What do you notice about Our Lady of Sorrows? Take a moment. What calls to you?
For me, first, it is her furrowed brow. I have been told my brow furrows, and I unwittingly reveal confusion, anger or sadness with the crinkling of my forehead. My face shows what my heart feels before my words are formed and spoken. Our Lady of Sorrows peers deeply into hearts and recognizes the pain that lodges there. Her eyes make known her shared anguish at the agony caused by racism, the suffering caused by misogyny, the misery caused by nationalism and the distress caused by greed that has impoverished Creation. Sometimes, it is my own dark -isms and selfishness that break my heart. She abides those, too. Sometimes, I haven’t words. Her eyes whisper the sorrow I am unable to speak.
A mí, en primer lugar, su entrecejo contraído. Me han dicho que yo frunzo el ceño y que sin quererlo revelo confusión, ira o tristeza cuando arrugo mi frente. Mi rostro muestra lo que mi corazón siente antes de que mis palabras se hayan formado en mi boca. Nuestra Señora de los Dolores se asoma profundamente a los corazones y reconoce el dolor que allí se alberga. Sus ojos manifiestan que ella comparte la congoja causada por el racismo, el sufrimiento que produce la misoginia, la miseria que resulta del nacionalismo y la angustia causada por la codicia que ha empobrecido a la Creación. Por momentos, son mis propios y oscuros «ismos» y egoísmos los que rompen mi corazón. Pero Ella también los tolera. A veces, no tengo palabras. Sus ojos susurran la tristeza que soy incapaz de expresar.
“Pilate went back into the praetorium and said to Jesus, ‘where are you from?’ Jesus did not answer him. So Pilate said to him, ‘Do you not speak to me? Do you not know that I have power to release you and I have power to crucify you?'”
—John 19: 9-10
When I was in junior high my friends and I cooked up a plan for our day off from school. We had just started to experience the bit of freedom that comes with being a teenager and looked for any opportunity to idle a few hours away at the mall, the movies, or some other adolescent haunt.
So, Thursday after school, I told my mother what we had plotted for the next day. With a quizzical look she softly questioned, “On Good Friday?”
Volvió al tribunal y dijo a Jesús: «¿De dónde eres tú?» Pero Jesús no le respondió. Entonces le dijo Pilato: «¿A mí no me hablas? ¿No sabes que tengo autoridad para crucificarte y autoridad para soltarte?»
Cuando estaba en la secundaria, mis amigas y yo preparamos un plan para nuestro día libre de la escuela. Habíamos empezado a experimentar un poco de la libertad que conlleva ser adolescente y buscábamos cualquier oportunidad para pasar unas horas de ocio en el centro comercial, el cine, o algún otro interés de adolescente.
Entonces, el jueves después de la escuela, le dije a mi madre lo que habíamos ideado para el día siguiente. Con una mirada de asombro, ella cuestionó suavemente, «¿El Viernes Santo?».
One of the ways I cultivate, integrate and deepen love and mercy is through poetry.
I have delighted in listening to poetry for as long as I can remember. A very significant person in my life, my great-aunt Peg (whom we called “Auntie”), recited poems from memory. She was an Auntie Mame-type: always fun, deeply affirming and extremely engaging. She spontaneously broke into verse. She entranced me with words and images that created a magical world where life was precise, beautiful (even when hard) and really real.
As Essential as Air to Breathe When I was in junior high I began writing poems. I learned during those adolescent years that by putting pen to paper I could share what otherwise would remain unexpressed. Since then, poetry has become a lifeline for me. I am often inspired to develop lines I’ve written in my journal into poetry. When I am struggling to understand something that is happening or what I am feeling, crafting poetry helps me to name it and pursue its deeper meaning. Poetry as expression of what is in my heart is vital and has led me to discover so much about the presence of God, the spiritual life (especially my own spirituality) and myself. It has become nearly as essential as air to breathe. As poet and political activist Muriel Rukeyser said, “The sources of poetry are in the spirit seeking completeness.” I have learned that there are things that will be revealed to me only through the power of poetry.
Two Poems by Sister Danielle In this spirit, I share a poem I wrote for Auntie. I have introduced you to a very special person, and I hope that she inspires you.
Auntie Her voice was draped in Erwin Pearl And wrapped around the words Of any poem or song she unfurled With zealous abandon. The things she’d say That no one else Could or would dare Only drew me in closer To Shalimar-soaked air Where the earth was wet with life She wrung from the day. Auntie taught me how to pray. Not with words, She did little in a usual way, But by how well she loved me And a snifter of brandy. Her whole heart hung on the edge Of the pool – in summer sun Long days browning, Counting laps or seconds I could hold a handstand.
She was all there; Her whole self the prayer.
The second poem is one I wrote as I was struggling with shedding some of the ways I used to name myself and measure my success. It’s about the process of coming to know myself in Mercy and as poet.
Names I used to have a name or two That suit-ed me just fine. Basic black, classic style… Lovely, really, and sophisticated. Dress them up or down, Day to night, no matter the occasion They were perfect and they were mine. An easy answer to any question asked. A ready response to the demands of the day.
One day I woke to find they no longer fit. I’d have cried if I thought it permanent. Out grown or grown out, I was unsure. I looked them up and down, turned Them inside out. To the eye, they Looked the same. Once on, they Felt different…or, did I? I’d begun to feel constrained By the old, familiar names.
They live, now, in the dark of my closet; Hanging memories of well-dressed days When a name meant something more. Sometimes I look on them with longing; Feel the fine fabric, the smart stitch. Wondering if I could wear them again… If I tried, would they fit?
I smile and close the closet door. I haven’t need for names anymore.