Philosophy on Tap: When Truth Becomes your Happy Hour

journal

 

In less than two months, I will cross the big 3-5. And while I would like to think I’m fine with this transition, most other sources state it as something worthy of attention.

Apparently, 35 is the age where people start paying attention to you. It’s the age where doctors start wanting to become pals and have tea, during appointments which really aren’t tea at all, but preventative checks for cholesterol screenings and mammograms, if heart and breast cancer runs in the family. In fact, my OB/GYN made a special point to remind me that, at 35, I have won the Baby Mama prize. I get to wear the “high-risk pregnancy” corsage and maybe even win a red balloon, as my cycles will also start getting heavier. Or slowly creep to non-existence.

Yippy.

Not that I am pregnant, nor is there much high-risk about my lifestyle. This is just the prize I win when I put on my birthday hat come March.

BdayHat-HappyBirthday

 

Thirty-five is the midway to 40 mark, I have also heard. True, if we are counting. It is the last true year I can comfortably pretend I am still in my “early thirties,” and that is only if I stretch mid to mean 6. Mid always means 6, right? I highly remember that in calculus class.

Is this really all that awaits? No one really mentions these luxuries when they remind you your 30’s are the new 20’s. Isn’t there an owner’s manual for this aging thing?

In fact, there is. CNN, in collaboration with Oprah, posted a survival guide to Life After 35, complete with fashion tips such as “leggings are not pants.” But, dear fashion guru, what if most all of my pants are leggings? The bottoms of which are covered with leg warmers left over from the ‘80s? (The ’80s. A decade that died long ago, children of which are now 35.) For more keen insights on how to cope, read here: http://www.cnn.com/2012/10/19/living/oprah-rules-after-35/

Well, I’m sorry, Oprah. I wish you well, Preventative Medicine Magazine. And thank you kindly, CNN. But really, it is time to take matters into my own hands.

Which means it is time to start amassing giant quantities of poetry.

Pamela Allyn, founder and executive director of LitWorld and LitLife, writes in her Huffington Post article, “Poetry is how we say to the world and each other, ‘I am here’.” She goes on to write of the structural necessity that poems offer to the human experience, blending literary freedom with predictable syntax, allowing for expansion and containment all in a few lines. In a poem, we touch the whole world. In a poem, we are safe in our small corner of it. For more of Pamela’s thoughts, click here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pam-allyn/why-poetry-matters_b_5185399.html

Pamela is right. Many great literary works are epic poems, such as the Odyssey and Dante’s Inferno, two seminal pieces that give us the Hero’s Journey (see Joseph Campbell) and, sadly, the Protestant mis-interpretation of hell (see Rob Bell, Origen, and any first century theologian). Poems teach us about everything, well beyond the mere sappiness of Hallmark cards. All creation stories from across the globe are narrated in poetic structure, giving a feel for the world’s origins as opposed to a scientific retelling. Because in times of birth and chaos, science is not the whole answer. For a great read on this, try chemist Walter Heisenberg, who writes, “The first gulp from the glass of natural sciences will turn you into an atheist, but at the bottom of the glass, God is waiting for you.”

science-god

True, our brains love theories. Our hearts beat to mathematically appropriated timings. Yet, our souls home alive to feelings. There is a reason true comfort comes to us through the gentle hum of a familiar song – a sung poem – rather than a textbook. Go to any wedding, birth, celebration, or funeral and what is read? Scriptures, poems, lyrics, love letters, songs: these are the tools of the angels, and we wouldn’t want it any other way.

While our heart is beating rhythmically, it keeps beating for love. It is the very truth we were born into, the honest purpose for our lives, and the very reality to which we will return.

The human heart is built on beauty, timelessness, and metaphor: messages that are too expansive for literal expression alone. The human heart grows strong through pain, sacrifice, and service. Again, hardships that are often beyond our comprehension. Why does a mother give up years of her life for her child? What compels a young man to serve for his country? The answers are not simple; in fact, they are a mystery.

Poems remind us of this Mystery, that we will draw near to and never full grasp. In the words of St. Paul, we are reminded to gently “hold the mystery of faith with a clear conscience.” We must be clear and honest about all that we know and may never know. And in that clarity, we open our hands to cup the mystery of things we do not see, yet still trust. Faith is this evidence of things unseen.

So close your eyes. Go on, now. Find your pulse. Take a deep breath and tune into your heartbeat. And ask, what is unseen in your life right now that you are believing for?

belief3

What am I believing for? What possesses my  mind? I have quite a few answers to that. But since we are on the topic of aging, I’ll stick to something simple, such as this sketchy 35 number. I trust that this life transition will not be ferocious as the critics have warned. And for solace, I look to the thinkers, philosophizers, and poets who have gone before me — men and woman who recognize that the proof is in the mystery pudding.

Over the last few weeks, I have begun collecting poems in preparation for the big 3-5. Some I have heard at a campfire. Some I have been gifted by friends. Some are old goodies that returned to my lap. Some have been sent me out of the blue. Whatever the case, truth has arrived in the package of poetry and is meant to be shared, not hoarded. So, my dear friends, here is my small gift to you.

Let the good medicine cure you.

Welcome to Philosophy on Tap, the truest happy hour of them all.

 

For help giving thanks, when all seems quite murky, try W.S. Merwin.

For a reminder that you can’t fix anyone but yourself, try good old Mary Oliver.

For the gentle reflection that you are loved beyond words, try Sufi Hadiz.

If you want to know about life-long learning, try Mark Nepo.

For thoughts on faith, try Anne Lammott.

For a reminder that the best is yet to come, try David Whyte.

For all of these and more, read below.

For yourself, just keep dreaming.

 

Thanks by W.S. Merwin

images

Listen
 with the night falling we are saying thank you

we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings

we are running out of the glass rooms

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky

and say thank you

we are standing by the water looking out

in different directions.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging

after funerals we are saying thank you

after the news of the dead 
whether or not we knew them we are saying

thank you

looking up from tables we are saying thank you

in a culture up to its chin in shame

living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators

remembering wars and the police at the back door

and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks that use us we are saying thank you

with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable

unchanged we go on saying thank you, thank you,

with the animals dying around us

our lost feelings we are saying thank you

with the forests falling faster than the minutes 
of our lives

we are saying thank you

with the words going out like cells of a brain

with the cities growing over us like the earth 
we are saying thank you

faster and faster 
with nobody listening we are saying thank you

we are saying thank you and waving

dark though it is.

 

The Journey by Mary Oliver

desert

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice–

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do–

determined to save

the only life you could save.

 

An Astronomical Question by Hadiz

m31

What would happen if God leaned down and gave you a full wet

kiss?

Hafiz doesn’t mind answering astronomical questions

like that:

You would surely start

reciting all day, inebriated,

rogue-poems

like

this.

 

Behind the Thunder by Mark Nepo

Thunder_at_Sai08
I keep looking for one more teacher,

only to find that fish learn from water

and birds learn from sky.

If you want to learn about the sea,

it helps to be at sea.

If you want to learn about compassion,

it helps to be in love.

If you want to learn about healing,

it helps to know of suffering.

The strong live in the storm

without worshipping the storm.

 

From Plan B by Anne Lammott

certainty

I have a lot of faith.

But I am also afraid a lot,

and have no real certainty about anything.

I remembered something Father Tom had told me –

that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty.

Certainty misses the point entirely. Faith includes noticing

the mess,

the emptiness and discomfort and

letting it be there

until

some light

returns.

 

Everything is Waiting for You by David Whyte

welcome_1

Your great mistake is to act the drama

as if you were alone. As if life

were a progressive and cunning crime

with no witness to the tiny hidden

transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny

the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,

even you, at times, have felt the grand array;

the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding

out your solo voice. You must note

the way the soap dish enables you,

or the window latch grants you freedom.

Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.

The stairs are your mentor of things

to come, the doors have always been there

to frighten you and invite you,

and the tiny speaker in the phone

is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into

the conversation. The kettle is singing

even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots

have left their arrogant aloofness and

seen the good in you at last. All the birds

and creatures of the world are unutterably

themselves.

Everything is waiting for you.

Jennifer
Jennifer
Writer. Learning Designer. Dark chocolate expert.
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