Soul Friends

“One’s ‘spiritual life’ isn’t apart from the rest of one’s life, something that goes on in the prayer room alone, but it is our life. Life is spiritual.”

My spiritual director, the Merton scholar Fr. William Shannon, said this to me during one of our meetings—after I’d been seeing him for about a year. That was in 1986. He died last spring, at the age of ninety-four. Since then I’ve been slowly reading through the journal entries that I wrote after every one of our quarter century of monthly meetings.

It’s my way of keeping him with me, of continuing to benefit from his guidance.

Bill (as he was soon inviting me to call him) wasn’t trained as a spiritual director. He was a theologian on the faculty of Nazareth College in Rochester, NY, founded by the Sisters of St. Joseph. When he retired, he became the Sisters’ chaplain, living in their Motherhouse.

It was then that people started coming to him for spiritual direction. Word got around that he had gifts of compassion and insight. I was a new Catholic, baptized in my late thirties, in 1983, and I knew I needed wise guidance in my fledgling spiritual life. I asked a mutual friend to fix us up… and that’s how I met the person who has formed my life more than anyone except my husband. [Read more...]

The Poetry of Married Love

When my husband was told he’d have quadruple bypass surgery the next day, we were—believe it or not—overjoyed.

He’d been feeling lousy for months, and after a zillion tests the docs still couldn’t find the reason. Finally an angiogram the week after Thanksgiving showed major blockages, and we shouted halleluiah!

While he was in the hospital for the bypass surgery and recovery, I of course created an email list to keep friends and family in touch. What a joy to receive back all the good wishes, prayers of support, and offers to help—which I’ve happily taken advantage of. [Read more...]

Books for Holiday Giving

Kudos to the university presses that are publishing books of the soundest scholarship for the general reader: books with the highest production values and astoundingly reasonable prices. Here are two that I recommend for readers on your gift list.

A Spicing of Birds: Poems by Emily Dickinson, selected by Jo Miles Schuman and Joanna Bailey Hodgman (Wesleyan University Press, $22.95).

Did you know that Dickinson wrote 222 poems with references to birds? As the compilers write in their introduction, “Birds are woven through her poems like the string she mentions that ‘Robins steal… for Nests—.’” Dickinson was a sharp observer of birds, and in her poems she often made images for particular species:

“Some keep the Sabbath going to Church— / I keep it, staying at Home— / With a Bobolink for a Chorister—.” Or the phoebe, image of Dickinson’s own timidity: “I dwelt too low that any seek— / Too shy, that any blame— / A Phoebe makes a little print / Upon the floors of Fame—.”

The poems collected here are themselves a treasure. But the bonus is the book’s visual dimension. Illustrations of birds by eighteenth- and nineteenth-century artists comprise the facing page of nearly every poem. These full-color prints make the book luscious to look at. And with every page printed on cardstock (imagine—cardstock!), the book is also luscious to hold. It gives a tactile pleasure that can never be replicated by e-books. Oh, and the book is hardcover, too—giving that wonderful sense of permanence and solidity that paperbacks and e-books can never have. [Read more...]

Denise Levertov: A Poet’s Life, Part Two

Yesterday, in Part One of my review of the major new biography, Denise Levertov: A Poet’s Life, by Dana Greene, I focused on Greene’s information and insights into Levertov’s life. Today I turn to the other term of the book’s sub-title: the poet.

Since Greene is writing a biography, not a work of literary criticism, her interest is in how Levertov’s extraordinary body of poetry both shaped and was shaped by her life experience. Indeed, Levertov’s life and art were unusually integrated.

Greene quotes one of Levertov’s colleagues after her death: “She was a unique presence because in her… everything came together in an organic whole—poetry, religion, history and politics, the natural world and people.”

From childhood, Denise sensed her vocation as a poet. At age twelve, she boldly sent some poems to T.S. Eliot. He replied encouragingly, re-enforcing her vocational identity. [Read more...]

Denise Levertov: A Poet’s Life, Part One

I thought I knew Denise Levertov.

In the 1970s, she and my husband were both part of the English department faculty at Tufts University. He was writing about the Beat poets, whom Denise had known well, and she graciously came to our house for my husband to interview.

I used to walk by her house, in our neighborhood, and admire the brilliant flowers in her English garden.

Yes, I thought I knew Denise Levertov. I’ve read most of her poetry many times. After 9/11, I read it through once again, in order, starting with her 1961 collection, The Jacob’s Ladder.

I needed to be with Levertov’s poems daily because I knew that she’d engaged the difficult political issues of her day: the Vietnam War, the nuclear arms race, U.S. interventions in Latin America. I thirsted for her poetic insights on how to engage the post-9/11 world.

But now I realize I scarcely knew Levertov at all until reading this first complete biography of her, Dana Greene’s Denise Levertov: A Poet’s Life[Read more...]

Something Like Jasmine Meditates on Mortality

Living with leukemia, I naturally meditate often on our human mortality. No, often is the wrong word: the meditation is a constant undercurrent of my consciousness.

We are all mortal, of course; yet (of course) we live most of our lives trying to distract ourselves from this undeniable, unpleasant fact. The gift of a life-threatening illness is that it trumps the desire for distraction.

Advancing age can bring this same gift. Murray Bodo, now in his mid-seventies, wraps the gift in perfectly crafted poems offered to us in his new collection, Something Like Jasmine.

Fr. Murray Bodo  is a Franciscan priest and author of acclaimed books on St. Francis. He has been Image Artist of the Month and a chaplain at the Glen Workshop.

All of his writing—poetry and prose—exudes Franciscan joy. So even the opening poem of Something Like Jasmine imagines his own inevitable death in playful terms:

Like the movies of your childhood
when you didn’t want them to end
even if you knew the ending,

you see your life and try to keep
the reel from running out because
you know it’s not just a movie… [Read more...]

Eggs, Milk, and Maternal Instinct

When I saw my eye doctor recently for a potentially serious condition, she recommended that I eat eggs. “Lots of them, especially the yolks.”

I laughed, remembering what an elderly friend, now passed away, once told me. Her husband was a physician, and early in their marriage (which would have been about fifty years ago), whenever she was angry at her husband about something, she would prepare herself an egg for breakfast. Consistent with the medical advice at the time, he was certain that eggs were bad for you. So eating one silently was her way of getting back at him.

I’m intrigued by how medical knowledge goes in and out of fashion. [Read more...]

Imago Dei

What does it mean to write poems in the Christian tradition? Creative writing teachers at Christian colleges wrestle with this question every day, as do many poets who write out of their grounding in Christian faith.

If I were teaching poetry at a Christian college, I’d hand my students the new anthology Imago Dei, published by Abilene Christian University Press. The poems—selected by Jill Peláez Baumgaertner, who teaches at Wheaton College and is Poetry Editor of The Christian Century and a poet herself—are drawn from the journal Christianity and Literature over its past sixty years.

What delights await the reader of this volume!

It’s no surprise to find in Imago Dei (Latin for “Image of God”) a poem on the Nativity or on Easter. But watch what Barbara Crooker does in “Cold Easter.” Beginning with an unusually chilly Easter day, she moves seamlessly into unexpected places:

a sputter of snow that turns the air white, but the grass
burns its green fire, and nothing sticks. Nothing lasts,
my mother says, fading from my eyes, and none of the fancy
tricks in the doctor’s bag can make her stay. [Read more...]