Hello and happy Sunday, friends. I have a poem for you. I wanted to send this last Sunday before embarking on a glorious and overdue vacation adventure! But… neither the newsletter nor the vacation happened. That’s how life goes sometimes. (tl;dr — instead of hiking in Maine I spent the week popping antibiotics for a probable Lyme infection. 🙃)
More on that later, but first — poetry!
Roads Go Ever On
– after J.R.R. Tolkien
In forests deep, find the hidden roads,
the kind paved with broken stones. Go
as if you could follow for-ever,
as if you could see how they’re ever
ready, waiting for unexpected shoes. On
the first weekend of June, we explored under
the cover of tree, mountain, and cloud.
We explored the hidden streams and
forgot for a few days how it feels under-
neath the weight of life. Every star
cut the clear sky over the lake, burning yet
sparkling, paving galaxy roads for the feet
of the Ursas, Orion, Gemini. That
was the summer of wandering—
us, away, or friends, toward. To have
rest and fellowship before the season’s gone.
This summer, I shore up hope and turn
to places familiar and quiet. But at
least the mountains will stand to the last
and the stars will burn silently, hidden to
my eyes by city lights. This home
holds me now. Roads call from afar.I remember summer of 2019 being full, in the best possible way. Two years after what we’ve (un)lovingly dubbed “The Year from Hell,”1 we were feeling settled again. We had a stream of family and friends visiting to enjoy the New England summer vibes and our guest room. I’d just wrapped my first year of spiritual director training and was feeling excited for the increasing clarity in my shifting vocation.
That was also the year that we booked a few days at a favorite tiny harborside cottage on Mt. Desert Island in Maine, and the host offered us a free upgrade to the big lake house on site. It was ridiculously big for two people! But on the first clear night of our trip, we were able to turn off all the lights in the house, step out onto the dock, and witness a dizzying sea of stars overhead. We downloaded star map apps and hunted for constellations. I don’t remember much about the house itself, but when I remember that trip, my imagination fills with stars.
The next year was 2020. We all know what happened.
***
About a year ago, I was talking to my spiritual director about something completely unrelated and she asked me something like, “So would you say you were disappointed?”
It threw me, honestly. Disappointed? No! Things happen! I just ride the wave, man.
We dug a little deeper. If you’ll permit me a nerd detour, remember MJ’s philosophy of disappointment in Spiderman: No Way Home? That’s about how I’ve moved through life most the time.2
I’m slowly learning that the only way to really open yourself up to joy might be allowing for disappointment too. And when it comes, what happens when you name it? Let yourself feel it and acknowledge that you wanted things one way, but something else happened?
No matter how much rest and ibuprofen I took to beat this thing, I actually needed strong antibiotics. Lyme Disease is no joke.3 If I’d shrugged it off, I might’ve gotten sicker while far from home. But for all the shine and spin and rationalizing I put on this past week, and all the self-assurances that it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of the universe… it’s still sad. And it’s okay to let it be sad.
All that to say, this poem is a travel story. It’s also a little bit about disappointment, or at least embracing what is, even if it’s not what you wish it could be. A poem from the summer of 2020, reflecting on the goodness of the year before and pressing into the quiet of a pandemic summer. And now, a poem for accepting a weakened but healing body, naming the disappointed desires, and looking with hope to the future.
”Acadia will still be there later,” Chris said, after making the phone call to cancel our cabin.4 It’s true. The roads will keep calling, and we’ll walk them again soon.
***
Some last notes and fun facts on the poem:
This one’s a golden shovel, a form created by Terrence Hayes and one of my favorite forms to play with. Take a look at the last word of each line and you’ll see a familiar hobbit’s walking song!
This isn’t the only poem to reference that night on the dock, looking at stars in Maine. You’ll also find similar images in “All That is Made,” another poem from Beneath the Flood. (plug!) Sometimes, an image gets stuck in your brain and turns up over and over again.
We (as in my husband Chris and I) will probably be writing and thinking about 2017 for the rest of our lives. Anxiety, depression, faith crisis/deconstruction — and also therapy, healing, grace, and growth. Chris tells more of that story — along with some Dante and The War on Drugs — at his Substack. (and you should definitely read and subscribe to it!)
lol at the Business Success™️ website that tried to make this cynical quote into an inspirational poster. 💀
PSA: check yourself and your pups for ticks, and go to a doctor ASAP if you get a weird rash! kthxbye.
Much love to Chris, the real MVP who took one look at how miserable I was on Monday morning and said, “Nope, I’m calling the campground.” The best gift you can give an enneagram 9 who hates letting people down is making a hard decision for them. #freemarriageadvice
Stupid lyme. But also, solidarity in all the things, canceled summer plans just in time for heart in afib, covid, appendectomy—all the things. I feel like I'm still mourning the big trees and mountainscapes we're missing. Love you guys.
Good on ya, Chris, for canceling! And thank goodness for antibiotics!