the FORGOTTEN DIALECT OF THE HEART | JACK GILBERT

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.

poem spotted in this perfect corner of the internet

On The Event of the 10 Year Reunion | Sam Shorey

Sam is one of my favorite people in the world. I cannot overstate this. I always wish I had more time with her. And I always wish she wrote more because she has an exceptional mind (but something about being busy with getting her PhD). So when she posted this yesterday I immediately asked if I could share:

At 18, I had some pretty big dreams. I think we all did then. And, there was a clear next step for how to get there. We wouldn’t feel those well now what? feelings until 4 years later, until the next graduation – until the world unleashed us into a job market decimated by a financial crisis (thanks for that.) Until we realized that you can do everything right, do all the things your english composition teacher set out for you to do, and still come up empty handed. Even if it was only for a little while, it shakes a person. I know it shook me. I don’t know if I’ll ever lose the deep need I feel for stability, the sense of urgency I feel to snatch every opportunity, and a weird kind of conservatism that makes me stay in just-alright situations a little longer than I need to or probably should. Somewhere deep inside me there is a nagging fear that there might not be something else.

As it turns out .... real life, grown up, adult life is hard. Like, really hard. The big stuff. Rent is too damn high. Marriage is a continual recommitment (and being single in the era of Tinder sucks.) As they grow older, we have to start parenting our parents. People we love start to die. 

There are a lot of pieces to be a functioning adult that are so obvious, but I never realized would be so impossibly hard. Finding a place to live, finding a partner, finding time to get your teeth cleaned. 

But what I really didn’t expect is that it would take a super human level of energy and tenacity just to get through the day. To do the tiny, life sustaining stuff. Like cooking dinner. Like making it to the post office in time to mail bills. 

And the trouble is … this work is invisible. We don’t ever see it. We don’t ever give ourselves credit for it. And we rarely applaud each other for it either. 

There is no bridal shower or promotion party or Pulitzer Prize for doing the laundry. 

Lately when someone accomplishes something really big – when they write a book or have a baby – I can’t help but be filled with wonder. Not just because it’s a tremendous accomplishment. But because they managed to do that on top of the endless list of daily a banalities we all face. Like: you wrote a book and you picked up your birth control prescription?! Just, wow. 

So here we are 10 years later, and I’d like to ask everyone to treat each other and to treat ourselves more gently – the way you would something that is fragile and necessary. Because the way we all keep getting up everyday, and keep making a go of this life, it's amazing. It’s an accomplishment that takes everything we’ve got. 

Also a tiny note: if you have sent an email recently and I haven't responded, I really apologize. It is on my to-do list--that, I promise!

MY MANHATTAN // 07.22.15

Here is what I believe:

That wanting is beautiful. As is needing. As is grief and hope and heartbreak. 

That to live life well is to walk away with a mess on one's hands. Dirt and earth and fresh berries and love.

And to give kindness away, hard as that often is, hurt as we may be.

Oh yeah, and this: If you can't sign your name to what you have to say, well then you don't actually get to say it. Because that's the thing about Oz, he's just a small man behind a heavy curtain. 

7.21.15

Olives. And cheese. A small home with white walls and wood floors. Music. A record player in the corner. Large windows that open. Somewhere with seasons. The ocean. Leaves turning. Framed photos. Flowers in bloom. Freshly cut grass. The blue of an October sky. Large sweaters and open palms.

This is my prayer.