Sometimes a man stands up during supper

Sometimes a man stands up during supper
and walks outdoors, and keeps on walking,
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East.
And his children say blessings on him as if he were dead...

And another man, who remains inside his house,
dies there, inside the dishes and the glasses
so that his children have to go far out in the world
toward that same church, which he forgot.

Poem by R.M. Rilke and translated by Robert Bly.

I am prone to crying at poetry, the same way I cry when I hear an amazing voice at a live performance; tears come in spite of myself and are unexplainable and unstoppable. Something in me has been activated and my conscious mind has nothing to do but watch in wonder and say,"oh, dear, this made me cry. This must be important." When I heard Dennis Patrick Slattery read this Rilke poem at the event at the Jung society of Austin I knew the tears were important.

As He-weasel and I heard DPS read the Rilke poem we wordlessly squeezed each other's hand in recognition. We heard in this poem the underlying theme of our exodus from our life here in the states. We both knew the inner calling that the man felt and why he had to leave his ordinary life. The man's journey to a church in the east was not one that was motivated by the desire for adventure or novelty---but rather of an inner calling that could no longer be quited or ignored.

This poem made me think of my father who longed to travel but never got farther than Honolulu or Vancouver. It made me think of all the other inner callings--big and small- he ignored. It made me think of how much booze and depression it took to quiet the callings of his heart.

Swiss Psychologist, C.G. Jung beleived “the greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of the parents." I wonder where I would be today if my father had dared to follow his wanderlust. I often think about the Jung quote in relation to my writing. I wonder what would I be today if my father would have dared to take his talent and wit and put it on the page instead of saving it for the occasional poem.

As long as my father was alive he was considered the writer of the family and it wasn't until death began to take him that I started to claim my role as writer. Just days before he died I got a job as an entertainment editor at a newspaper. Upon hearing my news my father said, "I am so proud of you, but I haven't the words." I have always been so struck by his use of words and the deeper implication of my father running out of them.

I know that if my father were alive to today he would be proud of me. But, I do know that he wouldn't understand why I would walk out of the house during super and walk outdoors and keep on walking until I arrived in France. He would tell me in strong tones that this church I am traveling towards is not worth it and how it is risky it is to undertake such a journey. He would ask me questions about how much money I have and whether or not I had travel insurance or whether I have good shoes and what would I do when I got there. The call is too strong in me to stop and answer his questions. I will keep walking until I arrive at that church he forgot.

Poem is available in The Rag and Bone Shop: A Poetry Anthology edited and translated by Robert Bly.