"Graduation"
Dorothea Tanning
He told us, with the years,
you will come to love the world.
And we sat there with our souls in our laps
and comforted them.
I've been searching for this poem since I read it on the New York Subway a couple weeks ago. I think its beautiful. I'm not sure I'm supposed to think that since it was in an ad... But it's one of those poems that hits me in the gut when I read it. I love that. Maybe reading it on the subway was what made me like it. It's hard to forget the rawness of the world on a subway car in New York City. Surrounded by walls that, when first built, shined with glossy white tile - but they've been touched and smudged and dirtied by time into a rough, oily surface that even the most free person prefers not to touch. A dirtied yellow color appropriate for the underground of a city. It reminds me of a book I read in high school that talked about how, in rural Africa, white fabric doesn't exist. With the dirt and dust, nothing stays pure white for long. But it's not just Africa.
Sitting on the subway, reading Dorothea's poem, the thought of loving the world seems first like a horror. But maybe that's only if I try to love it for what its not. Or what its not supposed to ever be. I like subways for a number of reasons. One is that, when barreling through the underground tunnels of a city, there is no pretending that this world is supposed to be glossy and clean and pure. When you put a bunch of messy people in one place, clean white tile isn't going to last long. And I think that's beautiful, in its own way. It exposes the truth about us that we can't hide. We are worse than we think.
I don't, and never will, have it all together. The shiny, unblemished parts of myself won't last. Actually, they don't even exist. And the question is, how long will I pretend that they do? When will I believe that, in Him, the broken parts of me aren't shameful - they are human? And that accepting my humanity is a step towards healing? Healing my shattered view that I have what I need inside of myself. It feels too risky - but admitting my humanity is a jump into the arms of my Creator. And really there is no risk at all.
There is beauty in the worn, lonely places of this world. The places we have dirtied and battered with time. But maybe not for any other reason than that they catch us longing for something greater. Something that doesn't blemish. Or wear out. And isn't offended when we do. And we sat there with our souls in our laps and comforted them.
Dorothea Tanning
He told us, with the years,
you will come to love the world.
And we sat there with our souls in our laps
and comforted them.
I've been searching for this poem since I read it on the New York Subway a couple weeks ago. I think its beautiful. I'm not sure I'm supposed to think that since it was in an ad... But it's one of those poems that hits me in the gut when I read it. I love that. Maybe reading it on the subway was what made me like it. It's hard to forget the rawness of the world on a subway car in New York City. Surrounded by walls that, when first built, shined with glossy white tile - but they've been touched and smudged and dirtied by time into a rough, oily surface that even the most free person prefers not to touch. A dirtied yellow color appropriate for the underground of a city. It reminds me of a book I read in high school that talked about how, in rural Africa, white fabric doesn't exist. With the dirt and dust, nothing stays pure white for long. But it's not just Africa.
Sitting on the subway, reading Dorothea's poem, the thought of loving the world seems first like a horror. But maybe that's only if I try to love it for what its not. Or what its not supposed to ever be. I like subways for a number of reasons. One is that, when barreling through the underground tunnels of a city, there is no pretending that this world is supposed to be glossy and clean and pure. When you put a bunch of messy people in one place, clean white tile isn't going to last long. And I think that's beautiful, in its own way. It exposes the truth about us that we can't hide. We are worse than we think.
I don't, and never will, have it all together. The shiny, unblemished parts of myself won't last. Actually, they don't even exist. And the question is, how long will I pretend that they do? When will I believe that, in Him, the broken parts of me aren't shameful - they are human? And that accepting my humanity is a step towards healing? Healing my shattered view that I have what I need inside of myself. It feels too risky - but admitting my humanity is a jump into the arms of my Creator. And really there is no risk at all.
There is beauty in the worn, lonely places of this world. The places we have dirtied and battered with time. But maybe not for any other reason than that they catch us longing for something greater. Something that doesn't blemish. Or wear out. And isn't offended when we do. And we sat there with our souls in our laps and comforted them.
