Notions

Fort Clatsop State Park near Astoria, Oregon

"But for her novice
the sea grew white."***

I've spent much of my life as a puer, which means the eternal (or holy) boy. Puer described me for decades. The boy in a man suit. Instead of hot cars or cool abodes I had mostly spiritual ideals, heart highs and mystical adventures. I'm grateful for that prolonged phase of my life. I still have that idealized monk mindset inside of me. Really there is not much that is nothing ideal about being a monk, or even a poet or artist.

Throughout most of my life I've had notions of what the life poetic would be. I had visions about how I could access inspiration from everyday events readily, almost greedily. This evening my beloved wife softly said to me "How are you doing on your blog? Don't you need to write tonight.?" The day had faded to twilight. I mumbled that the day was "already gone." Besides I don't really have anything to wrote about. And hidden in my mumbling reply was that notion that I need to write something of titanic proportions, that I will be naturally inspired and graceful and eloquent.

I've been contemplating a poem by poet Richard Murphy. His poem The Drowning of the Novice, haunts me. It is about a "lapsed Benedictine" that saw the sea as an idyllic place that was made for his nourishment. He went out on the quiet sea not respecting Her terrible beauty and shimmering power. A storm came, as storms do. In the end he lost his life to the sea. Parts of his boat washed up on the shore like notions to be collected by beachcombers.

I came out to my computer in the dim drizzle of January with the light of a poem glowing in me like a lighthouse. Even the safe harbor of writing something average is acceptable. So here I am. Showing up. And it's difficult, this work, difficult. I respect the sea of words and songs in my heart. And I also depend on on this ocean for my sustenance. And I have a family, community to love and land to steward.

I wonder about the notions we have about the workings of the universe and of inspiration and of prosperity and of work.. I have a suspicion that knowing much real truth about life is beyond the parameters of my biological equipment.

But here I am. A small and loving voice propelled me out here in the night to sit beside a single light and a hissing heater. I have notions about where life is heading. I have notions about why I'm here. Notions about where the words want to go. Yet I don't believe these notions in a wholesale naive manner anymore.

Life will teach us humility and awe and wonder in one way or another.

I might be writing something that is halting or mediocre or simply human. But I hear the sea now. When the salt and tides sing inside it is no longer just some heavenly vision or mud bound metaphor. There is no purely right brained or left brained explanation for what comes.

I see the notions
of my life all around
me, washing in and out.
I see them and pick each
one up, sea stranded treasures,
things sparkling or broken,
things I will show
to my friends and family
when I walk back
across the yard into
my home. In my eyes
I pray that something bright
burns and floods. I pray
that the the great Ocean can be
seen beyond and beneath
all these words and ideas...

that somehow I bring the ocean's nourishment into the world as more than just an a particular ecstasy or a metaphor.

Do the dishes.
Weed between the corn rows.
Stay up with the crying children.
Call the friend back.
Pay the electric bill.
Come always to the ocean and breathe.

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*** Quoted from the poem "The Drowning of a Novice." in Richard Murphy's book of poetry: High Island, New and Selected Poems, (c) 1974, Harper and Row Publishers, New York

(c) 2010, Richard Sievers, All Rights Reserved