There were very hard days behind me but this speaks so as if …
As if one understood and knew that despair behind my days of fear
As if the light of hope got stuck on a stick and were thrown ahead.
As if the small grass of comfort between my toes were wrenched from the universe by a black hole.
As if there were no holy water that reacts differently in the font, no broken bread, no blood given.
As if …
But as Carver before the Ways and Means, derided and demeaned,
As Bonhoeffer detained from his flock, asking Who Am I,
As Mandela held on an island, knowing slowly they would get long pants,
I still remember who I am, who I’ve been made, by whom I’ve been claimed, though condemned who named me simultaneously a saint.
Where are we?
On a map?
Of convoluted and complicated growth?
We are full of hope and yet desperate to be
welcomed by another saint
rescued by another saint
known past this by all in the light of life.
An old and broken thought invades the will of those with control,
What emptiness grips their fears, and twists them to the dark
Overwhelming darkness like in the caves where bodies lie, dried out, ages gone by.
Where even there the water of life flows unseen
But heard.
And drunk.
And felt as evidence that all is well, connected, blessed.
Even there the grains become body, which is broken and given.
Even there the grapes are fermented into blood, which is poured and shared.
What is my cup?
What is your cup?
What is our cup?
What will we see new today in the light?
Will these ever once again house a family, livid, active, growing, of hope and peace with a smile?
Die schwersten Wege
Die schwersten Wege werden alleine gegangen,
die Enttäuschung, der Verlust, das Opfer,
sind einsam.
Selbst der Tote der jedem Ruf antwortet
und sich keiner Bitte versagt
steht uns nicht bei
und sieht zu ob wir es vermögen.
Die Hände der Lebenden die sich ausstrecken
ohne uns zu erreichen
sind wie die Äste der Bäume im Winter.
Alle Vögel schweigen.
Man hört nur den eigenen Schritt
und den Schritt den der Fuß
noch nicht gegangen ist,
aber gehen wird.
Stehenbleiben und sich Umdrehn hilft nicht.
Es muss gegangen sein.
Nimm eine Kerze in die Hand
wie in den Katakomben,
das kleine Licht atmet kaum.
Und doch, wenn du lange gegangen bist,
bleibt das Wunder nicht aus,
weil das Wunder immer geschieht,
und weil wir ohne die Gnade
nicht leben können:
die Kerze wird hell vom freien Atem des Tags,
du bläst sie lächelnd aus
wenn du in die Sonne trittst
und unter den blühenden Gärten
die Stadt vor dir liegt,
und in deinem Hause
dir der Tisch weiß gedeckt ist.
Und die verlierbaren Lebenden
und die unverlierbaren Toten
dir das Brot brechen und den Wein reichen –
und du ihre Stimmen wieder hörst
ganz nahe
bei deinem Herzen.
(Hilde Domin)
The most difficult paths
The most difficult paths are only alone trod,
disappointment, loss, sacrifice,
are desolate.
Even the deaths that answer every call
and deny themselves no plea
do not stand with us
and only watch to see whether we are able.
The hands of the survivors which extend
never reaching us
are like the branches of trees in winter.
All birds are silent.
One hears only one’s own step
and the step of one’s foot
of the step not taken,
but the step that will be taken.
Stopping and turning about offers no help.
The path must be trod.
Take a candle in your hand
as in the catacombs,
the little light hardly breathes.
And yet, even as you are long gone,
the miracle does not forsake,
because the miracle always happens
and because we without grace
cannot live:
the candle will burn brightly from the free breath of the day,
you blow it out smiling
when you walk into the sun
and among the flowering gardens
as the city spreads below you,
and in your house
the table is set white for you.
And the expendable survivors
and the un-expendable dead
reach you the broken bread and rich wine –
and you hear their voices again
very close
to your heart.
(Hilde Domin Translated Tim Lofstrom)
A familiar path?
For you, too?