Peace. Sometimes it’s all we get.
Sometimes, it makes a difference.
I liked the poem, “Our Real Work” - thanks for sharing.
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