Dear PP tribe, I’ve been thinking so much about my #5mostbeautifulthings project and how the beauty (and the poetry) is all around us. All the time. Even the “found” poems, especially the “found” ones. As if they were left specifically for us. (Maybe they were?) Like the journal I found in my drawer tonight that someone had left at the restaurant I worked at for years. I’ve kept it all this time. I found it left under a table one night while I was cleaning up after my shift.
So
much time has passed since I found this old journal that I question now
if I indeed wrote the words, but the handwriting isn’t mine (although
it might be) and there’s these little drawings, which are most
definitely not mine (at best I can draw stick figures.) But
this gift, this poem(s) as it were, because it is a poem- who can
question the image of a long silk scarf flowing behind a girl (who,
according to the drawing wears a mask) and how that image will live
somewhere inside me so that if I ever visit the south of France, which I
have every intention of doing, I will conjure this
mask-wearing-bicycle-riding-scarf-trailing-bicycle girl.The next page:
I love you… but I’m shy.
More bicycles.
One of the riders is only a head. No body. This gift of poetry, which is everywhere if you look.
Recently, I went to a reading of Naomi Shihab Nye’s.
Naomi has become a friend and what I most love about her, and there are
many things to love, is her ability to be present and how she looks at
the world with a poet’s eye, or rather, with a childlike sense of wonder.
She talked about going to the library as a child and how you’d just let
yourself wander until you found a book. You’d explore, as you weren’t
going there for anything in particular. As adults, she said, we’re so directive. We
make a beeline for exactly what we want. There is a mission and a
purpose and very little letting yourself get lost amidst a sea of books.
She has that sense of wander and wonder.My first love was poetry. I started writing stories as a child but when I got serious about it at NYU, it was for the love of poetry. C.K. Williams was the first poet I heard read.
I loved C.K. for how his poetry ran on and on. How it felt like he was talking to only me (isn’t that what all good writing does?) singling me out in a room full of shoelace-faced students—whispering into my freezing ears. Out of all the ears he could whisper to on a packed C train and he chose mine! This is what poetry can look like, he said. This is what words can do. And he conversed with me through his poems and taught me what was possible. If it weren’t for him (and a few other poets who crawled into my slowly-going-deaf-ears, right at that particular moment in time, I might still be riding the C train without the knowledge that words could change the world.) They could pummel and destroy and create and fascinate. I didn’t quite realize the capacity they had until those poets (Donna Masini, C.K. Williams, Derek Walcott, Seamus Heaney, Sharon Olds, Stanley Kunitz) quietly, without so much as a word of warning, showed up during my nineteenth year on the planet. They marched in and planted their word-flags and even when they left, their flags remained waving for me so that no matter where I went, I had a place that felt like home.
Naomi Shihab Nye makes me want to scour the world for poems.
I went digging and found the journal in my drawer which is undoubtedly filled with other poem-worthy artifacts. I remember when I found the journal at work that Saturday night in 2001, or whenever it was, how I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I peaked in the book and realized it was nothing confessional (I murdered someone or I’m having an affair.) It probably sucked to lose it but I doubt it was earth shattering (Geez, I hope it wasn’t)- most of it was blank, save a few drawings and dreams and clothing sketches.
I stuck it in the safe at the restaurant. No one claimed it for a whole year so I finally went back and got my loot. Then I stuck it in a drawer for a good ten years. Until today. So that’s one (or more) of my beautiful things.
The way art finds us. The way poetry is everywhere. Just like beauty.
And bicycles with body-less riders and lists of places to go, well, can’t the mind just go wild on that shit nodding madly yes yes yes.Opening my own notebook and seeing this list.
2014:
Italy
London. Meet Jimmy again.
Go To Hong Kong.
(I remember now that these were my husband’s wishes and I’d just written them down for him.) We were in San Francisco. We’d just had some pizza. It was December and we were in San Francisco at some over-priced restaurant targeted for tourists. I had a glass of chardonnay and the wine gave me that rush of what was possible so I said to him, What should we do, you know? This year, with my pen poised and my little notebook out. Where do you want to go? So I am looking at this next to this old notebook I found at The Newsroom on my waitressing shift and I’m thinking how the same we are. So many of us. How we dream and dream and want and want and how we write things down in little notebooks and maybe we leave them behind or maybe we take them. Maybe we never go to any of the places we dream of going, but maybe we do. There’s so many of us with so many wishes and places and notebooks that surely there is a varied lot- some who make it to the other side of their dreams, some who make it as far as the ink on the paper and some who never have the courage to write it down. I’m thinking there’s all sorts.
Anyway, funny that I have these two books open and both are lists of places to go.
Oh, the places you’ll go! (Think Dr. Seuss!)
I wonder if the girl who lost the notebook at The Newsroom (the cafe where I had worked) ever went to the places she doodled. Her name is in the front cover. Back then we didn’t have Facebook to look her up but now I suppose I could. But I won’t. It would be awkward. If she reads me (wouldn’t that be a funny thing?) maybe she’ll recognize her drawings and her words. And maybe she will shoot me an email saying, “Yes, I made it. I am here in the south of France on my bicycle with a long scarf flowing behind me.”
The joy of quiet. Something Naomi Shihab Nye spoke of. She loved my essay I wrote about my hearing loss on The Nervous Breakdown, and it struck me hearing her talk of the joy of quiet, that she, along with myself, must think of bursts of silence as holy things. The moderator asked Naomi how she finds quiet in the madness of the world. Oh, it’s to be found, she said. And I thought how the quiet is in itself a found art.
I am so unwilling to let myself get quiet most days and combined with the constant ringing in my ears, it seems as if my head is a carnival of sound. Nonstop chatter. I decided I must excavate quiet, I must unearth it and actively look for it as I do with the 5 Most Beautiful Things Project. Beauty Hunter. Hunter of Quiet.
I’ve begun making it a project, seeking quiet wherever I can, because surely we all deserve the joy of quiet.
I have been walking to the beach. I have been meditating. I have been listening.
It’s nice.
**
Recently, a couple kids were yelping loudly so I said, “What’s the excitement?”
“He’s my cousin!” one shrieks, pointing to another, obviously very proud of this relation.
“She is too!” Pointing to another, younger girl, thrilled to be able to point this out to me. That such excitement about family exists. We are related!
Can you imagine being somewhere and jumping up and down to tell someone This is my mom! This is my brother! This is my Uncle! She’s my sister! It was sweet. And I wondered how long they’d stay close. I am not particularly close to any of my cousins. And just then, one of the kids face planted and havoc ensued.
**
I think that maybe finding the beauty and the quiet is the poetry. @JenPastiloff
(Click to Tweet!)
And
the things we notice when we are the denizens of such particular states
of grace will allow us to harness our joy in such way that every so
often we’ll feel as if we are on a bicycle somewhere in the south of
France, some scarf trailing behind us and nothing existing but that
which is waiting to be found by us and has perhaps been waiting forever.
~~~~
Post your #5mostbeautifulthings below or what filled YOU with wonder. Can’t wait to see you at a workshop (Seattle I’m headed your way….) or here on PP in the comment section soon xx jen
