Dear friends,
I’m writing this letter from London — I was here last night for the paperback launch of the Poetry Unbound book. Many thanks to those who were able to come along; it was a delight to chat with you. (Also a delight to meet Hodge, the Actual Cathedral Cat who lives in, and mostly rules, Southwark Cathedral where the event took place. You can see the hand of Mark Oakley, a good friend and the Dean of the Cathedral, in the photo below. Hodge likes Mark but was Undecided about me.)
I associate London with strangers, mostly because in the 1990s I lived here for a few months and had memorable engagements with strangers. This was entirely due to a delicious and outrageous American colleague, Chicago Julie, who talked to anybody and everybody, on the Tube, on a bus, on the street. I’d go places with Julie just to hear what she’d say. “Is that your favourite coat?” she’d ask someone who was wearing a fetching colour on a grey January day in a busy city. “Do you prefer handkerchiefs to tissues?” she asked a bewildered man late one night on the Underground after he’d sneezed.
Another time, myself and another gullible volunteer were given the unenviable job of emptying multiple bins filled with the uneaten slops from a camp of a few hundred teenagers who’d objected to stew as the dinner choice. I was 21; my bin-emptying companion was 17. I know his age because yesterday we had a cup of coffee. He’s lived in London for many years, and we’ve been friends for almost 30 years now.
Any city — any place, really — is an opportunity for a conversation with a stranger. I had a lengthy conversation about Buddhism and sex with a former monk on a flight from Brisbane to Melbourne once. She gave position recommendations. Had I been straight, I’d have taken notes. The person in the seat in front of us got up, turned around, and knelt on his seat so as to bear witness to the anarchic wonder that was the former monk’s advice.
Strangers can be complicated, too. I had a long conversation about books and Irish language in a pub in Belfast once. When the conversation partner asked me about my work, I told him I was involved in peace and conflict projects. He grew angry, and projection flared. I wasn’t entirely surprised the exchange went that way. But I was overworked and underpaid — like most of us — and I’d enjoyed talking with him up to that point; I just wanted to get back to talking about books and the Irish language.
A few years ago we made a Poetry Unbound episode about Gregory Pardlo’s brilliant “Wishing Well” (here’s a link to hear me read the poem and a link to the entire episode on Apple Podcasts). I still get people coming up to me telling me they loved that episode, and then they tell me their stories about an encounter with a stranger in a city.
So that’s the invitation to you today: What’s a good, or good enough, encounter you had with a stranger? What happened? Where was it? What were you left with? What did you hear them say, or what did you say?
I say good, or good enough, knowing that many people have had encounters with strangers that are invasive or criminal, and whose effects last longer than the encounter. I’m sorry for those and offer respect and deep understanding for why you may prefer neither to comment or read the comments. Care of your own self is of utmost importance here, and I know that some prompts prompt stories you’d rather not recall or share.
One last story from me: In a Cork café once, I was reading an Anthony de Mello book titled Contact with God. (Its contents were far less certain than its presumptive title.) It was one of those cafés with long shared benches. I finished the book, closed it, and put it down. “Well,” the stranger opposite me said, “are you in contact with God now?” I laughed. He laughed. We spoke for half an hour — about the strangeness of religion, about music (he was a busker), and about reading. I will probably never re-read that book, but I saw it on my shelf the other day and recalled how the busker had attached his story to it. I may not have been in contact with God, but I was in contact with that fella. That was enough.
Friends, I’ll look forward to your stories: the endearing, the enduring, the awkward, the ambivalent.
Poetry in the World
April 15 at 6pm, Cleveland, Ohio, US
I’m giving a poetry reading in the Donahue Auditorium at John Carroll University. No registration needed; just show up.
April 19–21, Round Top, Texas, US
I’m delighted to be one of the featured poets at the Round Top Poetry festival. Information and tickets here.
May 14, Pittsburgh, PA, US
For you theologically interested folks, I’ll be speaking at the Festival of Homiletics. Info here.
May 17 at 2–4pm, Camden, Maine, US
I’ll be talking about the word “you” in poetry at the Camden Public Library. You can attend either in person or over Zoom.
May 24–26, Boone, North Carolina, US
I’m leading a a 48-hour Poetry Unbound retreat, where there will be poetry readings, responding to prompts, and sharing. Information and registration here.
June 27–July 7, Patmos, Greece
I’m one of the speakers at the 10-night “Journeying into Common Good” salon, together with Krista Tippett, Allison Russell, JT Nero, and Joe Henry. More details here.
I was in Rishikesh, India, when I twisted my ankle in a busy street. I was in a great deal of pain and sitting by the side walk alone. An old woman, a beggar who was crippled, whom I had seen a few days before and we had exchanged smiles, came forward from the crowd. She could hardly walk yet made her way to me with ease and sat down, her wrinkled weathered face looking at mine. Her smile was contagious. Pointing at my ankle, and nodding her head she questioned in a language I didn't understand but through her gestures made herself clear. I nodded back. and she took my ankle into her hands. I felt an instant calm and groundedness. She gently stroked and massaged my foot. After a short while, she pulled out her mobile phone and spoke hurriedly. Within about 10 minutes a man came running up and gave her some liniment oil which she proceeded to rub into my ankle. The strong 'tiger balm' smell cleared my head and within minutes that familiar cold heat soothed the pain. She continued to massage my ankle. She would not take payment for her 'treatment' nor for the oil which she gave to me to take home. I was very moved by her presence and care and generosity... and her skill of getting me out of pain and able to walk with ease. I can still see her face and feel her kindness. It brings me joy to share this story.
I wrote this after one of my volunteer visits...
I fall in love with strangers.
I’ve never met these people before.
The only thing I know is that they are dying.
I am a Hospice volunteer.
I sit with people who are “transitioning”,
so that they do not have to die alone.
To sit with someone at this threshold
is sacred ground.
I am honored and humbled,
every time.
I sit.
I pray.
I chant softly.
I empty myself.
I see that in the end,
we all really are the same.
All that really matters,
all that has ever mattered,
is Love.
I know nothing about this person in life,
but I say, “I love you.”
when I say my final “Good-by.”
I can’t help it,
it just comes out.
The threshold of death
offers wisdom beyond words.
It is in the silence of souls transitioning
that I have learned more than I can express.
I thought I was serving them, but
these souls have taught me more.
Sometimes when I get home,
I weep,
not necessarily from sadness,
but from gratitude
for life and wonder and grace.