Two topics that have been central in the pages of Reckonings, almost bookends sustaining its diverse realms of inquiry and reflection.
Emily Dickinson's poetry has been as close to me over the years as the work of any other author, grounded in the personal history for which I've been grateful: the most productive years of my vocation, my teaching and learning in Amherst, Massachusetts, her home. Over the years, walking along Main Street, I returned often to that home, to the room in which she wrote.
These two Dickinson poems were the subject of a recent discussion in a seminar on spirituality here at The Redwoods. We were exploring the development of our own religious experience, how it was nourished or neglected, and shaped our paths in life.
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church −
I keep it, staying at Home −
With a Bobolink for a Chorister −
And an Orchard for a Dome −
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice −
I, just wear my Wings −
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton − sings.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman −
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last −
I'm going, all along.
_____________________
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.