What we notice
What have you noticed this week? What has this noticing done in you?
Dear friends,
I was on a crowded subway early yesterday morning. 6:20 a.m. Every seat filled. People on the way to work, on the way back from work. People going all kinds of places.
There was a man sitting across from me who had his eyes closed, but he didn’t look to be asleep. He was wearing work boots, construction gear. His jacket was open, and he had his phone held against his T-shirt, up against his heart. He had the air of someone in deep thought.
I wondered what was on that phone — the voice of someone he loved, a piece of music giving consolation through the bones of his chest, a photograph? Maybe he just needed the pressure of something tangible up against whatever it was that he was feeling.
Fifteen minutes on a subway can seem like a long time. He got off on the stop before me, and when the announcement came over the speakers, he zipped his jacket back up, put his phone in his pocket, picked up a bag with work equipment, and left. He did not look like a man who had been dozing before or after a shift. He looked like a man who had found nurture.
I thought about him all day. What do we do to bring comfort? Those intimacies of the body. A friend of mine used to place his own hand on his cheek in memory of someone else who used to do that. Maybe you hug a pillow. Maybe you sit in an enclosed chair because of the containment it gives, or you play a voice note over and over.
Jane Mead’s brilliant poem “Concerning that Prayer I Cannot Make” (from The Lord and the General Din of the World, Sarabande Books, 1996) concludes with these two stanzas:
On the far bank the warehouse lights blink red, then green, and all the yellow machines with their rusted scoops and lifts sit under a thin layer of sunny frost. And look— my own palm— there, slowly rocking. It is my pale palm— palm where a black pebble is turning and turning. Listen— all you bare trees burrs brambles pile of twigs red and green lights flashing muddy bottle shards shoe half buried—listen listen, I am holy
It is the tender attention to her own palm (“It is my pale palm—”) that I love. And that assertion of holiness. For all of us tired, for all of who are feeling like the structures are speaking indignity, for all of us in warehouse districts or at the edges of cities or ourselves, for all of us wondering what it is we can do. It is, perhaps, an act of noticing — ourselves, a man on the train — that might help nurture the heart: the place of change, courage, challenge.
My prompt this week: What nurturing thing have you noticed this week, friends? What has this noticing done in you?
The Latest from Poetry Unbound
Episode 12
Poetry in the World
A list of events: In Scotland (the island of Iona, St. Andrews) and the US (Colorado Springs, Denver, Indianapolis, Nashville, St. Louis, San Antonio)
February 23, Denver, Colorado, US
I’ll be in conversation with poet Suzi Q. Smith at the The Studio Loft at Ellie Caulkins Opera House. Tickets are free, but you must register here.
February 24, Colorado Springs, Colorado, US
I’m giving an evening talk titled “The Borders of Belonging: Exploring Belonging in Times of Conflict and Uncertainty” at Colorado College. The event is free, and you can find information here.
February 27, San Antonio, Texas, US
I’m doing an evening of poetry about conflict and peace with poets Jenny Browne and Naomi Shihab Nye at Trinity University. The event is free, but you should reserve a seat here.
February 28, Nashville, Tennessee, US
I’ll be in conversation with poet Major Jackson at Parnassus Books. Tickets are free, but you must register to attend.
March 2, St. Louis, Missouri, US
The good people of the Poetry for All podcast are recording a live episode, with me as guest and with an audience, in the afternoon at the Phyllis Wheatley Heritage Center. I’ll also be doing a signing. The event is free, and you should reserve your spot here.
March 10–15 and March 18–23 2025, Isle of Iona, Scotland
I’m holding two Poetry Unbound retreats on the gorgeous Scottish island of Iona; each retreat is the same. Both retreats are booked up, but you can get on the waiting list by contacting the folks at the St. Columba here.
March 16, St. Andrews, Scotland
I’ll be taking part in the annual StAnza Poetry Festival. Tickets and info here.
April 7, Indianapolis, Indiana, US
I’ll be at Butler University as part of its visiting writers series. There’s no need to register, and you can find the details here.
It was a very odd, totally spontaneous moment of self-nurture that happened to me a few days ago. After a shower, towel drying, leaning down, caught sight of my right leg, I suddenly felt a surge of something I’d never felt before, and said/thought: “Well done, leg! You did a great job today, despite everything. Proud of you!”
For the first time in my life (I’m 64!!) I was contemplating some part of my body with no sense of judgement, no trace of shame, no vanity. Just a: Good job leg!
NB. Left leg equally worthy of praise, needless to say! ;)
Well the most nurturing thing this week has to be bird song. I am fortunate to have a garden that attracts lots of birds. I made a conscious effort this week to go out and just sit and listen. The back and forth of bird song was so mesmerising. Conversation that I didn’t need to understand and could just listen to. The variety of notes were astonishing. I have carried this experience all week and as I sit looking out this morning from my bed at the howling wind blowing the trees and watching the pouring rain I can still hear the birds.