Praise for the Day

For those of you who don't know, I have an abnormally competitive and slightly scary obsession with Krista Tippett the author and host of the radio show On Being.

At the bottom of it all, I want to be her. She gets to talk to my spiritual heroes, play with great interviews, music and stories, AND she is a gorgeous red-head with a fabulous voice. I don't get to do any of that and am none of that.

So, it is not surprising that her latest story and interview with poet Elizabeth Alexander comes out just as I am in the midst of re-reading and frankly wrapping myself in some beautiful spiritual poetry. Krista Tippett is just always one step ahead of me, darn her.

However, instead of cursing her, I'll thank her for putting before me again, the beautiful poem, Praise for the Day, and share it with you, because I think we all need some theopoetica in our lives this week:

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.  
All about us is noise. 
All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, 
each one of our ancestors on our tongues.  
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, 
repairing the things in need of repair.  
Someone is trying to make music somewhere, 
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,  
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.  
A woman and her son wait for the bus. 
A farmer considers the changing sky. 
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.  
We encounter each other in words, 
words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed, 
words to consider, reconsider.  
We cross dirt roads and highways t
hat mark the will of some one and then others, 
who said I need to see what's on the other side.  
I know there's something better down the road. 
We need to find a place where we are safe. 
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.  
Say it plain: that many have died for this day. 
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
 who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,   
picked the cotton and the lettuce, 
built brick by brick the glittering edifices 
they would then keep clean and work inside of.  
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day. 
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,  
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.  
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself, 
others by first do no harm or take no more than you need. 
What if the mightiest word is love?  
Love beyond marital, filial, national, 
love that casts a widening pool of light, 
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.  
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, 
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
 On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,  
praise song for walking forward in that light.