Be Still My Soul (Inspired by Home, Siblings, and Steven Sharp Nelson)

"The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."  -William Faulkner

When I first read that part of his Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech in the year 1950, I was assuming Faulkner was talking about the deep things of life that keep us all going.  The Heavy things like eternity, glory, and heroism.  But now, as I sit in front of our fireplace in the home I spent most of my life in, listening to cello music by Steven Nelson, and musing over everything in my life up unto until this point, I realize that some of the props of man aren't necessarily super deep or even "grey" things.

This house and this city are full of memories for me.  Some of them are very good memories, but a lot of the recent ones have been difficult.  I've written about the long line of people that I've injured in the recent past, and most of them live around here.  I have a tendency to dwell on those things; but as I catch up with a few friends with whom things never change, I become aware of the great memories: the pillars that keep me supported when I feel like I'm falling.  Grandparent's house, good food, the deep connection I've developed in the past few years with my siblings - I love them more than ever, and they're some of my best friends - the wonderful friends I've met on the hill who love me dearly: all these things come rushing over me as I warm myself by the fire.

Food galore,

Relax and snore,

Love and care,

Cure from wear:

Grandparent's house.

  

And while the feelings of wonder and trepidation aren't gone, the fact that I am surrounded by such great friends and a loving family fills me with an awe that is difficult to put into words.  When I feel nostalgic like this (as visits to home generally make me), I like going through old music I used to listen to, or reading old poems, and just thinking about the good things that have happened to me here, and I stumbled across this:

I am one in seven, a piece of a heart,

That is separated for just a beat.

Goodbye isn't forever, though ways we part,

Lord thanks for dear friends, them bless and keep.

I wrote this poem last year for my dearest friends, and I think of it every time we're separated...but today it makes me thankful for them all, and thankful for friends past, and thankful for friends to come, and thankful for friends who will be with me forever...specifically my family.

I guess it's cliche to say such things so close to Thanksgiving, but things become cliche for a reason.  Sometimes I think we forget what that reason is.  The world we live in is bound to be full of wonderful cliches, because there are so many things in our lives that are worth becoming so.

I realize that the previous poem wasn't Scarlequain, and flipping through my little leather book of poems and sayings, I also realize that most of my Scarlequain are not happy or musing on the brighter sides of life.  But then, as I've told many of my friends who take the time to listen, the happier things are the hardest to write about.  They're the things that are so profound that words cannot begin to fathom them.  And a part of me is satisfied to leave it that way.  Let the happy things Feel.  They are too deep to be constricted by words.