Someone I know and admire is a frank poetry lover who slides verse into her pocket all year, saving it for April. During that month she gives a select group of us her favourite selections, one a day, like a literary advent extravaganza. I cannot duplicate her feat but I can emulate the passing on, and thus, every day this month, I will share with you here a poem that reached me deeply this past year.
(Rivers form tree-like shapes in the desert in Baja California)
THE REAL WORK
It
may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
"The
Real Work" by Wendell Berry, from Standing by Words.
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