Gratitude Sunday: Since You Asked

This week, perhaps because of the vice presidential debate and events within my own life, my mind is wrapped up around the question of whether or not it is wrong to judge people or if we must judge people sometimes.  Within my heart, I feel disharmony when I am at odds with other people, especially those human beings whose lives I know will affect us all.  Let’s just say that I am having a difficult time coming to terms with who Sara Palin is and what a McCain/Palin ticket means for our country.

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I want to set aside my opinions and feelings about all people and give everyone a fair chance.  Being open minded, I think, is nourishing for my soul.  Would I invite Sara Palin to dinner at my house?  I would like to hope that I would give myself a chance to get to know her, although I make no promises that I would necessarily like her or even find that she is qualified to be the next president of the United States.   At the same time, I would love to be at a table that includes all sides of a story, so it would be interesting to dine with McCain, Palin, Obama, and Biden; I wonder if they would all get down to business and put the party nonsense aside (gosh, wouldn’t that be awesome?).

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With that thought, I’d like to share a poem by Lawrence Raab, a professor at Williams College, called “Since You Asked.” To be honest, when you get to the last line, I am not sure what I would say.  Thoughts?

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Since you asked, let’s make it dinner

at your house-a celebration

for no reason, which is always

the best occasion. Are you worried

there won’t be enough space, enough food?

But in a poem we can do anything we want.

Look how easy it is to add on rooms, to multiply

the wine and chickens. And while we’re at it

let’s take those trees that died last winter

and bring them back to life.

Things should look pulled together,

and we could use the shade-so even now

they shudder and unfold their bright new leaves.

And now the guests are arriving-everyone

you expected, then others as well:

friends who never became your friends,

the men you didn’t marry, all their children.

And the dead-I didn’t tell you

but they’re always included in these gatherings-

hesitant and shy, they hang back at first

among the blossoming trees.

You have only to say their names,

ask them inside. Everyone will find a place

at your table. What more can I do?

The glasses are filled, the children quiet.

My friend, it must be time for you to speak.