Me and Emily

Me and Emily
(…and nearly everybody)

Emily Dickinson suffered from shyness so acute that she rarely received visitors. She was tiny, quiet, demure, almost mousey. She rarely left the house she was born in (and died in). And she wrote poetry that speaks the language of the human heart.

As others have “cracked” their Bibles to find random wisdom, I haphazardly flipped to these three poems. Together they describe my spiritual state for the past few years, maybe even forever. Maybe my discovering them wasn’t haphazard.

Taken in concert with the other two poems, this one illuminates the conflicting yin and yang of seeking relationship with God. Maybe it’s a little darker than necessary, but Dickinson’s words capture an important element of the struggle to stay connected to the Vine.

He was weak, and I was strong—then—
So He let me lead him in—
I was weak, and He was strong then—
So I let him lead me—Home.

‘Twasn’t far—the door was near—
‘Twasn’t dark—for He went—too—
‘Twasn’t loud, for He said nought—
That was all I cared to know.

Day knocked—and we must part—
Neither—was strongest—now—
He strove—and I strove—too—
We didn’t do it—tho’!
(1860)

This next poem clearly depicts the frustration of trying too hard; the weary,
exhaustive, draining search for Living Water. Maybe this is how the woman
at the well felt. Or maybe it describes how Jesus feels. Could the
frustration be on both sides of the Well?

To One denied to drink
To tell what Water is
Would be acuter, would it not
Than letting Him surmise?

To lead Him to the Well
And let Him hear it drip
Remind Him, would it not, somewhat
Of His condemned lip?
(1862)

And finally, optimism! Barbed, to be sure, but still, a glimmer of hope.

I shall know why—when Time is over—
And I have ceased to wonder why—
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky—

He will tell me what “Peter” promised—
And I—for wonder at his woe—
I shall forget the drop of Anguish
That scalds me now—that scalds me now!
(1860)

We put away Christmas today, two days early. You’re supposed to do that on Epiphany, January 6, the 12th day of Christmas, the day the Magi finally made it to the manger in Bethlehem.

I love the story of the Wise Men. The traditional names are musical, exotic, intriguing—Melchior, Balthazar, Caspar. I see them as beard-scratching professor-types with swarthy skin and kind eyes, imposing and dignified, commanding respect but not attention. The sort of guys you wish had taught your World Religions course. Imagine their surprise to end up in a stuffy cave with a too-young mother, her shell-shocked husband, and if tradition can be trusted, an odd menagerie of gawkers, both human and animal.

I love that Jesus came to the meek and smelly, and to the rich and learned.

God revealed, to all who will seek.

Wouldn’t it be nice to just stay there at the manger, serenely watching Mary and Joseph fall in love with their baby? But when God reveals something, watch out—Epiphany (like life) is multi-layered, gray, raw. The Wise Men sought Jesus; Herod responded by butchering babies. The Wise Men brought gifts and adoration; the little family had to sneak off to Egypt.

Meanwhile, back to real life in the bleak midwinter. Think I’ll burrow into my favorite poet’s lair and wait for signs of spring.

I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—

Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of Eye—
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—

Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise—

(Emily Dickinson)