Category Archives: Emily Every Day

How good to hear from wise Emily that trust in the truth may do a body better than anything else.

#780, c. 1863

The Truth — is stirless —
Other force — may be presumed to move —
This — then — is best for confidence —
When oldest Cedars swerve —

And Oaks untwist their fists —
And Mountains — feeble — lean —
How excellent a Body, that
Stands without a Bone —

How vigorous a Force
That holds without a Prop —
Truth stays Herself — and every man
That trusts Her — boldly up —

A friend of mine once advised, “Don’t be afraid to know what you know.” This has broad application. It relieves the pressure to convince. Just know what you know. Trust that a body without a bone, which is a secure knowledge of the truth, needs no other confirmation than itself. That carries the day every time. It may take time, but the truth will out. Always.

Just as I was beginning to succumb to a belief in other forces that assault truth, the poet lets me know that truth is stronger in the long run. We’d all do better to concentrate our energies on that fact. Truth, although not always the loudest voice in the room, does speak consistently and therefore with the greatest strength. The rest is foolishness. Like so much chattering of monkeys.

This following came through on November 6th. More food for thought.

#361, c. 1862

What I can do — I will —
Though it be little as a Daffodil —
That I cannot — must be
Unknown to possibility —

Whenever Emily uses the word “possibility” I think she is referring to her life’s work, her poems, her words. Al that potential that resides in the fertile terrain between her ears. It’s all possibility until she realizes it onto the page.

Here she has a quiet morning of small steps. The breadth of the step matters less than the fact of the step itself. Anything worth doing is worth it for its own sake. Not because it makes a giant impression on the world. Certainly the life of the daffodil is worth itself to itself.

This morning I am surrounded by light. Back on the porch. My coffee still warm. I am savoring the dreamscape I have just left. It was the rehearsal dinner for a wedding. My sister was about to marry her husband again. This time it was to be a “real wedding”. Many women at the rehearsal dinner were wearing bridal veils. Except me. I’m there to help with the party. At this wedding, everyone is a bride! But me. So it seems. How exciting. How confusing. (What a relief!) My sister later pointed out that the other women are hiding behind their veils.

Small steps. This is just a rehearsal. A feast in preparation for the union. Practice small steps so you don’t trip along the way. Make sure you get it right. All this is preparation for the “real wedding”.

Here is something dredged up from the archives where it has been resting since September 21st.

Monday morning weather report: Venus moves into Virgo and the sun is about to transition into Libra. We are on the turning point from summer to fall. The Autumnal Equinox, a day of equal light and darkness, balanced on the border between awake and asleep.

A blackbird calls from the pecan tree, heard but not seen. I thought they were done with me. Now they taunt from a distance. Not making themselves visible but loud in the treetops in the yard of the house next door.

#518, c. 1862

Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night
Had scarcely deigned to lie —
When, stirring, for Belief’s delight,
My Bride had slipped away —

If ’twas a Dream — made solid — just
The Heaven to confirm —
Or if Myself were dreamed of Her —
The power to presume —

With Him remain — who unto Me —
Gave — even as to All —
A Fiction superseding Faith —
By so much — as ’twas real —

This poem comes a couple of weeks after I had a dream about Emily. She arrived in the dream with two names. First it was “Zoe”, Greek for “life” in the sense of God-given life or abundant life. Not the biological or animal nature of life. Then she acknowledged that her secret code name was “Emily”. This was the name that she used to connect meaningfully with other women, she explained. By “Emily” shall she be known to other women. Then the dream figure “Emily” told me that I have been writing to her all along and that we are soul mates. This was the plunge into the abysmal waters that my other dreams had pre-figured. All those nighttime visits to the ocean, where I had floated safely on the surface, only sensing the depths. Here was the invitation into the place below the dark water. I’m still hesitating. I still don’t know what it means to take this archetype as my “bride” as the above poem instructs. Who am I “marrying” here? What am I embracing?

This idea of “Emily”, the essence of this poetic voice is feminine in a manner more raw and vibrant than I have heard before. This bride does not wear veils or flowers. She is no virgin or at least not in the sense of being physically untouched. But a virgin perhaps (Venus goes into Virgo) in that she is wholly new to herself each time she comes to the page. No one claims her there. She claims herself. Her innocence remains intact because experience does not remove that pure desire to know her own mind and arrive at the words without anguish or influence. She is a bride each day with each poem, each page, untouched by what . . .? Other people. Their expectations, needs, social and historical constraints, the bruises and detritus of living in a body, the world, all of it. She is wholly herself.

The blackbirds interrupt my thoughts. There are two now calling to each other. Tricksters from another realm. Can’t believe a word they say. And they never shut up!