EVERYDAY

If any of you are poetry fans and have not yet read any of Billie Collins' works, I highly recommend him. He has several books out, but one book in particular is a good one to buy since it is a collection of many of his others, plus some new poems as well: AIMLESS LOVE.

What I like about his writing is the way he is able to take everyday objects, situations, and events and bring them to life in a splendidly imaginative way. What we may think of as ordinary, he somehow manages to make them seem extraordinary. Whether he's talking about table settings, animals, events and places of history, friends and relatives, or just getting moving in the morning with a cup of coffee, he gives them meaning beyond mere daily existence.

I've used a few of his poems in sermons I've preached through the years, but I'm not sure I did them justice. However, you can find him on YouTube reciting some of his poetry. I would list for you some of my favorites to read, but the problem is that there are too many to mention.

Here's the thing at least for me: when I need to refresh my perspective on life for the better; when things get too heavy personally, politically and otherwise, I turn to the inspiration of appreciation for everyday reality such as I experience in reading the poetry of Billie Collins. 

I realize that not everyone finds poetry that satisfying or interesting. However, hopefully many of us can at least recapture a sense of wonder by occasionally pausing for a moment or two, taking a deep breath, looking around us, and observing that everything is filled with the rich energy of life. 

In the room in which I am writing these words, my guitar is but a small reach away waiting for me to pick it up and play; the desk at which I sit provides a cozy center for creativity; the TV is waiting to be turned on to provide news and entertainment should I want such a thing; but that's not all--everything--the books on the shelf, the lamps on the tables, the objects on the dresser, etc.--are all filed with the energy of life because they hold stories of their own to tell. 

Now before you think that I have finally lost it and someone needs to come and take me away to a place of rest, I encourage anyone who is experiencing a low spirit to pick up a copy of Billy Collins' poetry or the works of some other poet with an imaginative view of life (Robert Frost is also good for that) and get into a comfortable chair and be healed by renewed appreciation for life and the present moment.

KNOWING FROM WHENCE WE CAME

          When I wa a child, I picked blueberries and got 6 cents a pint. It took me most of the day to get three or four pints picked because I usually spent my time under the bushes, eating them. I suppose Mr. Davidson, the owner of the farm, knew what I was up to, just looking at my blue face. But he kept me on since I was there with my mother who was a much more productive employee than me. You didn't get your money upfront; instead you were given tickets to turn in for cash when you were ready to get paid. Hey--what can I say--it was a living! 
     I had other summer jobs. One year I worked for Stokes Canning Factory, drying tomato seeds. Not one-by-one, of course. There was a platform behind the factory where some old guys rinsed them in huge trash cans. Then they put them in a cloth bag through the spin cycle of an old ringer washing machine. When that was done, they handed the bags to me, and my job was to spread them out on screens and label them as to what variety of tomatoes they were. (Confession: one time I mixed up some Big Boy tomatoes with some other kind and never mentioned it to anyone. So if any of you have gardens and plant Big Boys, they may not be pure. Sorry!)
     One year--when I was about 12--I became an entrepreneur. I opened a snow cone businees out in front of our house. My dad made me a stand out of plywood and I painted it white. We bought a big block of ice from Mr. Garwood's Feed Store further up Main Street and I got an ice scraper from the five and dime. I had three or four different flavors of syrup and I think I charged 10cents a cone. I did okay, but at my dad's suggestion, I moved my business uptown in front of the Community Center where there was more action, so to speak.  
     Things were going well until one of the bigger kids in town set up a stand right near mine. We both had the same flavors so people had to decide whose snow cones they were going to buy. Then I got an idea: I went up the street to the soda fountain and asked Mr.Brown for some vanilla syrup, which neither of us had. He was reluctant at first, but then gave me some. Business picked up a bit until my competitor also got an idea--to put some pressure on me to sell him my business. I relinquished for a price that I don't remember now, but he was bigger and so I figured it was wise to give in.
     I suppose I'm sharing these little excerpts from my early life because I turn 76 at the end of this month and have decided to earnestly pursue writing an autobiography of sorts in which the above stories will be included. Mostly I'm thinking of it for the sake of my family and/or anyone else who may be interested. It is not meant for egoic purposes, but I have realized how much I have wished to know more about my parents' lives--a history long gone. They simply didn't share very much, and my sister and I know very little about our heritage. She knows more than I do, but not that much more. 
     The point is that I think we all need to be aware of how important sharing our stories is with family and friends or anyone else for that matter. I don't think we should be reluctant about doing so. And it is equally important for us to listen to the stories of others. It's not that it will change the world in some major way, but it enriches the world for all of us to have a deeper sense of what it means to be part of the human family.
   

 

I don't remember where I was, but I'm sure it was fun