To go out and return, to step into the fire and come out shining, to face the fears inside and triumph. This is what we hear in fairy tales, in epic books of ancient times and today in the movies and in song and even comic books. Repeated over and over are the stories of rising up, of falling, and of rising again. It is what sustains us, what gives us hope that this life is not about accummulation and status and power, that we have a higher purpose, that we were born into this world to leave it a better, more enlightened place. Mary Oliver, in her poem When Death Comes, says:

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real,
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

This past week I went to New Mexico for a few days to renew and revitalize my spirit. It was hot, in the 90’s, and dry and my body put up a fuss. I had to sit on the floor, cross legged. I had to meditate for long minutes and even hours. No, I really didn’t have to do any of this, in fact it was my choice all the way, but there is always The Grumbler, who insists on blabbing away, insists on coming up with any number of reasons why I’d be better off sitting by the side of a pool with a lemonade rather than submitting myself to a discipline, a test of my grit. But, as Mary Oliver says, I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world. I never have. To me it is far more frightening to think of breathing that last breath knowing (and we all know) that I did not give it a go, that I did not walk into the belly of the beast and tame that beast, the one that dwells in my fears.

As poets, as writers, as artists we are the singers of this world. We bring what is necessary to the attention of the people. It is a duty, a duty we take up because we must, because if we do not tell what we see, tell what is in our hearts, do not bring to light that which is beyond this illusiory world then this whole mess of human existence stays just that…a mess. What we seek is wholeness and when we know that we are more than flesh and bone, thought and emotion, when we know that we are spirit, then we can rise when we fall, we can triumph.

I love the poetry of Charles Bukowski. Yes, it is rough and mean and edgy sometimes, but in this man was a lion’s heart. He knew pain, both physical and emotional. He could have killed himself (and almost did) or someone else and no one would have been surprised. He could have stayed a bitter and hateful person until the day he passed and no one would have blamed him. But he did neither. He wrote. He wrote poetry. He saved himself through his song. He gave himself a chance to know his greatness. Here’s one of my favorite poems of his, if i had failed to make the struggle. It really says it all.

if I had failed to make the struggle

there would be no peace, no solace, no
wisdom.
night would follow night
like a string of ants
come to carry you
off.
in a world cluttered with the falsely
famous
there would be no
escape.
you would face a hard impossibility while
chewing on your toast
or cleaning your
teeth
or waiting for the
result
of a photo finish
or a cancer
checkup.

there would be no voice to
listen to,
no acceptable
god.
even the laughter you once
enjoyed, they would have
stripped even that from
you
and left you
to be worn down
finally
like water upon
stone.

in the beginning youth
fought them
off;
middle age was there to contemplate the
wounds;
and now
maturity
is here to record
a simple
victory.