I've been gearing up for days to write a poem, and it still hasn't happened, but a friend posted these Wendell Berry lines on Facebook this week:
The painter Harlan Hubbard said
that he was painting Heaven when
the places he painted merely were
the Campbell or the Trimble County
banks of the Ohio, or farms
and hills where he had worked or roamed:
a house’s gable and roofline
rising from a fold in the hills,
trees bearing snow, two shanty boats
at dawn, immortal light upon
the flowing river in its bends.
And these were Heavenly because
he never saw them clear enough
to satisfy his love, his need
to see them all again, again.
Wendell Berry, from Leavings
I love the idea of those Heavenly things we keep looking at, keep seeing new sides of, new aspects. Maybe a place or an object stops being lovable to us the day we stop looking at it.
Recently my husband and I were sitting at a table in a restaurant. He told me I looked beautiful. I handed my camera to him and said, "If I look beautiful, take a picture so I can see what you see."
When I looked at his picture of me, all I could see were flaws, but it also made me smile because after all these years, he still wants to keep looking at me, to keep seeing me again and again and again, even as time and gravity and childbirth have taken their toll. Like Harlan Hubbard, painting and repainting those same homey Ohio scenes, he still hasn't seen me "clear enough." He keeps looking.
Here's this week's roundup.
6 hours ago
14 comments:
It feels to me that you've just written a poem, Ruth. This touched me deeply and the love you've shown feels down-deep good! I'm glad you shared the poem and your thoughts about it.
What a lovely poem, Ruth, and yes, it is nice to be loved so well- to gaze upon those we love and experience a bit of Heaven on Earth.
Wendell Berry and your husband being sweet -- what a lovely post. *happy sigh*
(I totally get that you have been gearing up for days to write a poem...the wheels are turning but the water hasn't started spilling over them yet!)
Thanks for the Wendell Berry excerpt and for sharing the anecdote about your husband. True love!!
I loved your story and these lines. I was just thinking after reading the poem that this is true of both places and people--and then you went on to say the exact same thing. Love.
What a sweet story and poem to go with it. We are house-hunting at the moment. I hope to find a place that makes us feel this way:
And these were Heavenly because
he never saw them clear enough
to satisfy his love, his need
to see them all again, again.
I love the tenderness of this post, Ruth. My husband was sweet enough this past week with his comments. It is especially poignant when it comes unexpectedly. When we look beyond the surface, love is revealed. I'm celebrating my granddaughter's 2nd birthday in Virginia and I can't wait to hold her in my arms and say, I love you.
As often happens over here, I'm caught up by the power of your words, Ruth, along with Wendell Berry's! Lovely post. I'm grateful my hubby and I will celebrate our 35th anniversary next weekend, so these thoughts & insights are especially dear! :0)
Awwww...I always find reading Wendell Berry is like coming home. Then your response about your husband is beautiful. I do think you have a poem in there.
Finding beauty in our everyday places–it's there right in front of us waiting for us to take it in. Thanks for sharing your story too…
Your husband is definitely a keeper!
I need to read more Wendell Berry. One of the reasons I love to go on walks with my granddaughter is that our pace is slow and she shows me all the heavenly places she finds along the way.
Your words about your husband are their own kind of poem, Ruth. I love the Wendell Berry poem, and your reflection/addition totally completes this post. (What did Wendell Berry's poem say to Ruth's blog post? "You complete me.")
Lovely!
Wonderful. And your husband’s appreciation of you, a prose poem. How long have you been married? I love the rain and the Hugh’s poem is a favorite. Expect mail this week from me. Wee tardy no the postcard poem.
Jone, we'll celebrate thirty years this summer.
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