Spring Azures, The Soot and Sill, and A New Narrative.

In spring the blue azures bow down
at the edges of shallow puddles
to drink the black rain water.
Then they rise and float away into the fields.

Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy,
and all the tricks my body knows―
the opposable thumbs, the kneecaps,
and the mind clicking and clicking—

don’t seem enough to carry me through this world
and I think: how I would like

to have wings—
blue ones—
ribbons of flame.

How I would like to open them, and rise
from the black rain water.

And then I think of Blake, in the dirt and sweat of London—a boy
staring through the window, when God came
fluttering up.

Of course, he screamed,
and seeing the bobbin of God’s blue body
leaning on the sill,
and the thousand-faceted eyes.

Well, who knows.
Who knows what hung, fluttering, at the window
between him and the darkness.

Anyway, Blake the hosier’s son stood up
and turned away from the sooty sill and the dark city—
turned away forever
from the factories, the personal strivings,

to a life of the the imagination.

- Mary Oliver

You can find a.m. on Instagram and TikTok at @absurdwisdom. We are produced and distributed by DAE Presents, the production arm of DAE (@dae.community on Instagram and online at mydae.org).

The views and opinions expressed in this podcast are those of the speakers and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of any entities they represent. While we make every effort to ensure that the information shared is accurate, we welcome any comments, suggestions, or correction of errors.

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Transcript

1:33

Hey everyone. So this is another short and solo episode and it is the last one of this season. We've completed a year of this. There are more of these than I would've imagined. 40 plus, I'm told And we're gonna take a little pause just for a few weeks and then pick back up in almost exactly four weeks with a well wait and see a, a new focus. Hopefully you'll come back and listen. So I I don't know if I've talked about this in, in the previous episode, but I've sort of evolved to this understanding of the year not being January to December for a variety of reasons. One is it just like, like I've always hated New Year's and the sort of weight of it and the, the silliness of it. But also I don't want to begin and end my year in darkness, you know, if you're living here in the Northeast, you know, the end of December, it's like kind of the peak dark and gloomy. And then last year here, we converted our fiscal calendar to July to June. And so that worked out nicely in terms of how I think about things in life in general. And so the end of June is the end of the year on practical terms. Now for DAE it's the end of the fiscal year, but for me, it's sort of, you know, my understanding of things, it's the end of the year. And July starts a new year. And so my year ends and begins in sort of warmth and light and sunshine. And that middle part of the year, December, the end of December is exactly the midpoint. And you know, a good time for quiet calm, introspective, you know, calibration hibernation, et cetera. So, so this is the end of the year. And, and the end of this season. So there's a lot that's happened in my personal space and, certainly in my nonprofit and in my broader teaching work at the university and a couple of other places. I'll actually go more into when we pick back up in July But for, for, for now, I would say what I want to say is in, in kind of closing the year I've gone through cycles in my life of sort of redefining myself and, you know, kind of keeping the core clear, and hopefully ever evolving, but, but everything around the core if, you know, really radically shifting periodically. And you know, this current iteration of life has been interesting and like previous incarnations, but even more so feels like a very clear culmination and Germination of previous cycles. You know, there's a certain thing about living in cycles, like the seasons, right? Where you know, the leaves that popped on the trees here in the spring, they're not new. The trees have leaves in the spring. This is what happens. And yet they're new. And previous cycles of growth strengthen the branch and, you know, the trunk. And, and while the leaves are new they're not new. And, and yet they're. Different in a certain way, better, deeper expression of that tree, et cetera, right? So this past year has been a really interesting midpoint of a cycle. You know, I started this non profit about four years ago. I made some other pretty radical shifts about four years ago. We're fully entrenched in this particular season which will last maybe another three or four years before we consider what else is next. And I think by three or four years, the non profit will be established enough that I can legitimately think about other things and responsibly think about other things. So this feels like we're in the middle of the sort of post adolescent phase of things and I'm rambling a bit here because I'm, I'm trying to, trying to understand what it is I'm saying, which is often what I do. And I think what I want to say is maybe a capstone. I have another poem for you from our friend cousin Mary, Mary Oliver. And, she's of course gonna say it better, than I can. It's sort of tying together a lot of the conversations we've had. And in here on this podcast with, with Ben and with some of the DAE folks and others about, living out of the narrative, you know, living in the world and all that, but living out of the narrative and really doing the work to kind of identify your own narrative. And each of these cycles I'm speaking to is, another volume. It's not even another chapter, right? So I feel like I'm in the middle chapter of the current volume of this collection of books that is my life being written day by day. And so there's this value of stepping out of whatever narratives you found yourself in, whatever narratives you were born into, whatever narratives the society you were born into had, and really taking ownership of narrating your own life and understanding the chapters of a story, and then understanding when that story is over and when it's time to You know, after maybe a short pause, getting to work on the next novel as it were, the next phase of your life that you're going to write. So all of that occurs to me as, you know I don't know, whatever, maybe mildly sentimental end of the year sort of ruminations end of my version of the year, you know, end of June and end of this cycle of, of the Absurd Wisdom Podcast. So let me read at you from Mary Oliver and this one is called Spring Azures. In the spring the blue azures bow down at the edges of shallow puddles and drink the black rainwater. Then they rise and float away into the fields. Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy. And all the tricks my body knows, the opposable thumbs, the kneecaps, the mind clicking and clicking don't seem enough to carry me through this world. And I think how I would like to have wings, blue ones, ribbons of flame. How I would like to open them and rise from the black rainwater. And then you think of Blake in the dirt and sweat of London, a boy staring out the window when God came fluttering up. Of course he screamed and seeing the bobbin of God's blue body leaning on the sill in the thousand faceted eyes. Well, who knows? Who fluttering at the window between him and the darkness. Anyway, Blake, the Hozier's son, stood up and turned away from the sooty sill in the dark city. Turned away forever from the factories, the personal strivings, and to a life of the imagination. I think that's all there is, kids. You know they were responsible turning away from the soot and sill not a denying of it, not a fighting of it, not even a leaving of it physically but a turning away from it as, as a narrative that one must live. And instead sort of surrounding yourself to a life of imagination and maybe being in the exact same physical space and the exact same physical body and the exact same physical circumstances. And yet being somebody new. I'll see y'all in July.