Feb 5, 2023·edited Feb 5, 2023Liked by Pádraig Ó Tuama
I think the movement from I to Thou, here to there, sorrow to song, wave within me to wave that transcends me- a wave of feeling and being that carries the first wave of sorrow back to another shoreline of being is something I feel and hear and relate to in this poem. Everyday or as often as possible I go down to the beach for what I call my medicine walk. It has become a daily ritual and kind of meditation practice. The other day when I went for my medicine walk I jotted down the following little poem. I am reminded of it as I read the poem and reflection you have shared today. Perhaps in kindred spirit you may enjoy. The poem is simply two lines:
Four breaths in and out - brings to mind a sentence in Ilia Delio's book, Ten Evenings with God: "Prayer, therefore, is God's desire to breathe in me, to be the spirit in my life, to draw me into the fullness of life. When I pray - when I breathe with God - I become part of the intimacy of God's life.”
Rarely do I appreciate the automatic nature of my breath. In fact when I really think about it I am only one breath away from having no breath. In watching my father and wonderful dog, Pepper, take their last breaths it was remarkable how still and peaceful each looked when the breath was no more within them. I remember thinking, especially with my dog, what a challenge it was to continue breathing and how, when he stopped, I knew he was at peace.
Thank you for reminding me how important my breath is and this leads to appreciation for my body as well!
"Do not drown me now:" speaks to me -- with the colon opening up an alternative, and the juxtaposition of "Take me there".
A little while ago, a friend with the same underresearched illness I have chose assisted suicide. She was drowned by the hopelessness of the lack of medical care and perspective.
Holding my grief for her is hard -- it brings up so much, and my body is too weak to carry such heavy emotions.
The poem changes the direction of grief from something heavy that pulls downwards into a forward movement.
Maybe I can carry this grief if I let it take me forward, advocating for better care for others like us.
Grief has its own momentum, which I can feel and be carried by if I relinquish control and accept movement and change, whether in my personal losses or the work against white supremacy.
"Wave of sorrow./Take me there" reminds me of the opening lines of "Cutting Loose" by William Stafford, a poet from the American Great Plains:
"Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason/ you sing"
Hughes and Stafford both capture the truth carried in the crest of a wave — the tension of water dancing at the edge of sea and shore, at the intersection of salt tears and solid ground. Only by remaining still in that equipoise, trusting it, can I rise.
Often, I fail to trust in that stillness, to grip too tightly, to find myself dashed to the rocks. But then along comes another wave, another opportunity to practice.
I am in a season of parenting, of motherhood, with 3 young boys. It is often chaotic and beautiful, and it can be easy to feel smothered under the little things. I am a creative soul and feel that, in the last couple of years, I am emerging from this place of giving myself away to giving to myself again. My island, emerging.
"I see the island/And its sands are fair/Wave of sorrow/Take me there" I love these lines of the poem because I feel hope. No matter how bad things are or what one is carrying in this season of life, this poem gives a hopeful feeling. Calm after the storm. Padraig, thank you! I may use it as a breathing meditation. Happy Sunday.❤️
"Somehow" is the word that strikes me most. Somehow the speaker can still see the island - a solid piece of ground in the middle of a turbulent sea. It's a word I've never thought much about it, but here it is, a word of mystery, of hope, of faith. Who knows how or why the island is there, beckoning and offering its life-giving shore. But there it is turning abject despair into longing into possibility. I have loved this poem for years. Thanks for offering it to me again.
Thank you for guiding us to Island. Your response to this deep poem and others in Poetry Unbound always enriches. Because your thoughts are enough, I feel no urge to add my two cents. But because you ask, I will say that I hear this poem as a hymn—a hymn to sing alone or in unison. Individually and together, somehow, we lament with hope.
Of the grief work I've done with myself and others, I've experienced how resistant we are to feel our grief wash over our bodies, and then we so often exacerbate everything.
I love in this poem how grief takes us places. We don't just stay stuck in our pain. I like to believe that the wave of grief takes us to a place of healing if we allow her, and to a deeper sense of ourselves and others
“Wave of sorrow”... that the grief is what stands between you and the island of fair sands and it is what takes you to the island. Grief, so often pushed aside, misunderstood as obstacle and orphan, weakness and warning, is moving us toward something indeterminate but desired, as mysterious and shifting as life.
This beautiful poem has helped me realize two things. One is that the fair sands of the island are still there for me. Secondly, the losses I’ve felt will not drown me. The sorrow I had when my wife left me was extreme. Ten years later, I’ve been carried to a beautiful island of love and caring.
Ah, to your question. Mr. Hughes helps me accept sorrow deep down. But not let it linger for longer than it’s welcome. To know the island is still somehow ahead.
“Do not drown me now” gripped me so viscerally, as I currently am “trying to stay afloat” in circumstances that feel very ungrounding, uprooting, and also unfair. While on the one hand that line feels like a statement of prayer, to me it also feels like one of resolve. In “Do not drown me now,” I hear “I will not drown now.” I will not drown now. I will not drown now. I will not drown now ....
And the last lines:
“Waves of sorrow
take me there”
did it for me! It shifted the feeling in me from “I need to get out of this awful feeling and arrive at those fair sands yesterday” to “Okay. Here you are. This very sorrow. This pain. This very suffering, Mon, it is carrying you there.” These words brought me into a feeling of a kind of liberating acceptance of the present moment - these waves of sorrow, a liberating patience, as I am carried by these waves that have their own time, and a liberating faith, the sun will rise again. Though it says “take me there” I hear “It will take me there.” So deeply reassuring.... like a mantra to help carry me to the other side. Thank you so much Pádraig for sharing this beautiful Langston Hughes!
Just reading Father Richard Rohr's daily message from The Center for Action and Contemplation and he askes, "How can we breathe together a kind of wisdom, a kind of what we hope is goodness for the world?" Love the question!
I think the movement from I to Thou, here to there, sorrow to song, wave within me to wave that transcends me- a wave of feeling and being that carries the first wave of sorrow back to another shoreline of being is something I feel and hear and relate to in this poem. Everyday or as often as possible I go down to the beach for what I call my medicine walk. It has become a daily ritual and kind of meditation practice. The other day when I went for my medicine walk I jotted down the following little poem. I am reminded of it as I read the poem and reflection you have shared today. Perhaps in kindred spirit you may enjoy. The poem is simply two lines:
“I left home alone
and returned
accompanied by the universe”
Four breaths in and out - brings to mind a sentence in Ilia Delio's book, Ten Evenings with God: "Prayer, therefore, is God's desire to breathe in me, to be the spirit in my life, to draw me into the fullness of life. When I pray - when I breathe with God - I become part of the intimacy of God's life.”
Rarely do I appreciate the automatic nature of my breath. In fact when I really think about it I am only one breath away from having no breath. In watching my father and wonderful dog, Pepper, take their last breaths it was remarkable how still and peaceful each looked when the breath was no more within them. I remember thinking, especially with my dog, what a challenge it was to continue breathing and how, when he stopped, I knew he was at peace.
Thank you for reminding me how important my breath is and this leads to appreciation for my body as well!
"Do not drown me now:" speaks to me -- with the colon opening up an alternative, and the juxtaposition of "Take me there".
A little while ago, a friend with the same underresearched illness I have chose assisted suicide. She was drowned by the hopelessness of the lack of medical care and perspective.
Holding my grief for her is hard -- it brings up so much, and my body is too weak to carry such heavy emotions.
The poem changes the direction of grief from something heavy that pulls downwards into a forward movement.
Maybe I can carry this grief if I let it take me forward, advocating for better care for others like us.
“Waves of sorrow
take me there.”
Grief has its own momentum, which I can feel and be carried by if I relinquish control and accept movement and change, whether in my personal losses or the work against white supremacy.
"Wave of sorrow./Take me there" reminds me of the opening lines of "Cutting Loose" by William Stafford, a poet from the American Great Plains:
"Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason/ you sing"
Hughes and Stafford both capture the truth carried in the crest of a wave — the tension of water dancing at the edge of sea and shore, at the intersection of salt tears and solid ground. Only by remaining still in that equipoise, trusting it, can I rise.
Often, I fail to trust in that stillness, to grip too tightly, to find myself dashed to the rocks. But then along comes another wave, another opportunity to practice.
"I see the island
Still ahead somehow."
I am in a season of parenting, of motherhood, with 3 young boys. It is often chaotic and beautiful, and it can be easy to feel smothered under the little things. I am a creative soul and feel that, in the last couple of years, I am emerging from this place of giving myself away to giving to myself again. My island, emerging.
"I see the island/And its sands are fair/Wave of sorrow/Take me there" I love these lines of the poem because I feel hope. No matter how bad things are or what one is carrying in this season of life, this poem gives a hopeful feeling. Calm after the storm. Padraig, thank you! I may use it as a breathing meditation. Happy Sunday.❤️
"Somehow" is the word that strikes me most. Somehow the speaker can still see the island - a solid piece of ground in the middle of a turbulent sea. It's a word I've never thought much about it, but here it is, a word of mystery, of hope, of faith. Who knows how or why the island is there, beckoning and offering its life-giving shore. But there it is turning abject despair into longing into possibility. I have loved this poem for years. Thanks for offering it to me again.
Dear Pádraig,
Thank you for guiding us to Island. Your response to this deep poem and others in Poetry Unbound always enriches. Because your thoughts are enough, I feel no urge to add my two cents. But because you ask, I will say that I hear this poem as a hymn—a hymn to sing alone or in unison. Individually and together, somehow, we lament with hope.
Blessings,
Kathleen
“Wave of sorrow
Take me there.”
Of the grief work I've done with myself and others, I've experienced how resistant we are to feel our grief wash over our bodies, and then we so often exacerbate everything.
I love in this poem how grief takes us places. We don't just stay stuck in our pain. I like to believe that the wave of grief takes us to a place of healing if we allow her, and to a deeper sense of ourselves and others
“Still ahead somehow”
the somehow. the willing to believe.
to still buy the suit for Easter and relinquish it before the 4th of July. and still go on.
Thank you always, Padraig. Truly.
“Wave of sorrow”... that the grief is what stands between you and the island of fair sands and it is what takes you to the island. Grief, so often pushed aside, misunderstood as obstacle and orphan, weakness and warning, is moving us toward something indeterminate but desired, as mysterious and shifting as life.
This beautiful poem has helped me realize two things. One is that the fair sands of the island are still there for me. Secondly, the losses I’ve felt will not drown me. The sorrow I had when my wife left me was extreme. Ten years later, I’ve been carried to a beautiful island of love and caring.
Ah, to your question. Mr. Hughes helps me accept sorrow deep down. But not let it linger for longer than it’s welcome. To know the island is still somehow ahead.
“Do not drown me now” gripped me so viscerally, as I currently am “trying to stay afloat” in circumstances that feel very ungrounding, uprooting, and also unfair. While on the one hand that line feels like a statement of prayer, to me it also feels like one of resolve. In “Do not drown me now,” I hear “I will not drown now.” I will not drown now. I will not drown now. I will not drown now ....
And the last lines:
“Waves of sorrow
take me there”
did it for me! It shifted the feeling in me from “I need to get out of this awful feeling and arrive at those fair sands yesterday” to “Okay. Here you are. This very sorrow. This pain. This very suffering, Mon, it is carrying you there.” These words brought me into a feeling of a kind of liberating acceptance of the present moment - these waves of sorrow, a liberating patience, as I am carried by these waves that have their own time, and a liberating faith, the sun will rise again. Though it says “take me there” I hear “It will take me there.” So deeply reassuring.... like a mantra to help carry me to the other side. Thank you so much Pádraig for sharing this beautiful Langston Hughes!
Just reading Father Richard Rohr's daily message from The Center for Action and Contemplation and he askes, "How can we breathe together a kind of wisdom, a kind of what we hope is goodness for the world?" Love the question!