Vestry 2

 

March 12, 2022

So the snow came. The petals of the sweetbay are pale brown paper, like the tissue mother used to use for sewing patterns. 

Perrin writes this in response to my gift of Peniel:

Good evening, David!

I’ve waited to write back to you because I wanted to dive into your book of poetry and savor it. But after reading off and on when I had the time, I want now to write to thank you for the kind and generous gift of your poetry. I’m aware that any writer gives to someone his offspring with a degree of anxiety, fearing the misunderstanding or mistreatment of his creative “children” by some outsider, someone who wasn’t present at the creation, who can’t know the pain and deep pleasure of inspiration and composition. And I fear that in appreciating what you’ve written, I may be guilty of misunderstanding or a coarse appreciation that could make you regret your gift of your book.

Enough, though, of apology. I loved what I read. I admit, I have to keep my wits about me when I do, but what good poetry doesn’t demand attention? I was struck by the fact that you took inspiration from paintings that must be favorites of yours, which are my favorites, too. I love Sassetta, and recognized even without being told that in your description of Sts. Paul and Anthony, when they met, the lovely painting you drew inspiration from. And I admired your poem on de la Tour’s Magdalene. I liked the contrast, as I read it, between some lover contemplating a photograph and Magdalene with her skull companion. Or maybe it was Magdalene herself at an earlier time—either satisfies me. I was struck by the emphasis on the color red—a color that comes up here and there in a number of poems—was her dress red? I’ve forgotten. I mostly see the painting in black and white, although red certainly would suit her.

“Peniel” I read with great attention because my original plan at Sunday’s forum was to read things from three people commemorated in the Calendar for March, and I thought I’d introduce the group to Charles Wesley’s “Wrestling Jacob”, and along with that poem I’d also read yours. (That’ll have to wait because Elizabeth Wilde will be doing a program on sacred movement and gesture, and I want above all to have members of the congregation do these programs). (I know I can’t tempt you to come and talk about “Peniel” and some other poems because you have choir rehearsal. Or can I?)

The last long section of “I sleep, but my heart keeps watch” struck me as very forcefully, cleanly and beautifully expressed. Oh, it was good!

“The Hidden Verses of Ibn Dawud” was for me perhaps the most intriguing poem I’ve read so far—and I, lucky, have more yet to read! I wondered which Ibn Dawud this was, whether he were the man who helped to seal the great Al Hallaj’s death for heresy, or the one who kept a bird in a gilded cage. For there are several Ibn Dawuds. I loved the line “What they know of God/is rolling darkness edged with lightning”—it has the feeling of the Arabic poetry I’ve read--and the mention of jackals and haunted ruins made me think of one of my favorite books—I’m sure you know it—Rose Macauley’s “Pleasure of Ruins”. (I always like it when one pleasure makes me think of another, with the result that I get a double dose of delight when I read.) My only puzzle was having the love mentioned in the poem wearing a veil—it piled so many thoughts at one time: the veil the poet’s friend might be wearing, the veil of darkness perhaps, the veil of the sort that Moses covered his face with—who knows? Perhaps all three, and maybe more. 

So now I close (you may be grateful that such ignorant readings are coming to an end!) with two general comments. One: that I found your titles completely tantalizing in the way Wallace Stevens’s titles also are. And my other comment: that this is a book of spiritual poetry that has a much, much greater range of interest than so many works that treat of spiritual themes. So much more is contained in your work—everything’s constantly searching out new perceptions, new ways of expressing the venerable truths of the inner life; the use of paintings and the suggestion of music (I think of the poem that could be set by William Byrd), and explorations of other cultures with their own deep spiritual experience. I felt as if I entered a full world of the inner life instead of the often thin gruel of what goes by spiritual writing.

So thanks, David, for the experience, and thanks for the gift. I look forward to getting to know the “only begetter” of these poems—when you can be prised away from your ministry of singing.

 

     Perrin

Perrin’s missive took a while to reach me, going first to a David Hopes who seems to be a songwriter in Cardiff.

H phoned today, his voice a teenage boy’s voice. There’s no point in trying to derive actual information from what he says, but it was good to hear him being his old non-linear, conspiracy-theory-adoring self. He loves his boys to distraction. No one predicted he would be an excellent father, yet he is. That pays for all.

Day 2 of Vestry Retreat dedicated to the revelation of unconscious bias, to prevent us from making snap judgments when we’re interviewing prospective new Deans. I have noted that I am anxious that time taken from me be taken for a good cause, and this was not. Warning about subliminal bias can, to people who wish truthfully to guard against it, be delivered in a sentence. This took four hours. I was almost feral with impatience. I have experience with hiring. A university professor’s duties are nearly as complicated and vital as a pastor’s, and the process of choice needs to be held in equal sacredness. But we trusted each other to bring our best selves to the task. We trusted one another to recognize our biases and balance them against new information. Whatever its intention, the message the diocese sends is one of infantalization. We must be led step by step, each step swathed by tutorials to prevent straying an inch from the intended path. A didn’t need to say she thought we were untrustworthy: the process said it for her. 

I’ve heard repeatedly during this time that the Holy Spirit speaks through process. I do not believe this is true. The Holy Spirit can overcome process, or thwart it, but He is ever the Road to Damascus, never the flow chart or the instruction manual. 

My other theory is that hours and weeks and months of tense self-examination and preparation and simply reading the vitas and meeting the candidates will produce exactly the same result. Don’t know how to test that.

Anyway, we Episcopalians are a self-dramatizing lot.

Also, after going on three years of piddling about, we are suddenly in a frantic hurry, and we must all cancel our summer plans so that we may meet with candidates in a way suited to the bishop’s calendar. 

Petty are my grievances, and petty is my wrath.

Those hours at the computer allowed Maud and me to snuggle as we have not for a long time. She is inexhaustible in that regard. My shirt is covered with white hair. I watched the suet stations out the front bedroom window. Twelve species visited as I sat.