a new song

of overalls and cherry blossoms
and God’s springtime pallette, of a stranger on a street corner
wearing ruby silk skirts, shock of black hair over her shoulder, 
of pussywillow and peach kombucha
and that one cool waft of air when the fan turns its face to you,
I will sing

these silly lists are all I seem able to create, 
silly because they seem so unoriginal, just a looking and a naming,
nothing new, but then
to be able to see—to be able to call a thing its name—
is all we’ve ever tried and failed to do

actually every shaft of light, particular arrangement of photons,
every intake of air, unique composition of gasses, 
is new, and so my
little litany trying to catch them in the sieve as they skitter by, 
my lilting list trying to nail down the breeze, 
is a new song

watch it undo the first woman’s false witness, watch it 
unravel the chosen’s people inability to receive with grace, watch it 
reverse the centuries of curse and blindness, inattention to 
everything important: in real time in my listmaking I am watching him 
make all things new

and so: 
of rainbow baby’s breath bouquets and the perfect meme, 
of the dog leaping into the lap and dark chocolate in the afternoon, 
of bluetooth speakers and elevators and prayers across the waters,
I will sing

Once on a park bench a block from Wall Street, one of my philosophy professors held office hours. We sat on curved benches facing a fountain, pencils and notebooks in the hands of the conscientious and coffees in the hands of all, and we asked him about the pre-Socratics and their more famous heirs. Philosophers, he said, are engaged in the task of discovering what is real, holding up all that we think and experience to the great sieve and sorting through which thing has more substance (a loaded word in these discussions) than another.

He paused, made an addendum. Poets—they might be the only others who ask what makes one thing more real than another.

We looked at the sprays of bright green leaves on the bursting bushes flanking the fountain.

Scientists, too, he added. When biologists assign species names and uncover better descriptions of relations and categorize all the marvels we see (and so many more we don’t)—that too is part of naming and affirming reality.

And my theology brain extends the idea: that too is part of image-bearing. We’re Adam in the garden, naming the animals. We’re David in the Psalms, recounting God’s wonders of old. We’re Paul, spinning out from dense theology into flights of praise.

Gratitude, as I tried to convince myself in this poem, is never foolish or shallow or unoriginal. It’s the core of the most meaningful enterprises we humans can undertake.

How to stay awake: See. Name. Worship.

In Other Words…

None of these reviews are substantial, but they exist!

goodreads (books)

Everything Happens for a Reason (and Other Lives I've Loved) by Kate Bowler (3 stars)

letterboxd (movies)

Elf (rewatch; 3 stars) | The King (rewatch; 5 stars) | Legends of the Fall (3.5 stars) | Mission: Impossible III (rewatch; 3.5 stars) | My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2 (rewatch; 2.5 stars) | Soul (rewatch; 4 stars)

I hope your Thanksgivings were full (gastronomically and otherwise) and good. Stay awake, friends.

~ Aberdeen