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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”

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Oh that is so beautiful Heidi. Thank you.

And it's 17 syllables - a deliberate (or accidental) Haiku, in conversation with that form across centuries.

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Another little haiku( maybe) came to mind on my medicine walk yesterday. I started my walk feeling a bit heavy hearted and anxious but felt much better by the end. Here is the little poem fragment or haiku I am referring to. It had a few extra syllables to begin with but I paired it down to seventeen. Here it is ( for what it’s worth)

I hope you enjoy.

Heart trembles, Earth heaves

Sorrow sighs, Waves lap

Ocean sings, God’s lullaby

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Thank you so much Padraig: it is a joy to be in conversation and delight to discover that the little thought I shared is a Haiku. That enlarges the conversation the poem is a part, makes me more curious to explore other Haiku and to wonder about the meeting of culturally diverse traditions of thought in poetic expressions and testaments of human experience and encounter.

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...and to think, we can do this and know this every day. There in lies such hope! Thanks, Heidi.

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This possibility is an amazing gift and grace. Thank you John.

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The Medicine Walk - beautiful concept. I will remember it on my daily walk through our neighborhood. Your poem is lovely.

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Thank you so much Phil- that is very kind of you to say and share.

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That's how a lot of poems came to me, while walking, absorbing all the sights and sounds around me, all the invisible vibrations I'm passing through; to see what signals my internal radio antenna (i.e. mind) would pick up. Then, it got to be commuter train rides, but those "poems" were generally unhappy ones given what that routine was all about - the monotony of going to a day job I didn't like.

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Thank you for sharing your insights in this close reading, and in your own powerful poem. ♥️

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Thank you. That is so kind of you to say and share.

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One’s True Nature always found in Nature. To return there, where we resonate the most, is renewing. Heidi, thanks for the reminder and for your reflection and love two line poem. It landed on my heart softly this morning.

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Thank you so much Kert. I am very glad the little poem and reflection landed gently in your day dreaming this morning.

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Beautiful poem! Thank you for sharing it

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Thank you for taking time to read and reflect.

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And what a two lines they are! Thank-you!

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Thank you Chris!

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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!

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"...I am only one breath away from having no breath." Wow! This is profound. Thanks, Theresa, for your inspiring post. (As I write this, I realize the word "inspire," comes from a Latin word meaning "breathe")

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What power in your words, Theresa - and what stories of good (although mourned, I know) deaths these are that you bring to us. Thank you.

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Beautiful, Theresa. That quote from Ilia Delio...

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I actually sighed after reading this. 😌

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Just lovely. Thank you.

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This is beautiful, Theresa. Thank you for sharing and it is a good reminder for me, as well.

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"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.

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Oh thank you for sharing here. Yes - the grief is powerful after this. I hope that there are others - and poems too - who can help carry the heavy emotions, in the important work you do as you do the living work of grieving - "this is what the living do" as Marie Howe says - and advocate, as well as be advocated for. Thank you for sharing.

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This is one of my favorite poems about grieving by Jack Gilbert: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43407/michiko-dead

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Thank you so much for sharing. This is beautiful.

I'm sorry it took me so long to reply; I guess the box of grief was getting too heavy for a bit so that I needed to try and take a break from tending to it.

It's a beautiful poem and a powerful image. Thank you.

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So sorry you have such a heavy box to carry. I do pray for you that one day you get to put it down.

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Thank you so much, Pádraig; I appreciate it. I'm sorry I'm so late to reply -- the grief was getting too overwhelming for a bit. It can be that way when it's mirrored by others -- those moments when it feels safe enough to break down. So it took me a bit to be able to reply.

It's hard when it's such a tricky balance between what grief I can carry both emotionally and physically, when my body rebels when I allow myself to cry. But yes, I have good companions on this journey, and I'm very grateful for that. In a way, you, and Poetry Unbound, are a companion, too. Thank you for that.

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Thank you, tbd, and I'm sorry for your loss. I too recently lost another friend to suicide. My illness is not physical, I have a highly researched mental illness. Nonetheless, I very much appreciate your reflection on the force vector of grief changing from one of gravitational pull to one of forward momentum. I'll hope that the forward momentum also provides buoyancy for you.

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I'm so sorry for your loss, too, and for what you're going through. Thank you for your words. I'm hoping for buoyancy for you, too.

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that is so beautiful and insightful and open - that the direction of grief can change “from something heavy that pulls downward into a forward movement.” Such a beautiful way of putting it. I can feel the energetic shift just reading those words. I join you in this forward wave towards better care for you and others.

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This is beautiful and brave--this turning of grief from a burden for your body into something you embody, instead. I hope you can find your breath there. Thank you for sharing this.

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“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.

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And god-speed in that work, Tammerie. Never lose your faith that your effort to work against bigotry, hatred, and racism don’t cause a ripple in the surface waters of our world. Before long, you’ll get to look behind you and see the wonderful wake you are leaving behind—a wake that, by definition, changes the world.

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I love that - "grief has it's own momentum."

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So true, Tammerie...

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"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.

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Oh I had forgotten about that line, Jeffrey. I have always loved the seeming nonchalance of "for no reason" - what simple words, what reflection it takes to write them. Thanks for sharing it here.

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Salt in the seawater that rhythmically bathes and washes the shore and salt from tears flowing in rivulets--thank you for helping me see this connection in the poem.

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Ahh...a favorite poem, and poet. ♥️

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You put this so beautifully, Jeffrey. Thank you.

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"Trust in that stillness"...I think you've got something, there.

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"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.

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Such words you use, Jessica - smothered experiences and the necessity of creativity. I am so moved to see what you wrote - the emerging, the giving to yourself again. Thank you.

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Love this Jessica! Motherhood…YES! So many waves there. It feels like the Divine Feminine in you is guiding your soul right now…and you are listening. Thanks for sharing your experience and for your vulnerability. Parenthood, if done well and right, is hard. SHOULD be hard.

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"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.❤️

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Ah, I'm glad you might have turned towards it as a breathing meditation.

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Hope is such a powerful and necessary force!

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"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.

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Thanks Thayer. The 'somehow' is, for me too, a word that I always think about, and feel. There is such bewilderment in it, and other emotions too. Thank you.

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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

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“Lament with hope, ” surely a soulful prompt for more porms

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ah thanks Kathleen - what kindness you write here.

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“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

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Yes, the direction of the poem is one of extraordinary determination; and the emotional truth of the poem is one of sympathy and kindness too. How he manages to do that so elegantly and simply is a testament to his skill. Thanks Ben.

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Wonderful. Yes. I was once told to let go of my suffering. This poem reminds me that the way to let go of it is to allow it.

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True words, Lisa. Beautifully said, "the way to let go of it is to allow it." Your few words spark a gentle, but bright epiphany.

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I agree and have used that sentiment...

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“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.

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"to still buy the suit for Easter and relinquish it before the 4th of July. and still go on." I'll ponder that for the rest of the day.

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thank you for your thoughtfulness.🌱

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Yes. Same for me. That sense of confusion and, as Pádraig said “bewilderment”. I also agree with Paul. Thank you for pointing that out.

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Mr. Hughes so generously allows us to experience lives that are the backbone of society. People that do the work. They deserve better.🌱

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“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.

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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.

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Thank you for sharing here Lee -- the sorrow and the sands, the still there of experience; and the recognition that the voice of desire is one that is not drowning. Thank you.

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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.

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Yes, it reminds me of a Mary Oliver poem, The Uses of Sorrow,

"Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand

that this, too, was a gift."

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Thanks Jessica for sharing. When I first read that Mary Oliver poem years ago, after going through a painful divorce, it hit me so hard with YES.

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Mona, it was the same for me during a divorce! It was so needed for me at that time. I've never forgotten it.

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ahhhhhh. fellow traveler of that path! it was a gift to have received this poem at the time, and in a different context, on this day too. maybe I can find a YES in me right now too. thank you for sharing. 🙏🏾

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Yes, that verb 'linger' - there's such wisdom in that Katharine.

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“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!

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Ah thanks for this Mona - and the wave/waves; sometimes I think our misreading of a poem is an invitation into hearing all the things the poem implies, but hasn't said. There is such kindness in this poem, and your reflection is a powerful one.

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Ooops. I just realized the last line is the singular “wave” not plural “waves.” Sorry Langston Hughes for misquoting! I think I reverted to the phrase I think of “waves” but actually the singular “wave” gives me an even stronger feeling of faith/hope/trust...

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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!

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