I go for a run before dawn
in a city I do not know.
In time, the sun presses down,
a pink sheet above the thickening fog.
In time, there is a bridge, a creek,
corn husks stooping in the wind,
a train track,
a boy breathing heavily
beside me on his bike.
The train’s coming,
he says solemnly.
You'd better wait with me.
I don't know why I do what he says,
but when I stop, he clambers off
his too-tall bike, leans it against his hip,
puts his hands in his pockets,
then smiles up at me.
How do you know?
I ask, looking North, then South,
and seeing nothing.
I’ve lived here all my life, he says.
Besides, you’ll hear it first.
I wait with him, even though, by now,
I could be rounding on another mile.
A black cat steps gingerly over the tracks,
rubs against his ankle.
He bends to scratch her neck,
Then lifts and presses her body
against his chest. She goes limp there.
Sure enough,
the train’s whistle shrieks long before
I see the engine.
The cars rush by,
the weight of their hurry
no match for our patience.
The boy stands silent, alert,
almost reverent.
The whistle sounds again
and at last we watch the caboose
grind out of sight.
The cat, released,
runs into the rustling corn.
I come here every morning
so the train won’t run her over,
he says. And then he mounts his bike,
waves goodbye.
When I turn, the sun
has burned off the fog.
I head back
toward the heart of the city
while he pumps on,
away from me,
as if chasing the flat field
left fallow this year.
I wonder
on this, the hardest day of my life,
who will end up
wounding him,
what he will do when everything
is lost
but also
what precious, small thing
will he save next,
what good work
will his gentle hands
go on, despite everything,
to do in this world?
---
I don't believe in addendums to poems, but nevertheless, I feel compelled to say just a bit more about why this poem shows up as part of my Advent series reflecting on joy.
This is a true story. I wrote this poem a little more than a year ago, soon after the incident happened, and had forgotten it, but rediscovered it quite by accident yesterday afternoon. Since then, I've been slowly and meditatively revising it between meetings and the day-to-day craziness that is my life. It may not be finished, but it's ready for this series.
The first week of Advent is traditionally dedicated to vigilance--waiting--and to hope. One thing I have learned about joy is that it can only be experienced if we are willing to be fully attentive to our lives. It is possible to access joy even in moments of deepest pain if we are dedicated to being truly present.
But, cultivating the soil of our souls so that joy can grow is necessary. When I think about this day, I think about all the decisions I could have made that would have changed the way the story went. I don't want to share the details of what was happening, but suffice to say, I was experiencing intense grief and anger. I was going to have to do something I dreaded, something that could impact people I loved for the rest of their lives.
I might have decided to stay in bed, under the covers, until it was time to do what I had to do. Instead, I chose to get up early. I knew I needed to have some time alone, and to run, which is the only way I can be present with the Divine if I am restless, angry, or in deep pain. I chose to take care of my body.
When the boy showed up, I could have ignored him. Surely I could have made it across the track in the more than 10 minutes we ended up standing there beside one another. Why did I stop because a little boy told me I should?
Even if I had decided to stop, I could have become annoyed when the train didn't arrive right away. Instead, I found myself breathing, aware that this was exactly where I was supposed to be. Somehow, I had a premonition that something holy was going to happen. And, I could have seen his moment of holding the cat to his chest, and what he said afterwards, as a cute/strange/funny little moment rather than life-giving story it turned out to be.
Finally, when he biked away and I felt the profound sadness about how he would inevitably be wounded later, how his tender heart would be forced to harden--I could have stayed there, feeling afraid for him. But instead I let my mind and heart open to another possibility--that his tender heart would guide him forever, even though he would inevitably be wounded.
I know for sure after being with the word joy in this year of tremendous collective pain that perspective matters. But that doesn't mean we ignore the wounds that have been and are and will continue to be and will come later--personal or collective. If we truly give our pain attention rather than checking out, we will also be surprised by what else we see--the whole story, which almost always includes joy as well as pain.
The last two stanzas, in this case, are the whole story.
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