Mary van Balen

On today's Universalis site, after a two saints listed for remembrance, Blessed John Henry Newman shows up. (I mentioned him in my May 2 blogpost The Vatican, Nuns, and John Henry Newmanas a champion of lay persons' call and ability to be bearers of truth and prophetic speakers of truth to power.)



Today, I remember his poetry and writings. One has long been a favorite:
"Dear Jesus, help me to spread your fragrance everywhere I go.
Flood my soul with your spirit and life.
Penetrate my being so that all my life
may only be a radiance of you.

Shine through me, and so be in me
that every person I come in contact with
may feel your presence in my soul.
Let them look and see no longer me,
but only Jesus.

Stay with me, and then I shall begin to shine as you shine,
so to be a light to others.The light, O Jesus, will be all from you;
none of it will be mine.
It will be you shining on others through me.

Let me thus praise you in the way you love best,
by shining on those around me."

The other speaks to my frustration today with where I am, making a living, and striving to remain faithful to the call to write and share what small light entrusted to me:
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The sun beat down on artists, poets, and gallery visitors gathered for the opening of the "Language of Art" exhibit that featured twenty-five selected pieces of art and poems written in response to them. One by one, poets took center stage and read their works. I sat in a plastic lawn chair and watched, noting the variety of forms poets take: young and old, men and women. Some women readers wore pumps and dresses, others jeans and t-shirts. One walked up and halfway through her poem her hands began to shake. She put one behind her back while the other shook the paper.

"Such a small group," I thought, "and she is so nervous. She must not be accustomed to reading her work before an audience." I admired her commitment to her art. One man wore a sports jacket. Others were more casual. Each was given rapt attention and applause when they had finished. All of us sat, listened, and sweated together until the last line was read, when we moved back into the gallery to cool off and study again the art and poems displayed beside them. Read More 

In today's online New York Times, columnist David Brooks wrote about Poetry in Everyday Life," an interesting reflection on the use of metaphor to "capture what is going on." I am in favor of metaphors. Of poetry, too. However, the new translation of the Roman Missal may be, shall I say, "throwing the baby out with the bath water."

In the same NYT edition, an unrelated article questions about the new translation are raised by priests around the globe. For New Mass, Closer to Latin, Critics Voice a Plain Objection."raises questions about what some proponents claim is a more poetic translation, one literally faithful to the older Latin Mass. Metaphors are indispensable, frequently used when human beings grapple with the Divine, but they must connect with those who read or hear them, and they must make sense in today's world. Read More 

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Where do you find a room full of enthusiastic authors, poets, and storytellers celebrating life together? At the Ohio Literacy Resource Center’s Writer’s Conference. For twelve years, the OLRC has sponsored a writing contest for adults enrolled in Adult Basic and Literacy Education (ABLE) classes throughout Ohio. From hundreds of submissions, the conference committee chooses poetry, memoir, fiction, and non-fiction stories and puts them together in a softbound book.

The published authors are invited to attend the daylong conference that from its early days has featured Lyn Ford, a nationally recognized storyteller who draws on her Native American and Black American heritage to mesmerize attendees with tales of wisdom laced with humor.  Read More 

LINKS: Ted Kooser Home Page
NPR Ted Kooser Shares the Poetry of Valentine's Day

One afternoon, I heard a story on NPR about a small town post office in Valentine, Nebraska where a kind-hearted and patient woman hand-stamped their unique postmark on thousands of envelopes filled with the holiday greeting. I listened, heartened to know that such things still happen in a modern world filled with people in a hurry. The woman interviewed said she enjoyed her job and had time to add the arrow-pierced heart to anyone's valentine who took the trouble to get it to her office. Apparently, people from all over the country did just that. I went about my work that day with a smile.

Months later, I attended a writers' conference where poet Ted Kooser delivered the keynote address which, much to his audience's delight, he embellished with readings of his poetry. He read one written for Valentine's Day and then shared his tradition of sending out valentines to people all over the country. The project began simply as writing a poem for his wife, and then later, sharing it with other friends. At readings, including ours, he offered those attending the opportunity to sign up for the special cards.

"Just find me and give me a copy of your address," he said. I wrote down my address and that of one of my daughters, a poet herself, and handed the small piece of paper to Mr. Kooser at lunch. He smiled and graciously promised a Valentine when February came around.

I watched him slide the paper into his sport jacket pocket and hoped it would not get lost in his travels. Months went by and as Valentine's Dap approached, I wondered if my two addresses had found their way onto his mailing list. If not, I would understand, I thought, preparing for disappointment.

Then, on February 14, a small white postcard appeared in my mailbox. A big, red postmark grabbed my attention: Valentine Nebraska! Of course. Ted Kooser lives in Nebraska. I remembered the NPR story and the sweet woman in the little Nebraska post office. My postcard was one of thousands she stamped that year, and Ted Kooser made sure his valentines landed on her desk before one of them sailed into my mailbox.


THIS PAPER BOAT

Carefully placed upon the future,
it tips from the breeze and skims away,
frail thing of words, this valentine,
so far to sail. And if you find it
caught in the reeds, its message blurred,
the thought that you are holding it
a moment is enough for me.

Number 22, and the last of the series.
Ted Kooser, Valentine’s Day, 2007
© 2010 Mary van Balen
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LINKS: "Delights and Shadows" by Ted Kooser Home Page Ted Kooser's Official Website "I'm In Charge of Celebrations"

PHOTOS: MARY VAN BALEN
“He has a fish house on the lake behind the Abbey and goes out there, drinks tea and reads poetry. He welcomes visitors. Once he invited the Queen of England when she was in the States, but she sent her regrets, saying she was “devastated” that she could not come.”

My heart beat faster, and as Byrd Baylor says in her book, “I’m in Charge of Celebrations,” I knew tea in this monk’s fish house would be an experience worthy of anniversary remembrances.

The comment was part of general conversation at my daughter’s college graduation party. Friends gathered to mark the occasion, and while discussing unique aspects of studying at a university connected with community of Benedictine monks in rural Minnesota, a professor mentioned the fish house.

I plied the speaker with questions, hungry for more details. First, there was the matter of learning what a fish house looked like. I had visions of an old oriental carpet laid directly on the ice. What about the hole for fishing? Would that be there? Did he plumb the waters as well as verse? And how did he make tea on a frozen lake without melting something important, like the floor? Read More 

PHOTO: MARY VAN BALEN -MOON,VENUS, JUPITER OVER COLLEGEVILLE INSTITUTE

After writing about the Kepler Mission, I remembered an article my Trappist friend, Fr. Maurice Flood, sent to me years ago. It was from the July 1994 issue of Sky & Telescope and told the story of Trappist sisters at Santa Rita Abbey in Arizona who shared the love of contemplating the night sky. One in particular, Sr. Sherly Chen, a graduate of Yale, shared her thoughts with author David H. Levy.

Levy was struck by the connections between science and religion as he listened to the sisters, experienced their prayer, and gazed with them at the clear night sky. I remembered that Chen had shared a poem she had written after considering the distance starlight had to travel to be seen by her that night. I found the article and poem in my old office:

Light

which left the Pleiades
2,000 years ago
arrived just when
a Mayan's eye
peered upwards
through the stone shaft
of the Temple of the Jaguar Sun.

Other rays

began their earthward Journey
before I even existed
to meet my eye
in the expanse of desert sky
after Vigils.

Grace

sets out from God
before I need it
rushes light-years toward me
meets me at the very moment I fall.

When it arrives
I am there.

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