Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons

This poem found me at the beginning of lockdown (although it was written some years ago). It’s a mad poem that for me gives perfect expression to the wildness, the terribleness and the beauty of these lockdown times. Some things can’t be understood, they can only be experienced, viscerally and mysteriously, just like the times we are living in. Covid-19 turned up unannounced (although not entirely unexpected) and has thrust us into previously unimagined turmoil, both communally and personally. It invites us to reassess all that we took for granted, or depended on. It shows us our world – the planet and its population – in a new light. It shows us both the best and the worst of ourselves.

As well as giving expression to our pandemic experience, the poem also expresses , for me, something of the thing we call God. This is the wild God, the God of Jacob’s wrestling, the God who spoke to Job ‘out of the storm’, the God who comes to disturb, unsettle and bless us in the twists and turns of our lives. The God who sometimes doesn’t feel safe, but is ultimately the safest place we can put our trust, where we discover the life in death.

Once again, here’s an audio version. I really enjoyed reading this one! I’d love to hear what you think of it.

Sometimes a Wild God

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.

The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.

When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.

Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.

The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.

The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.

The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.

In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.

The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.

‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

Listen to them:

The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.

Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.

Tom Hirons

Poems I’ve felt accompanied by during these strange times. Today, it’s Breathing Underwater by Carol Bieleck.

I came across this poem years ago and it took my breath away. At the time life felt overwhelming, as though I was drowning with no resources for making sense of or surviving what was happening. The poem found me at just the right time, bringing a message about surrendering to events, not as a victim, but with a kind of contemplative, curious acceptance. I won’t pretend that was or continues to be a smooth process! I still rail against events and people that I feel flooded by, but this poem serves as a gentle reminder that there is life, and indeed castles beneath the waters. I hope you find it has something to say to you in these watery times.

I recently read it out loud to a friend going through her own ‘underwater’ experience, and she encouraged me to record myself, so I’m including an audio version for you to listen to if you fancy.

Breathing Underwater by Carol Bieleck

I built my house by the sea.
Not on the sands, mind you,
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.
A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.
Good neighbors.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences,
respectful, keeping our distance
but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.
Always the fence of sand our barrier,
always the sand between.

And then one day
(and I still don’t know how it happened)
The sea came.
Without warning.

Without welcome even.
Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine,
less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight, and I thought of drowning, and I thought of death.
But while I thought, the sea crept higher till it reached my door.
And I knew that there was neither flight nor death nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling you stop being good neighbors,
Well acquainted, friendly from a distance neighbors.
And you give your house for a coral castle
And you learn to breathe under water.

It’s a gift to come across poems that, when you read them, sound familiar, in a ‘I-know-this-experience-I-just-haven’t-had-words-for-it’ sort of way. I’ve been living with a few of these during our pandemic times, and they make sense of things to me in ways all the commentators and news broadcasts fail to do. Here’s one that describes both my nighttime fears, and the consolation I then experience walking in my local park:

Ten years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It arrived hard on the heels of a painful divorce and many subsequent losses: my home, friendships, church community. An excruciating disintegration of much of who I thought I was. 

I was on the less serious end of things, never in fear for my life, yet it was still disruptive, unwelcome, at times scary, exhausting, and lonely (socially isolating!). It was also physically challenging, with trauma to my breasts and the loss of my hair , both of which I had always felt confident about! In short, I wasn’t in the market for another Big Life Experience. My vanity was severely bruised, as well as my self image as a healthy, resilient person, and I mostly wanted things (i.e. my body) to go back to how they were. I didn’t want to be changed!

But change me it did, in ways I feel grateful for now. In some sense divorce had broken me (cancer almost certainly arrived as my body’s response to the stress of that), and cancer put me back together, arriving as an uninvited Dark Guest, bringing moments of great grace and gift, a sense of being on a long, ironically healing, retreat. All in all, a severe mercy.

All this has come to mind as we adjust to this lockdown, this sudden disruption of our lives and world. I have been recalling some of the things that in amidst the chaos and uncertainty, helped and consoled me during that 8-month (re)treatment:

• A very early, initial (pre-diagnosis) curiosity about what this experience (actually, this lump) had come to teach me, and wanting to be awake and open to that. I wobbled hugely on this as the months progressed, but it has always seemed to me to be a trustworthy ‘touchstone’ that I have often recalled.
• My connection with friends and family. Ten years ago, it was by email with an eventual list of 90 people (small fry in these Instagram days!). These contacts, and people’s kindness, were a lifeline and a needed reminder that in my desolating circumstances I was loved.
• Writing: I loved writing and crafting my record of what was happening, a ‘breast cancer log’ sent out to those friends and family. I’ve recently re-read it and it made me laugh and cry, and reminded me of how helpful it was for me to write it all down.
• Reading: I had little energy or concentration for high literature, but two books stand out: Victor Frankl’s ‘Man’s Search for Meaning’, the essential thesis of which is that you have a much greater chance of coming through difficult experiences (in his case Auschwitz), well and with resilience, if you can find meaning in them. A bit like my curiosity about what my cancer had come to teach me, and my on-going search for ‘God in all things’. Also Sara Maitland’s ‘A Book of Silence’ that introduced me to, and gave me a hunger for, the gifts of solitude and silence.

• A contraction of life, a gratitude for small things: the tree in blossom outside my bathroom window; a short walk in the park; tea with friends.
• A connection with whatever it is we call God – something more, something both beyond myself and deeply within myself. I had a general sense of something Tender accompanying me through it all, and in addition I was given one moment of something more numinous: lying alone in a hospital treatment room awaiting my initial biopsy, feeling scared and lonely, I suddenly felt a quiet but certain sense of a loving Presence with me, an ‘all shall be well’ assurance. It came unannounced and unexpected, and felt entirely trustworthy – another ‘touchstone’ that sustained me.

So as we settle in for who knows how long, I want to slow down and make choices that nourish me: creativity, good reading, connection (now with Zoom) with friends and family around the world; connection with nature, and silence – and connection with God in all those things. I want to let this time change me, teach me, soften me (my heart, not my middle!). Whether or not we ever know the great meaning of this, each day I can make meaningful choices.

Alongside that, I continue the work these experiences prepared me for, as a spiritual director and therapist, offering space for people to share their vulnerabilities, fears and joys as they navigate these strange days. Some of the people I talk with are more at the ‘coal face’ of this situation, and I can only imagine what that is like. My contribution is small, but it’s one I feel privileged to be able to provide.

*A Severe Mercy is the title of a book by Sheldon Vanauken that I read 30 years ago and the phrase has stayed with me.

(the treacherous black rocks of un-forgiveness)

I’ve been pondering forgiveness, and what feels like, in some circumstances, the utter impossibility of it, every bone in my body resistant to the ‘should’ often attached to it. Desmond Tutu’s book helped, suggesting forgiving others is the best thing we can do for ourselves, to set ourselves free from the corrosive impact of un-forgiveness ….. and like all sorts of other things I know to be good for me (eating healthily, exercise, prayer), still it feels impossible!

I’ve discovered another wonderful author who offers wisdom for this rocky road: Rabbi Rami Shapiro. With humour, humaneness, and generosity he suggests in his book ‘Forgiveness‘ that this challenging quality is not an action, but an attitude, a whole-of-life stance towards the messy world of people.

Just how do we live in this attitude? By recognising that, for the most part, we humans are only trying to be happy; and that, as we stumble about in understandable pursuit of said happiness, we tread on each other’s toes, or worse (we may sometimes do this deliberately, but mostly, not).

In addition to that first lens, the Rabbi suggests, it helps to recognise that in any unhappy encounter or relational dynamic, we are each complicit, even if we are the ‘victim’.  (This is not to condone any version of abuse or mistreatment, or to disregard the complex layers of our relationships and choices, but to understand that it takes ‘two to tango’, and that as long as we stay in an unhealthy dynamic, we are contributing to its existence.)

With these two insights, we can face the situations that have hurt us, and see that at their heart, they are usually about each party crashing about in search of happiness, in the process breaking trust, breaking promises, breaking hearts.

This is pertinent to my own life; I also spend my working week listening to a wide variety of stories of hurt, brokenness, hope, and desire, and I think the Rabbi’s suggestion bears out. We are all fragile and vulnerable, subject to so many insidious messages about how to be happy, that we end up inadvertently contributing to the ocean of unhappiness in the world – hurting others and hurting ourselves. The answer is not to beat up the other person(s), or ourselves, but to look on both with eyes of compassion for that which is within and without that conspires to make us act in these ways.

So I’m going to practice living in an attitude of forgiveness towards others, and towards myself. As I sit feeling into this possibility, it feels inviting, and very different to the tense ‘should’ of attempting ‘to forgive’.

I wonder also, if this kindlier disposition towards the fragility and vulnerability of our human condition might make those other ‘good for me’ things (eating healthily, exercise, prayer) a little easier too!

As ever, a poet says it better, so here’s my rather blissful, and challenging, poem of the week:

PS: I’ve also read the Rabbi’s ‘The Sacred Art of Lovingkindness‘ of which I’d like to keep a pile next to my ‘spiritual director’s chair’ and hand one out to each of my directees, saying ‘it’s all in here, what you’re searching for’!

PPS: There are countless seemingly diabolical acts of cruelty, abuse and injustice in the world that would appear not to fit into these suggestions. But perhaps even then, when we peel back the layers, we’ll find that the same holds true there, just as in our apparently less toxic choices.

I have a mantra: “Annette, you will never regret going to the park” that comes in handy on days when I think I’d rather stay on the sofa. It proves to be true every time.

Today I went for a very slow run through the park. I’ve had a busy and physically tiring few days, so I felt very weary as I set off. But the park worked its usual magic and as I stumbled along I thanked her and all her occupants for being my teacher, parent and friend.

e.e.cummings says it so much better than I do:

i thank you God for most this amazing by E. E. Cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Over the past few weeks I’ve been sending a poem every Monday to a dear friend who was in need of support. Other people offered to do her laundry or cleaning …. I sent her poems! She has been gracious enough to say they were much appreciated, and I do want to believe poetry and other carefully considered writing can bring consolation and comfort.

The weeks have passed, my friend still needs support and lots of loving, but I thought I would now post them here and on Facebook to widen the reach and share things that comfort and also challenge me.

Here’s one I find very challenging! I love my ‘things’, they tell stories, have memories embedded in them, make my house beautiful and give the illusion of identity and safety.

But they also weigh me down and limit my freedom and give me a false sense of who I really am.

I would like to enjoy ‘living lighter’ while I’m still here, and relieve my daughters of the task of getting rid of it all when I’m gone. But I am early to this thought, so it’s a work in progress! In the meantime, here’s the poem. Let me know your responses:

Storage, by Mary Oliver

When I moved from one house to another

there were many things I had no room

for. What does one do? I rented a storage

space. And filled it. Years passed.

Occasionally I went there and looked in,

but nothing happened, not a single

twinge of the heart.

As I grew older the things I cared

about grew fewer, but were more

important. So one day I undid the lock

and called the trash man. He took

everything.

I felt like the donkey when

his burden is finally lifted. Things!

Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful

fire! More room in your heart for love,

for the trees! For the birds who own

nothing—the reason they can fly.

Last weekend I visited Wakehurst Place in Sussex, hoping to catch the autumn colours. Glorious at any time, in fact most of the leaves had dropped and I had to be content with kicking my way through their crunchy carpet of colour. Then, serendipitously, I rounded a corner and encountered this Japanese maple – small, elegant, and flaming red. And it stopped me in my tracks.

I lingered awhile, then moved on. But the flaming red stayed with me. Earlier that day, I had talked with friends who argued for the ‘absoluteness’ of how God is presented in scripture, whereas I argued for more mystery & uncertainty, more allowance for each of us to wrestle, explore, experiment, listen, and play, so that a personal story & relationship ‘unfurl’. I just don’t believe, any more, in a faith that nails down its certainty, that believes it fully understands what God is or what God intends. This sense is supported by conversations I have with people I accompany, watching them move from simply accepting the so-called truths told them about the ‘God out there’, and come more and more into an experience with the ‘God within’.

Back to the burning bush, that red, miraculous shining. I was having my own ‘Moses experience’, on holy ground (although refrained from taking my shoes off on that wet and cold day), and I heard this small tree, in its autumn glory, announce that all creation is aflame with God, and that we are each invited to stop, listen, bow, and play our part in the dance, the colour, and the song of love and suffering in the world.

What if Scripture, rather than being an absolute to be taken on board literally, contains pointers to the nature of God, and how God is revealed in the world. What if it is an invitation for each of us to find God for ourselves, in our own encounters. This is how scripture (those ancient accounts from a culture and language so distant from our own), and the world, comes alive! I want to keep my eyes, my ears, and my heart open to burning bushes that stop me in my tracks, draw me, invite me to remove my shoes and bow to the mysterious, alluring, unknowable God.

PS: Gerard Manley Hopkins says it much better than I in his glorious poem God’s Grandeur:

This is an article I wrote for the London Centre of Spiritual Direction blog, and it didn’t occur to me at the time to post it on my own blog, so here it is now, better late than never, I hope!

I work at the London Centre for Spiritual Direction in London as an Ignatian spiritual director, and also teach on the Ignatian training course. It is work I find immensely fulfilling and feel very grateful for, both for the work itself and the privilege of accompanying people, and also for the community of friends and colleagues at the Centre.

I am also a potter, and during Lent and Easter this year, I showed, in the Centre, two collections of pots and vessels made over the past 18 months – a bringing together of these important parts of myself and who God has made me to be. 

Firstly my ‘Lent Pots’:

In 2016 I decided that during Lent I would throw a pot each day. In the preceding months I had spent very little time in my studio and was sorely out of practice at throwing.

It proved to be a delightful, absorbing and loving exercise. Although a number of the pots ‘slumped’ in the making, those 40 days improved my throwing and taught me much about the need to be dedicated to my creative practice. It also provided a springboard into a much freer, experimental and ‘wild’ approach to my pottery, producing what I call my ‘Easter’ pots (see below).

What has all this to do with Lent?

My daily commitment spoke to me of God’s dedication to forming me, day by day, including the days that I ‘slump’.

It taught me not to be ashamed of my ‘failures’ – that what looks like failure can be part of a creative, joyful, life-giving process.

It taught me to play, with shape and colour, letting go of ‘right & wrong’ and of fearing judgement.

In valuing myself and what brings me joy, I experienced and trusted more in God’s loving gaze and delight in me.

Some pots not only slumped, but cracked in the firing, and to these I applied the Japanese craft of ‘Kintsugi’, repairing the cracks with gold lacquer. This, for me, conveys the deepest meaning of Lent & Easter, that what is broken is still beautiful. Indeed, it is beautiful and full of new life BECAUSE it is broken.

Then came my ‘Easter Pots’:

I began making these pots at a week-long ceramic workshop I attended just after Easter 2016, where I arrived and said ‘I’ve come to make a mess’! I wanted to find more freedom in my making.

And it worked! I have had such fun making these. Beginning with smaller wheel-thrown pots and moving to larger, hand-built ones, I have felt freer, bolder, much less anxious about the outcome or others’ opinion. A friend said some of them look volcanic, which really pleased me as it suggests something raw and primal, organic, forged in the depths. It does feel that they are coming from a true, loving place deep in myself.

There has been almost no planning to them, much more a ‘let’s wait and see’ approach, accepting the shapes and patterns as they come, in some cases splattering colour as a child might.

They are teaching me about playful creativity, and about a God who is playfully and continuously creative, who loves me whatever shape and colour I am, indeed who MADE me the shape and colour I am, and who invites me to join in with, as well as submit to, the on-going, still-emerging process of creation.

Is this what resurrection is? A being loved into the fulness of who we are, discovering that we ‘live and have our being’ in the flow of God’s unstoppable, ever-loving, ever-enlivening and joyful creative energy?

It has been a joy to share these with the community in the Centre, and now with you. You can see more of my work at https://www.facebook.com/annettekayeceramics/

I have walked the length of the beach, up and down, in a warm blustery wind, 

paddling in the ebbing tide, photographing shells, clumps of seaweed, star-shaped limpet creatures.

Have I thought of God once? No.

Have I felt grateful? Yes!

Have I felt alive? Yes!