Oct 23, 2022·edited Oct 23, 2022Liked by Pádraig Ó Tuama
hallo padraig!!
thank you for being you and sharing your words with the world…..
when i was a vet tech student, i did an internship at a nyc university inside their comparative medicine unit where they experimented on animals. rats being a favorite (aside - one of my fav books - flowers for algernon) i saw - with young, sensitive eyes, much unnecessary suffering. i grabbed a handful of newborn baby rats, hid them in my scrub pockets, and left early (feigning sickness) all but two died on the subway ride back to my apt. i was syringe feeding them thru the night, and watched as their tiny pink flesh turned blue, then black then green. i named them carbon and monoxide - only
to lose them to the drugs they had given to the mama.
i do not want new eyes - i want to give my eyes to others - so they, too, can see
Simon Ortiz' poem "Culture and the Universe", especially these last lines, helped me embrace stepping into the unknown fearlessly and helping my students do the same.
This past year has been a brutal experience of rejection, loss, and grief (and awakening, but that part is still fragile). A dear friend handed me Wendell Berry’s poem “Do not be ashamed” in the depths of my experience of both being cast out and hunted.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
when their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them: “I am not ashamed.“ A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop. 
This poem assured me of my intuitive response of honestly refusing to be ashamed and then invited me to step towards a horizon... told me that there was a horizon to walk towards. I could breathe again and look up instead of my gaze only cast down.
See you in Rhinebeck, Padraig. I’m driving up this morning. Thank you for assuring me that there is shelter somewhere, and that you would meet me there. I am beyond grateful.
Your ask reminds me of a quote by Marcel Proust, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” So I’ll be carrying that notion into my week ahead.
David (above) mentioned wanting to see the dementia of a loved one with new eyes... and that would be helpful for me as well... My dad, who was a pilot for many years, has lost context and words and the names of his children, but he can look in the sky, see a plane, and exclaim how much he really likes that.
Perhaps I’ll look for random planes this week and think of the joy of my dad’s exuberance.
The most ordinary thing in any ordinary day, by giving the flame of imagination and creativity space. I find William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow" very illustrative of this:
I would like to see the cold and winter with new eyes. I often see the beauty of the trees and sky during that time of year and the coziness but the cold….
A “poem” that radically changed how I think of something is David Whyte’s consideration of “denial”. He states: “Denial is an ever present and even splendid thing when seen in the light of its merciful and elemental powers to cradle and hold an identity until it is ready to move on.”
All the things of daily life that don’t operate the way they are supposed to…appliances, websites, procedures, the mail, drivers. I’m probably relatively tolerant of these things but it would be lovely to see them in a whole new (positive) light. Thanks for asking, Padraig!
To those writing here about seeing pain and loss with new eyes: I recently read the book Bittersweet by Susan Cain. In a chapter, she writes anonymous words found on the back of a place card she once picked up in a “melancholy salon” produced by Tim Leberecht: “Those who let their eyes adjust can see in the darkness.” I wish I could attribute these to the author, and Tim said he could not attribute, but how beautiful. Later in her book, she writes “Your loved one may not be here anymore, but manifestations live forever.” I found these lines very helpful and recommend her lovely book. Thank you, Padraig, for starting these thought communions!
I wish I could see my Self, at 67 and about to lose my partner to cancer, with fresh eyes and fresh opportunities...over the horizon of grief what will there be?
Yesterday I drove my former boss (we are both retired) down into Chicago from the suburbs so she could be honored at the College where we both used to work. As we left the building, a rat ran around a planter and she commented that Chicago has the most rats of any urban environment with New York coming in second. (I have no idea who figures things like that out or the metric they use). I had not been back to the College for some years as I had been caring for my increasingly ill wife of 44 years who died this last February. It was lovely to go back and be greeted by old friends (even the rat seemed somehow relatively benign). In terms of new eyes, I think those are growing in gradually... The idea that 'time heals all wounds' is, of course, a lie we tell ourselves and others. Initially grief cuts your hands and heart when you hold it and you bleed rather a lot. The grief doesn't leave, but over time, we learn to hold it less tightly (most of the time) and we develop different ways of 'seeing' ourselves, our circumstances and the world around us. New eyes indeed. It is rather like sitting in a newly-empty house, putting it in order, locking the door and walking down to the harbor to board a clipper bound for some new place. Each step a mixture of weeping and gratitude - and each wave a new possibility.
Here is an opportunity for you to see rats as talented heroes that help children play freely without fear of being blown up. Think of the potential in those subway wells!
Oct 23, 2022·edited Oct 23, 2022Liked by Pádraig Ó Tuama
I love how D.S Waldman describes those flickerings of dots and lines you see when your eyes are shut tight, I had never known that there was a name for it.
'Close your eyes. You might see, spreading against the black backs of your eyelids, flared little patterns of light called phosphenes. Squeeze your eyes tighter-shut: maybe the light gets brighter. Now relax: watch the shapes fade. Some would say, the inherent electrical charges the retina produces while at rest. Others, an experience of light in the total absence of light.'
D.S. Waldman 'A Poetics of Failure: On the Truths That Lie Between Words' from Lithub.com. August 15, 2022.
A poem that changed my life: The Journey, Mary Oliver. Profound. And also, we had a rat living in our backyard for awhile. Cute little creature. Subway rats, not su much. But in the weird ecosystem of the subway, they serve a purpose I imagine. Someway of maintaining balance?
I guess my response is different...I wrote out how Marie Howe's poem "What the Living Do" helped me see my life with new eyes.
Since I can remember, using color, line, shape to capture what I see, feel, think felt like living to me - working out a color theory problem, painting a giant sycamore tree or drawing gestures of people at a cafe - these are a little bit of heaven right here on earth. But without the resources or time to develop my passion, I used those activities as a carrot dangling from a very long stick. When the kids are asleep, the oven cleaned, the dishes done, the big project at work completed - then I can draw, paint - then I can live. But life was busy and "living" was always in the future dangling from that long stick.
Then I listened to Krista's interview with poet Marie Howe...like me, she had been raised Catholic and I was curious about her poems. On NPR, I discovered her poem "What the Living Do" written to her brother, Johnny, who had died of Aids at a very early age.
"What the Living Do" by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
This poem changed how I saw my life...yes, I delight in drawing and painting, but after hearing this poem, I realized how much I had missed focused on those few rare moments...cleaning the oven, washing dishes, working on a big project - this is what the living do and now I can notice the small things (even the BIG ones) that make up my life and be grateful.
I would like to see a loved one’s dementia with new eyes. Can you help me?
hallo padraig!!
thank you for being you and sharing your words with the world…..
when i was a vet tech student, i did an internship at a nyc university inside their comparative medicine unit where they experimented on animals. rats being a favorite (aside - one of my fav books - flowers for algernon) i saw - with young, sensitive eyes, much unnecessary suffering. i grabbed a handful of newborn baby rats, hid them in my scrub pockets, and left early (feigning sickness) all but two died on the subway ride back to my apt. i was syringe feeding them thru the night, and watched as their tiny pink flesh turned blue, then black then green. i named them carbon and monoxide - only
to lose them to the drugs they had given to the mama.
i do not want new eyes - i want to give my eyes to others - so they, too, can see
all the bruises humans have inflicted on
- oh so many -living things.
Simon Ortiz' poem "Culture and the Universe", especially these last lines, helped me embrace stepping into the unknown fearlessly and helping my students do the same.
"It’s not humankind after all
nor is it culture
that limits us.
It is the vastness
we do not enter.
It is the stars
we do not let own us."
Simon Ortiz, “Culture and the Universe” from Out There Somewhere. Copyright © 2002
This past year has been a brutal experience of rejection, loss, and grief (and awakening, but that part is still fragile). A dear friend handed me Wendell Berry’s poem “Do not be ashamed” in the depths of my experience of both being cast out and hunted.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
when their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them: “I am not ashamed.“ A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop. 
This poem assured me of my intuitive response of honestly refusing to be ashamed and then invited me to step towards a horizon... told me that there was a horizon to walk towards. I could breathe again and look up instead of my gaze only cast down.
See you in Rhinebeck, Padraig. I’m driving up this morning. Thank you for assuring me that there is shelter somewhere, and that you would meet me there. I am beyond grateful.
Your ask reminds me of a quote by Marcel Proust, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” So I’ll be carrying that notion into my week ahead.
David (above) mentioned wanting to see the dementia of a loved one with new eyes... and that would be helpful for me as well... My dad, who was a pilot for many years, has lost context and words and the names of his children, but he can look in the sky, see a plane, and exclaim how much he really likes that.
Perhaps I’ll look for random planes this week and think of the joy of my dad’s exuberance.
The most ordinary thing in any ordinary day, by giving the flame of imagination and creativity space. I find William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow" very illustrative of this:
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
I would like to see the cold and winter with new eyes. I often see the beauty of the trees and sky during that time of year and the coziness but the cold….
A “poem” that radically changed how I think of something is David Whyte’s consideration of “denial”. He states: “Denial is an ever present and even splendid thing when seen in the light of its merciful and elemental powers to cradle and hold an identity until it is ready to move on.”
All the things of daily life that don’t operate the way they are supposed to…appliances, websites, procedures, the mail, drivers. I’m probably relatively tolerant of these things but it would be lovely to see them in a whole new (positive) light. Thanks for asking, Padraig!
To those writing here about seeing pain and loss with new eyes: I recently read the book Bittersweet by Susan Cain. In a chapter, she writes anonymous words found on the back of a place card she once picked up in a “melancholy salon” produced by Tim Leberecht: “Those who let their eyes adjust can see in the darkness.” I wish I could attribute these to the author, and Tim said he could not attribute, but how beautiful. Later in her book, she writes “Your loved one may not be here anymore, but manifestations live forever.” I found these lines very helpful and recommend her lovely book. Thank you, Padraig, for starting these thought communions!
I wish I could see my Self, at 67 and about to lose my partner to cancer, with fresh eyes and fresh opportunities...over the horizon of grief what will there be?
Yesterday I drove my former boss (we are both retired) down into Chicago from the suburbs so she could be honored at the College where we both used to work. As we left the building, a rat ran around a planter and she commented that Chicago has the most rats of any urban environment with New York coming in second. (I have no idea who figures things like that out or the metric they use). I had not been back to the College for some years as I had been caring for my increasingly ill wife of 44 years who died this last February. It was lovely to go back and be greeted by old friends (even the rat seemed somehow relatively benign). In terms of new eyes, I think those are growing in gradually... The idea that 'time heals all wounds' is, of course, a lie we tell ourselves and others. Initially grief cuts your hands and heart when you hold it and you bleed rather a lot. The grief doesn't leave, but over time, we learn to hold it less tightly (most of the time) and we develop different ways of 'seeing' ourselves, our circumstances and the world around us. New eyes indeed. It is rather like sitting in a newly-empty house, putting it in order, locking the door and walking down to the harbor to board a clipper bound for some new place. Each step a mixture of weeping and gratitude - and each wave a new possibility.
Here is an opportunity for you to see rats as talented heroes that help children play freely without fear of being blown up. Think of the potential in those subway wells!
https://expmag.com/2022/09/these-highly-trained-rats-have-sniffed-out-150000-explosives/
I love how D.S Waldman describes those flickerings of dots and lines you see when your eyes are shut tight, I had never known that there was a name for it.
'Close your eyes. You might see, spreading against the black backs of your eyelids, flared little patterns of light called phosphenes. Squeeze your eyes tighter-shut: maybe the light gets brighter. Now relax: watch the shapes fade. Some would say, the inherent electrical charges the retina produces while at rest. Others, an experience of light in the total absence of light.'
D.S. Waldman 'A Poetics of Failure: On the Truths That Lie Between Words' from Lithub.com. August 15, 2022.
A poem that changed my life: The Journey, Mary Oliver. Profound. And also, we had a rat living in our backyard for awhile. Cute little creature. Subway rats, not su much. But in the weird ecosystem of the subway, they serve a purpose I imagine. Someway of maintaining balance?
I guess my response is different...I wrote out how Marie Howe's poem "What the Living Do" helped me see my life with new eyes.
Since I can remember, using color, line, shape to capture what I see, feel, think felt like living to me - working out a color theory problem, painting a giant sycamore tree or drawing gestures of people at a cafe - these are a little bit of heaven right here on earth. But without the resources or time to develop my passion, I used those activities as a carrot dangling from a very long stick. When the kids are asleep, the oven cleaned, the dishes done, the big project at work completed - then I can draw, paint - then I can live. But life was busy and "living" was always in the future dangling from that long stick.
Then I listened to Krista's interview with poet Marie Howe...like me, she had been raised Catholic and I was curious about her poems. On NPR, I discovered her poem "What the Living Do" written to her brother, Johnny, who had died of Aids at a very early age.
"What the Living Do" by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
This poem changed how I saw my life...yes, I delight in drawing and painting, but after hearing this poem, I realized how much I had missed focused on those few rare moments...cleaning the oven, washing dishes, working on a big project - this is what the living do and now I can notice the small things (even the BIG ones) that make up my life and be grateful.
Thank you Padraiq for asking and listening.