poem: obedience

[Chris Weaver]

Hi List,

I'm enjoying the thread about boundaries.  Lately I am engaged in a
community conversation in my workplace about tools for responsive
teaching...or about holding space for childrens' creativity.  As my
colleagues and I have delved deeply into the question of what creativity is
and what supports it, I have found myself thinking, without knowing why,
about the idea of spiritual obedience.  In fact I am rather relishing the
notion of obedience, and I think it has something to do with the secret
power of boundaries.  Honoring structure, holding structure, and why, and
which.

Anyhoo, I wrote a poem.


Talking to Noah

I found him late in life
carving a piece of wood
by a dry stream bed.

You know, Grandfather, I began,
I want to be as obedient as you.
Will you tell me about it?

He had the kind of face
that didn¹t need to smile.
His face was a smile.

Obedience, he said, as if
hearing the word
for the first time.

He looked up at me.
Yes,  he said.
I¹ll tell you about it.

When I was a boy, I was shy
and besieged by a doubt
that no one could understand.

For a time it was like living
alone in an oven, looking out at people,
them in the cool air, me burning.

Then one day, a woman looked in at me.
She was old, and beautiful,
 a shepherdess with dusty feet.

She recognized me, and held
out her hands.  I took them,
and she pulled me out of there,

so smoothly, so naturally,
that I didn¹t even have time
to be surprised.

That¹s what it¹s like
when your shackles get broken.
Sparks don¹t fly.  It¹s like melting

ice, like opening your eyes
after sleep.  We sat on a rock
and she held my hands in hers,

turning them slowly, looking at them.
She was quiet for a long time,
and finally she said,

You pay attention, Noah.
You¹re going to build something.





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