Something terrible, unexpected, and traumatic happened to my husband a month ago. We had to leave our home and our state immediately. I had to shut down my social media accounts, leaving me feeling unattached to others, and uncertain of the future.
I understand the “fear” you talk about in your poem. This recent experience has caused me to reflect on life and death, and why so many bad things happen to some people.
I question the way in which many churches deliver the “truth” in doctrine. What is truth? Our we as humans with our fallible brains capable of creating truth? Who created the universe? Does not more evidence exist supporting the idea of a master creator than the absence of one?
If we all have a soul/spirit, wouldn’t a spiritual realm need to exist? How did our souls get there? What happens to our souls when our bodies die?
Your poem is very thought provoking - thank you for sharing. I am sorry to hear that you hurt your foot. I will be praying for a quick recovery.
There were many gods before the capital G God. I don't know if I believe in any of them, capitalized or not. I do believe in prayer, for I have seen it work for others and I no longer believe in coincidence.
There you go again, speaking my innermost fears and hurts and hopes.
Many years ago I was obsessed with Blake's songs of Innocence and Experience, and especially the infuriating, outrageous, unacceptable, crushing inconsistencies of a universe we can't, or refuse to make sense of, a universe where he who made the lamb made the tyger!
Maybe we pray because it is the only way to record our refusal to accept the terror, and beauty, of the tyger. To scratch on a piece of paper a resounding "I protest", or "I am afraid", or a hopeful "please", or at least "hear me out!". Maybe we pray because we need to imagine, even if we know it not to be true, that somehow, somewhere, in some incomprehensible way, our existence is seen, or noticed. Some years ago, when my mother was dying, I told my daughter that all of mankind is just an infinitesimal speck, making wishes and fears and fiery dreams, broken or hoped for, in an immense universe that hears none of it, and knows none of it. My wonderful daughter said: *we* know and *we* hear.
I do not know how to say "listen to me" in my tribal tongue. This is why I need my poets and other magicians, because they know how to translate my "listen to me" into my ancient tribal tongue.
Another great post. I think I’m more impertinent than spiritual. Smart-assery is definitely in my secular theology. I grew up with a Catholic father and Protestant mother on the rez. And I’m descended from a Native woman who is sometimes included in talks about Catholic sainthood.
I have had to miss a few podcasts, so I am sorry to hear that you have not been well. I hope you heal quickly.
I think Blake is the perfect context for your writing. Blake was on a continuous path in search of truth--not pat or memorized repetition of faith or belief, but curiosity, discovery, and pursuit. I like that about your poem as well. We discover some sensibility inside, but also reflect on it beyond ourselves. I wrote a poem about this concept. I would like to share it with you, but of course, I will not be offended if you prefer not to read it:
Thank you for taking the time to read this. Your work is so important to my reading/writing/teaching life. I am honored that you found something meaningful.
Yes, you and your poem have been getting me to think somewhat less flippantly about my childhood and the role of prayer in what was my born culture. It’s true that I was a very impertinent young boy, but there was a lot to be impertinent about. I was raised Catholic and the prayer we indulged in was a lot of recitations of praise for a God of dubious dimensions and peculiar manifestations. I suspect we just assumed there’d be automatic listening because we were the “right” faith - as opposed to those Anglican heretics. When it came to asking for protection from the predators outside the campfire, I’d don’t think we bothered much ‘cos we’d just won a war.
However, in the past few years I’ve read more of how humans must feel in environments where they are not the top predator; Doug Peacock is the relevant author with his theories concerning Ice Age migration across the “Bering” Strait. You might say that the arrogance of the English is not so prevalent (if you were to say it in an English way). It’s provided me with a subsequent lifetime’s learning experience about how to walk and talk respectfully upon the Earth - and sometimes I even manage to squeeze out a little prayer to some apparent cosmic and mystical presence. The learning continues. Hand in hand with residual impertinence. And gentleness and kindness are what I ask for when I remember to ask for anything.
In the English tribal language of my post-war youth “listen to me” was “shut up.” Not a very nice tribe, the English. Perhaps the phrase most directed at me by various adults was, “You’re being impertinent, boy!” followed by a clip round the ear’ole.
Something terrible, unexpected, and traumatic happened to my husband a month ago. We had to leave our home and our state immediately. I had to shut down my social media accounts, leaving me feeling unattached to others, and uncertain of the future.
I understand the “fear” you talk about in your poem. This recent experience has caused me to reflect on life and death, and why so many bad things happen to some people.
I question the way in which many churches deliver the “truth” in doctrine. What is truth? Our we as humans with our fallible brains capable of creating truth? Who created the universe? Does not more evidence exist supporting the idea of a master creator than the absence of one?
If we all have a soul/spirit, wouldn’t a spiritual realm need to exist? How did our souls get there? What happens to our souls when our bodies die?
Your poem is very thought provoking - thank you for sharing. I am sorry to hear that you hurt your foot. I will be praying for a quick recovery.
I wish you well in this difficult time.
Thank you : )
Thank you Sherman for yet another thought. Prokoking. Thought.
Thank you!
There were many gods before the capital G God. I don't know if I believe in any of them, capitalized or not. I do believe in prayer, for I have seen it work for others and I no longer believe in coincidence.
A Jesuit friend once said to me, “Sherman, there are a lot of coincidences in your life.”
Sherman Alexie
Sharing this way
Feels closer
There you go again, speaking my innermost fears and hurts and hopes.
Many years ago I was obsessed with Blake's songs of Innocence and Experience, and especially the infuriating, outrageous, unacceptable, crushing inconsistencies of a universe we can't, or refuse to make sense of, a universe where he who made the lamb made the tyger!
Maybe we pray because it is the only way to record our refusal to accept the terror, and beauty, of the tyger. To scratch on a piece of paper a resounding "I protest", or "I am afraid", or a hopeful "please", or at least "hear me out!". Maybe we pray because we need to imagine, even if we know it not to be true, that somehow, somewhere, in some incomprehensible way, our existence is seen, or noticed. Some years ago, when my mother was dying, I told my daughter that all of mankind is just an infinitesimal speck, making wishes and fears and fiery dreams, broken or hoped for, in an immense universe that hears none of it, and knows none of it. My wonderful daughter said: *we* know and *we* hear.
I do not know how to say "listen to me" in my tribal tongue. This is why I need my poets and other magicians, because they know how to translate my "listen to me" into my ancient tribal tongue.
What a beautiful post. Yes, the crushing inconsistencies…and the prayers to the mysteries that are heard by the people who love us…
Praying for your foot. Which one is it?
Right foot. It’s not serious. Just very uncomfortable.
Hope it gets well soon.
Thank you.
Another great post. I think I’m more impertinent than spiritual. Smart-assery is definitely in my secular theology. I grew up with a Catholic father and Protestant mother on the rez. And I’m descended from a Native woman who is sometimes included in talks about Catholic sainthood.
I have had to miss a few podcasts, so I am sorry to hear that you have not been well. I hope you heal quickly.
I think Blake is the perfect context for your writing. Blake was on a continuous path in search of truth--not pat or memorized repetition of faith or belief, but curiosity, discovery, and pursuit. I like that about your poem as well. We discover some sensibility inside, but also reflect on it beyond ourselves. I wrote a poem about this concept. I would like to share it with you, but of course, I will not be offended if you prefer not to read it:
Imagination is the truest faith
Perhaps gravity doesn’t apply
Not the winds of Rossetti
Or the planks of Dickinson
Is knowledge an idol pursuit?
A truer state of being?
Our lives a blueprint
Masterfully made
Created in amazing grace and style
In God’s image I fall short
And insignificant
In my imagination, though,
God is everywhere—even with me
Drafting my new future and all its intricacies.
Religion—one sentence at a time
I hear the wind I cannot see
Imagine its effect on me
I do not know from where it comes
My life is saved
But not by me
I embrace the mystery
Created through spirit and water
Sola Gratis--Free to be
I love that line: “God is everywhere—even with me”. That feels so true.
Thank you for taking the time to read this. Your work is so important to my reading/writing/teaching life. I am honored that you found something meaningful.
You’re welcome.
somehow poetry says it in almost any language by giving up what I think I know.
Thank you.
Hahahaha. Such a great response. There is a stern subtext to “listen to me” but it’s gentler when said in our language.
Yes, you and your poem have been getting me to think somewhat less flippantly about my childhood and the role of prayer in what was my born culture. It’s true that I was a very impertinent young boy, but there was a lot to be impertinent about. I was raised Catholic and the prayer we indulged in was a lot of recitations of praise for a God of dubious dimensions and peculiar manifestations. I suspect we just assumed there’d be automatic listening because we were the “right” faith - as opposed to those Anglican heretics. When it came to asking for protection from the predators outside the campfire, I’d don’t think we bothered much ‘cos we’d just won a war.
However, in the past few years I’ve read more of how humans must feel in environments where they are not the top predator; Doug Peacock is the relevant author with his theories concerning Ice Age migration across the “Bering” Strait. You might say that the arrogance of the English is not so prevalent (if you were to say it in an English way). It’s provided me with a subsequent lifetime’s learning experience about how to walk and talk respectfully upon the Earth - and sometimes I even manage to squeeze out a little prayer to some apparent cosmic and mystical presence. The learning continues. Hand in hand with residual impertinence. And gentleness and kindness are what I ask for when I remember to ask for anything.
In the English tribal language of my post-war youth “listen to me” was “shut up.” Not a very nice tribe, the English. Perhaps the phrase most directed at me by various adults was, “You’re being impertinent, boy!” followed by a clip round the ear’ole.