What the Living Do

The poet, Marie Howe, has a book entitled What the Living Do. The title poem is about daily life, and written as if she is speaking to her brother, who died from AIDS. I reread this poem often, both for the beauty of the language and for the reminder of the struggles, monotony and glory of each day.

In mid-August, I attended a week long session of the Reading and Writing Project at Teacher's College at Columbia University. This "project" is under the direction of Lucy Calkins, a major researcher and educator in literacy for the last 30 years. Each of the five days began with a keynote speaker, with Lucy Calkins the first speaker. Toward the end of her talk, she quoted concluding lines from the above poem: "But there are moments...I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep..."

When I awoke on my birthday a couple of days ago, my first thought was the word "cherish". I don't think about that word, or write it, or even read it very often. In her poem, Marie Howe is cherishing her own life and the memory of her brother. Lucy Calkins urged the educators in the audience to cherish their own stories and the stories of their students. To cherish is "To hold or treat as dear; to care for tenderly; to nurture." 
 
Here's a bit more of Howe's poem:
"We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss-- we want more and more and then more of it. But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless: I am living, I remember you."