I shared this poem this morning at church, along with the little mini-reflection before it. I've been asked to post it here...so here it is (with names taken out for anonymity). The service was about bells, and the prompt I received was "write something about bells." This is what I got.
The challenge in writing about bells, I discovered, is that I
have more to say about what comes after the sound than I do about the physical
bell or about the sound itself. The
magic, for me, is in that wonderful moment that comes after the ring: the quiet
that fills the space slowly as the ringing fades away. The way the air seems to clear for whatever
may come next. The stillness that fills the space in the clearing. We hear it every week when our ministers ring the bell that prepares us to worship.
Have you ever really let yourself be carried into that quiet moment that
follows the ringing? Haven't you also
felt the excitement, or anticipation, or stillness, or peace, or power of that
moment as we settle into our time together?
Sarah Kay, a spoken word poet I admire, has a series of poems
that are love letters between inanimate objects -- for example, a love letter
between a toothbrush and a bicycle tire.
As I sat, wondering how to write about the moment of stillness following
the sound of the bell, this concept - the concept of a love letter - kept
coming to mind. What better way to
convey that relationship, I thought. The
relationship between the bell and the air and silence surrounding it -- that
has to be a relationship of love. How
else could it make something so beautiful?
I realize this is a little strange. I realize that there are probably few people
who would consider the quality of the relationship between a bell and the air,
much less decide to write a poem about it. But I have learned to take inspiration in any
form...so if you'll indulge me, I'll share with you a poem - a love letter, if
you will-- between the bell and the air.
A
love letter from the bell to the air
They told me my job was to move
through you.
To crash my sides with peals and
ringing,
to throw my essence from my edges
to announce my presence to the
quiet spaces,
disrupt the silence by cutting
through you and move
as far away as possible.
They said to chime with strength
and dignity.
My job was to move, and move, and
move,
to the recesses of every space.
To fill all the corners with my
presence,
announcing peace, or justice,
or hope, or magic, or angels,
or God, or war as though
I was the only thing that
mattered.
But they never mentioned the way
you would carry me.
That you would move me as ocean
moves sand -
together -
you pull me ever forward.
A vessel of hope and greater
promise
you wrap yourself around my solid
frame
warm against my vibration
hold my trembling
and carry me through the empty
spaces:
a magic carpet bringing pieces of
me into
a whole new world.
Who knew the things we would see
there?
Who knew what adventures lay
before us as we soared
in every direction;
sometimes stopping at an eardrum to
be received
as a moment of grace
or meditation, or annoyance
or peace or liberation or warning...
how many purposes we serve.
What meaning we bring together --
me, with my rough and clanging
metal, and you
the soft quiet that completes me.
I love that about us.
But my favorite - my favorite is
when I ring
and you carry me out and out and
out forever and nothing stops us until
I grow faint, and you grow weary,
and together we land, gently,
on the prairie grass
or high atop a mountain
or on rooftops of sleeping people
and we sit there, waiting and
silent,
witnessing our aftermath
and the space we create in the
empty wholeness that follows.
We look over the peaceful,
or hurting,
or joyous,
or war-torn world and know
this next moment will be
different
if only because of what we
created:
you carried me
and we held one another
to the very end.
Lovely. Thank you.
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