I woke this morning with a broken heart. Not unusual for me, haunted by ancient demons. Forced myself out of bed, washed, got dressed, looked at overnight emails. And then I pulled back the curtains and, gazing down from my window, I saw a little girl all in pink running circles in the parking lot below. I smiled, mesmerized, and my heart lifted with pleasure. I stood there watching her joy, irrepressible, and her joy filled me. After a few seconds I thought, I don’t see anyone watching her (always whenever possible, going to a dark anxious place) but then I thought no, of course, she couldn’t run with joy if she didn’t know somewhere in her being that she was safe with someone watching. Sure enough, my view of him blocked by a large leafing maple, there was a man, patiently waiting, the car running. I could see her moving her circle closer to him, making two more rounds – a tiny bit of a tease? - I’ll come when I’m ready? - finally presenting herself at her side of the car, waiting to be lifted inside.
And I thought, again and again, as I do many times in the day, look at all the richness of your life Merle- crucial, most of all now, to acknowledge and feel gratitude for what we have. Gently, I began to visualize my many blessings and give thanks, to dwell in the blessings, to resist the undertow of sadness. But here’s the problem - the sadness is not only particular and personal, there’s an almost infinite litany of the brokenness of the world and even when I find ways to do battle, I am the tiniest David with a sword so small as to be invisible. So then I remind myself that I am not alone on the battlefield, and identifying a dream as impossible is no excuse not to pursue it with fervor because legions of one constitute a powerful force.
Still standing at the window, I saw that sometime during my reverie father and daughter had driven away, and my mind went to a favorite poem by Israeli poet, Dahlia Ravikovitch. Her work was beloved and celebrated in her lifetime (1936-2005) though only three of her books are translated into English – well worth ordering The Window from your local bookstore (please, give them the business, they really need it). This particular poem, last in a collection which also bears its name, “The Window,” is one of those poems that has a life inside of me; I retrieved the book from my study and began to read. I wish I could offer the poem here in its entirety, instead, a few lines.
It opens with “And what have I done after all?/For years I didn’t do a thing./I only looked out the window.” (This from a woman who, like me, was a poet and an activist, her politics sometimes the subject of her poetry, that and the inner existential anguish of a person fighting depression.) The poem then goes on to describe the changing landscapes of the natural world she is looking at and ends with, “Whatever a person needs/I saw in that window.” I’ve always drawn profound strength from that insight - how much can be seen in and into ordinary things when you look deeply. I hear her saying, remember to honor what’s smallest, most familiar.
The rest of this morning I spent lost in her poetry. And now, beginning to focus on my work today, I reach back to the joy of the little girl in pink…
I thought of us, in this time, so many peering out the window.
What do you see? What are you looking for?
What do you need as you look out the window? In what way might it be nourishing?
We acknowledge that it’s also important to see the needs of others, to answer calls for help - finding ways to help both accomplishes something real and also empowers, reactivates, our goodness and hope. Maybe let’s save that conversation for next time.
Meanwhile, return to the image of the two-year old bursting with joy and take some deep breaths.