Few Words, More Meaning
Especially in the past couple of years, former college students remind me what lessons last. “You know what I remember?” (Singular?) You know the thing I liked? (One?) “You know the game I still play on my own and with a partner?” (Game?)
I do know—a happily predictable report that always goes something like this: “When I tried writing haiku for the first time, just a kid again drumming fingers on my desk to count, I didn’t have a care in the world. At first, in the hush, I “talked” to myself, one burst of 17 syllables leading to the next. All three lines, 5-7-5, seemed such an accomplishment. Weird but cool, I settled down and got in touch with myself—like staring in the mirror, distance between my two faces shortening, recognizing me. But the best? Sharing haiku silently with a classmate. Vacation!”
Three lines, 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables. Limiting words vacuums the mind. Mental commotion halts, distractions vanish. Thoughts shake free, words match truth. Body relaxes, mind calms. Losing a sense of time, winning a sense of center. That’s it, 17 syllables? That’s It. Quiet attracts attention—passing our classroom or peering through windows at outdoor poet-pairs, onlookers linger and also stop talking.
Nature binds a haiku, each one containing an open-air reference. Dirt. Vine. Lake. Wind. Branch.
In troubled times, whether hardships in a class or in the larger world, I relied on silent haiku sedation. Now, in these asunder days—surely haiku in every class, every day. When has communication been as necessary? Have words ever hidden from their seekers so well? When found and communicated, have words ever touched both hearts as deeply?
Who hasn’t, doesn’t, won’t labor, hoisting their buried spirits up yet again, like a flag climbing up the pole for another dawn? Poet Laureate Ada Limón offers “Instructions on Not Giving Up.” How stunning, each “new slick leaf” a victory over winter’s damage. No, no denying “the mess of us, the hurt.” Yes, yes affirming each leaf’s springtime choice, “open palm, I’ll take it all.” All.
Birdsong makes a fine background for haiku-sharing. Instrumental music rubs rough edges away, too. Get comfortable, pencil-paper-partner ready, realizing as does Charlie Parker that “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.” Follow Yusef Lateef’s “Cry! – Tender” with Miles Davis waving “Bye Bye Blackbird.” Count syllables on fingers, tap beats with toes—write words on paper, know anything goes.
Quarter… half… whole-heapingly present and accounted for. Hello.
Hello, you. Hello, me. Hello, we.
Lou Reed wraps up this wordless holiday. Sangria in the park, home by dark. “Just a perfect day / Problems all left alone.” May his repeated last lines excite and embolden. “You’re going to reap just what you sow.”
Rocks beneath our feet
Webb Telescope so far up
Dancing in between
Told with McCarty’s characteristic wisdom, marvel, exuberance, and good will, Leaving 1203 is about navigating that way through. The author draws on all available resources—friends and strangers, food and laughter, life lessons learned in the very house she now empties, and, not least, her newly-inherited West Highland terrier, Billy. McCarty simultaneously learns and deftly teaches the fine arts of remembering, letting go, and holding on to what matters most. She not only finds the way through, she shows the way.
the greatest gift an author could give a reader… lessons of a universally philosophical and existential kind… a touching journey… a welcome, upbeat ride
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