and give you one of my favorite poems.
women’s meditation retreat perhaps 5 years ago. My friend, in her new and
exciting Mini, maybe even with the top down, decided we were a little too
altered at the moment to listen to music on the drive down the mountains of
Napa, and so put in a CD of David Whyte. I’d never heard of him. Or his Irish accent. Or the way he repeats his own lines when he recites
them, the way he pauses to savor and emphasize words. But, I did that day.
hospital, maybe a year and a half ago. The same friend brought a slightly battered, second-hand copy of the David Whyte book named for the poem. The nurse that
day, with her Hawaiian flowerprint scrubs and her own Aussie accent, saw the gift exchange and exclaimed her own
love of David Whyte. So I asked her to read this one aloud to us, and
reluctantly, shyly, she assented. It was so still and lovely in that room then.
Is Waiting For You
great mistake is to act the drama
if you were alone. As if life
a progressive and cunning crime
no witness to the tiny hidden
intimacy of your surroundings.
you, at times, have felt the grand array;
swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
your solo voice. You must note
way the soap dish enables you,
the window latch grants you freedom.
is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
stairs are your mentor of things
come, the doors have always been there
frighten you and invite you,
the tiny speaker in the phone
your dream-ladder to divinity.
down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
conversation. The kettle is
as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
left their arrogant aloofness and
the good in you at last. All the
creatures of the world are unutterably