Things That Come to Fearless Poets

In the mailbox this morning...some interesting reminders...

This is Bob Dylan's birthday, born (1941) Robert Zimmerman in 1941 in Duluth, Minnesota, which makes him one year older than I am. He was reared in Hibbing, which is about as remote as one can get in Minnesota, more remote than Tulsa, Oklahoma where I abide and where Dylan's historical archive has just opened downtown next door to the Woody Guthrie Museum.

Anybody who really knows also knows that they don’t know at all. —Richard Rohr.

The “Great Mystery” is beyond any kind of rational certitude. Our present notion is never it, because if we comprehend it, it is neither great nor mysterious. Of one thing we may be certain: that mystery is not a “thing.” It is not an “it.”

...when you are just in the moment, doing what you are doing, there is no fear. The fear is when you stand back to think about it. The fear is not in the actions. The fear is in the thought about the actions. – Ram Dass

...all of which means...

Everything is Waiting for You – David Whyte

Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the
conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

Bob Dylan is said to have said about his writing: “If I can sing it, it’s a song. If I can’t sing it, it’s a poem.” He could have added: If he can’t do either, he paints or draws it. Regardless: Happy Birthday Bob, glad for the conversation.