Otherwise

Some Thoughts on Ordinary Grace

Right now, I am letting dough rise slowly in the next room, the fulfillment of a promise to myself to fold more earthy rituals into my life. And later, if the rain stops, or even a lifts a bit, Armando and I will walk the dog to the park or down to the waters edge. Laundry in the machine. Soup on the stove. What privilege to be able to partake of these daily rhythms: The steam rising from a pot, the rustle of the grocery bags as the contents are emptied, tucked into the cupboard or fridge.

I think of this poem by the late Jane Kenyon:

Otherwise

Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

Jane Kenyon, "Otherwise," (from Otherwise: New and Selected Poems,  Graywolf Press, 1997)

Kenyon, an American poet and translator from the Midwest, born in 1947, died of leukemia in 1995, having lived with depression for much of her life. The otherwise, she refers to in the poem, seems to reference her awareness of her mortality, living with cancer. But it also seems to give voice to the moments in which she could bear the full heft of the ordinary and partake of its small joys. These moments can be hard won. We are always aware of some sort of otherwise. The suffering in the world. Our own difficult past––or present.

And yet…

Rereading this poem, I love the way beauty intermingles itself with the other loves. Yes, the dog, the mate–––but also the silver candlesticks, the paintings. Beauty its own kind of sustenance.

Perhaps you too have a modest list, small enough to be inscribed on a grocery receipt or a bookmark. Like this poem, slender enough to fit on bits of ephemera.

Perhaps you might keep such slips of paper around and jot down pleasures almost too small to notice. Minor. Nearly invisible. Except when you rediscover them with the light of attention, glimpse, even for that moment, the day: Unadorned, finite, filled with its own flawed grace.

Jane Kenyon, 1947-1995

Oh! And I am taking on a couple of manuscripts in the coming month. Go ahead and message me at Danusha@danushalameris.com if you would like to discuss the possibility of me helping you with your book. Chapbook or full-length. Send 2-3 sample poems.