We bike seven and a half miles up the road from our house, past hay fields and horses and silent, collapsing barns. It is my favorite route from home, a long, lovely panorama of wild gardens, moss-covered stone walls, old country houses set low to the ground, rolling pastures and sun-dappled woods. The morning air is patchy, stunningly hot in the clear stretches, deliciously cool in the greeny darkness of shade, the trees arching over the road like a canopy as we sail along beneath, single file, each keeping our own counsel. At the end of the road and the top of the steepest hill: breakfast. Blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and wonderful coffee. Summer food, served outdoors. The picnic table with its broad green umbrella; the New York Times, sticky with syrup; old friends sitting across from us, telling the stories that always make us laugh. The voluptuous apricot day lilies with their pale yellow throats and lobed anthers, each ruffled bloom as sensual as a centerfold.
Sated, we ride through town to the pond, park the bikes, peel off shorts and sweaty tee shirts, swim out. Dark deep water, the silvered reflection of clouds on the still surface, the rim of trees along the far shore. Floating on my back, suspended in stillness with my face turned to the sun, I know exactly where I am: awake to this one moment of pure awareness. Inhabiting the impeccable, ephemeral present.
Later, by the white light of the computer, I read a friend’s email. This time, her chemo isn’t working.
All night I lie awake in bed, staring at a shadow on the ceiling and thinking about miracles. Who gets one? I wonder. And in the morning, I take books from the shelf, in search of a poem I read years ago, foretelling the future.
Otherwise
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candsticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
–Jane Kenyon
That hardest thing about knowing how good we have it is knowing how good we have it; you are lucky to be keenly aware of this fact. And to recognize the sweet of life, we have to have the bitter: we can’t taste one without the other.
I continue to be astonished with the kindred-ness (is that a word?) that I feel here … this has long been one of my favorite poems, and one I’ve written about before. I love Kenyon for her earthy evocation of her ordinary, rich life … her sturdy belief in the value of gratitude, and her haunting awareness of the loss and risk that hangs around the edges of every day. Wow, she sounds like another writer I love … yourself.
xo
What an awesome poem. After I gave birth to my daughter, my second child and fifth pregnancy, I was unable to walk and was wheelchair bound for one month due to a separated pelvis. I was unable to bathe myself and tend to the needs of my then very young family. I needed help getting dressed, toileting etc. And clearly, I recall the things I wanted to do most were the simple everyday things like wash the dishes, iron, put laundry away, sweep. I have a new perspective on life since then; one that very much echoes the words of the poem. Thank you for sharing.
This is lovely Katrina… So deeply rooted in gratitude. I once had a client tell me that she wished for a day that when she opened her eyes first thing in the AM– that it would not be her breast cancer that she thought of first. She further explained that she didn’t appreciate all the mornings before diagnosis that her first thoughts upon waking were of trivial things. Now 2 years out of her treatment she sounds more like this poem–grateful for it all. Thank you for sharing this. :+)RR
Thank you Katrina for sharing Jane Kenyon’s lovely poem. I had not read it before but it really underscores the sweetness in the everyday, ordinary moment. It reminds me of the Zen proverb, “Before enlightenment; chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment; chop wood, carry water.”
Sometimes I forget that the outside events don’t need to change to make me happy – I just need to change how I look at them and then I’m happy.
Blessings,
Donna Burick
http://www.wholelifecoachingenergytherapy.com
A beautiful poem – thank you for this gentle reminder.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Once again, thanks for your words, my friend.
Judy
justonefoot.blogspot.com
Katrina, Thank you for sharing your reflections, as always. What a beautiful bike ride you had–what a beautiful ride life can be. This poem "Otherwise" is one I will write out and keep close by. A good reminder to appreciate the present moment, to live in the now.
Thank you for sharing that poem. It says everything.
Amazing, a lesson well learned for me today. Thank you.
powerful. sweet & powerful. thanks for starting my day with good thoughts.