THE JOURNEY

As it has been a tradition for the end of the year, I will again take the month of December to share a few of my favorite poems. I take the liberty to share my musing and reflection based on my life and my journey. I am not approaching the poems to analyze and pursue after the original intention of the poets. I have no such illusion. I am, in many ways, allowing the poems to “read” a particular junction of my life. As great art does, I am mostly allowing them to “mirror” me while I occasionally take a peak through the “window” into the poets and their lives. How do you read your life?

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

The last fourteen lines of the poem, which reads as one long breathless sentence, build like a crescendo, starting from “little” and “small” to resolute determination. One’s concerned action for the world eventually situates as a natural extension of saving one’s life. This juxtaposition of the world and oneself is often bifurcated and even portrayed as opposites. Deeper probing into the world to discern what one should be doing and saving one’s life are encouraged to be seen as two sides of the same coin. It is also the grace of God that does not waste anything, to redeem everything, to put it positively, in both saving the world and saving oneself.

There are “many” voices that Oliver refers to. Then there is a “new voice.” This “new” voice has in fact been the ancient voice of one’s own as it has been there all along, keeping close company and ever patient. It is the voice that is both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The “new” but ancient voice will not be heard unless one has left other voices behind. The stars were there all along behind the wild night, the prying wind, and the sheets of clouds.

Furthermore, the slow-burning recognition and discovery of one’s “new” voice is accompanied by striding deep into the world. To me, therein lies the subtle and mind-bending and heart-stirring work of discernment—discerning what world voices to reject and to leave behind and what world voices and cries to accept and embrace.

In this sense, this poem strikes me today as an invitation to discern and discern well. The story of a man born blind being healed by Jesus (John 9) is a fascinating account of many voices vying for attention and dominance. The truth was that the man was once blind, but he could see through Jesus’ healing touch. John does not fail to capture many voices of the crowd including the neighbors. Then there were the divided voices of the Pharisees followed by the voices of the healed man’s parents. John starts the chapter by providing the account of healing and ends the chapter with the conversation between the healed blind man and Jesus, with all other voices fading into the background. Then there was the stinging saying of Jesus pointing to the Pharisees, “I came into this world for judgment, so that those who do not see may see and those who do see may become blind.” (John 9:39) Whereas the healed man “discerned” and eventually saw, Pharisees thought they saw, and they remained blind. The Pharisees were bent on protecting and preserving their religious tradition. Any voice that wants to “save oneself,” using Oliver’s language, remains a prime candidate for rejection of the world’s voices.

Discernment posits itself as where prayer and action meet. Discernment integrates prayer and action: as action stands as the tangible beneficiary of prayer. In prayer, we discern to act and act to discern. While putting prayer into action, we continue to discern. Oliver’s poem captures a perennial truth of practicing freedom of detachment in discernment. There is awareness and recognition of the detachment (as in many voices, sometimes many “good” voices) followed by decisive action to leave the detachment behind, little by little, rather than being haunted by ankle-grabbing voices.

In recent years, I have had to leave many voices, with most of the voices being good and reasonable. These good voices, however, are not my voice. This gradual recognition while being true to my authentic voice required standing firm and risked possibly even upsetting a few along the way. I cannot see far but I see far enough to move (in action). As I act, I will need to continue to discern by striding deep into the world and deep into my soul to discover my authentic voice.