{"id":27589,"date":"2024-10-25T08:58:25","date_gmt":"2024-10-25T12:58:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=27589"},"modified":"2024-10-25T08:58:26","modified_gmt":"2024-10-25T12:58:26","slug":"strangers-on-our-own-turf-in-our-own-time","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2024\/10\/strangers-on-our-own-turf-in-our-own-time\/","title":{"rendered":"Strangers on Our Own Turf, in Our Own Time"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n

[Image: “In Clover,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page<\/a> at <\/em>RAMH.)]<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

From whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

One of the qualities that you can develop, particularly in your older years, is a sense of great compassion for yourself. When you visit the wounds within the temple of memory, you should not blame yourself for making bad mistakes that you greatly regret. Sometimes you have grown unexpectedly through these mistakes. Frequently, in a journey of the soul, the most precious moments are the mistakes. They have brought you to a place that you would otherwise have always avoided. You should bring a compassionate mindfulness to your mistakes and wounds. Endeavor to inhabit the rhythm you were in at that time. If you visit this configuration of your soul with forgiveness in your heart, it will fall into place itself. When you forgive yourself, the inner wounds begin to heal. You come in out of the exile of hurt into the joy of inner belonging.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(John O’Donohue [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and, from whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Prayer<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl
themselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the
way to create <\/em>current, making of their unison (turning, re-
infolding<\/span>,
entering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a
visual current, one that cannot freight or sway by
minutest fractions the water’s downdrafts and upswirls, the
dockside cycles of finally – arriving boat – wakes, there where
they hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into
itself (it has those layers) a real current though mostly
invisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing
motion that forces change—<\/span>
this is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets
what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing
is to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more by
each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself,
also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something
at sea. Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through
in the wind, I look in and say take this, this is
what I have saved, take this, hurry. And if I listen
now? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only
something I did. I could not choose words. I am free to go.
I cannot of course come back. Not to this. Never.
It is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Jorie Graham [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

There are a hundred kinds of silence. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s the thick silence of places long sealed shut, and the muffled silence of ears stoppered up. The empty silence of the dead, and the heavy silence of the dying. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is the hollow silence of a man who has stopped praying, and the airy silence of an empty synagogue, and the held-breath silence of someone hiding from themselves. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is the awkward silence that fills the space between people who don\u2019t know what to say. And the taut silence that falls over those who do, but don\u2019t know where or how to start.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(V.E. Schwab [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

If You Said You Would Come With Me<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In town it was very urban but in the country cows were covering the hills. The clouds were near and very moist. I was walking along the pavement with Anna, enjoying the scattered scenery. Suddenly a sound like a deep bell came from behind us. We both turned to look. “It’s the words you spoke in the past, coming back to haunt you,” Anna explained. “They always do, you know.” Indeed I did. Many times this deep bell-like tone had intruded itself on my thoughts, scrambling them at first, then rearranging them in apple-pie order. “Two crows,” the voice seemed to say, “were sitting on a sundial in the God- given sunlight. Then one flew away.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Yes\u2026 and then?<\/em>” I wanted to ask, but I kept silent. We turned into a courtyard and walked up several flights of stairs to the roof, where a party was in progress. “This is my friend Hans,” Anna said by way of introduction. No one paid much attention and several guests moved away to the balustrade to admire the view of orchards and vineyards, approaching their autumn glory. One of the women however came to greet us in a friendly manner. I was wondering if this was a “harvest home,” a phrase I had often heard but never understood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Welcome to my home\u2026 well, to our home,” the woman said gaily. “As you can see, the grapes are being harvested.” It seemed she could read my mind. “They say this year’s vintage will be a mediocre one, but the sight is lovely, nonetheless. Don’t you agree, Mr\u2026”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Hans,” I replied curtly. The prospect was indeed a lovely one, but I wanted to leave. Making some excuse I guided Anna by the elbow toward the stairs and we left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“That wasn’t polite of you,” she said dryly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Honey, I’ve had enough of people who can read your mind. When I want it done I’ll go to a mind reader.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I happen to be one and I can tell you what you’re thinking is false. Listen to what the big bell says: ‘We are strangers on our own turf, in our own time.’ You should have paid attention. Now adjustments will have to be made.”<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(John Ashbery [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Vapor Wake<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Intelligence came on
about seven o\u2019clock
that evening, without
any warning, for the
first time in two or three
months—I\u2019d been crying,
my eyes were Christmas bulbs,
love had dropped its honeydew
and my mind was splattered
when suddenly I heard Edith Piaf
singing in the next room
and remembered that pretty souvenirs
were manufactured after the war
to be bought by soldiers
who had greatly suffered,
pink rayon handkerchiefs
with the flags of two countries
embroidered there—lo,
I could leave these shores,
I could sail home, I could
take something with me,
I could leave something in
return, and at that word
it came back, alive.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Mary Ruefle [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “In Clover,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river: One of the qualities that you can develop, particularly in your older years, is a sense of great compassion for yourself. When you visit the wounds within the temple […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27593,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":null,"activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"federate","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Jorie Graham, John Ashbery, et al.: 'Strangers on Our Own Turf, in Our Own Time'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[38,247,1393,4701,250,4878,251,4159],"tags":[1400,1532,3075,3781,4454,5519,5990,5999,6000],"class_list":{"0":"post-27589","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-backwards","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","10":"category-my-photography","11":"category-art","12":"category-fiction","13":"category-poetry-writing_cat","14":"category-essays","15":"tag-the-self","16":"tag-john-odonohue","17":"tag-mary-ruefle","18":"tag-jorie-graham","19":"tag-john-ashbery","20":"tag-regrets","21":"tag-v-e-schwab","22":"tag-conscience","23":"tag-forgiveness","24":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/10\/inclover_johnesimpson_med.jpg?fit=1024%2C1024&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-7aZ","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27589","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27589"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27589\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27598,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27589\/revisions\/27598"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27593"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27589"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27589"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27589"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}