Day, the Eighth

All the World's a Stage

Today is the Blood Moon-- I mean election day, and as I’ve done in past November writing months, I’m going to attempt restraint. I promised you all when I started, there’d be no politics or celebrities (though one could argue the wienermobile is a celebrity).

In general, if you know me, or have read my work, I imagine it’s not difficult to understand where I fall - be kind, practice empathy, help people.

I take it as a point of pride when my work gets described as sentimental. I’m ok with that.

So, today, on this most civic of days, I prefer my approach to be more… gentle? More internal. I adore this poem by from former US Poet Laureate Joy Harjo on the pleasure and grief of family, sharing and maybe the end of the world. The poem FEELS like it speaks to this day, so here it is.

Whatever the outcome of today, take care, stay close to those you love and try to listen. We’ll be back at it tomorrow morning.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

"Perhaps the World Ends Here" from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky by Joy Harjo. Copyright © 1994 by Joy Harjo.