what I've learned from life, by Mary Elyn Bahlert
no time ago or else a life
walking in the dark
I met Christ
Jesus; my heart
flopped over
and lay still
while he passed as
close as i’m to you
yes closer
made of nothing
except loneliness.
e.e. cummings
Life is the color of things:
of places, of thoughts, of people I have loved, of sky and trees.
I know gray well, and I have taken from gray a gift:
the gift of gray is to know – for the first time – the color of things.
Life is the color of things and
it is good to breathe in the riches of sky, of earth,
of shadows across the sky,
of green grass that carries the fragrance of earth,
of long orange autumns, bright maples,
of gray and darkened days of winter,
of spring, snow banks melting,
of a navy-blue awakening, dawn.
The color of things lives in the eyes of friends,
places where sadness lurks,
where pain is not covered by dull happiness.
Life is the color of things:
this gift, earth, all that is in it,
the heart, the heart, full:
And all that is in it.
Life is the color of things. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, Oakland, View Place, 2025
a poem lovely as a tree…” – Joyce Kilmer
One of the pleasures in my life is the pleasure of having lived in one place for many years. In 1995, Jeff and I moved to Oakland and we have stayed in Oakland, and moved into our 1915 Craftsman Home about 2005. Over those years, Jeff has worked hard to steward a beautiful garden – a garden which we enjoy every day. We have hosted many gatherings and dinners with friends here in the house – often in the garden. I expect those times of hosting have attached us even more to this place. And having lived in one place for so many years, and having seen the seasons – slow and sacred in the Bay Area – pass to us and away again all those years since 2005, I have come to know very well the passage of time in one place.
In the yard of our home are several trees that I see from one of the windows: the listing birch outside the living room, the apple tree whose trunk and branches seem to greet us – bowing – when we sit at the dining room table, the maple that shines into our bedroom window in the autumn.
I have a refrain that I say to myself often about the birch: “I love that tree and that tree loves me”. And if saying it often makes it so, then it is true: that tree loves me. Silently and with grace the tree stands and waits for me as I lounge facing the window with my morning coffee. Silently and with grace the tree has sparked my mind as I sit on the couch, writing a sermon, reading a book from the local library, chatting with Jeff. The tree is a steady and beautiful companion to my life. I’m grateful for the tree.
And if gratitude is a poem, then that tree has sparked whatever poems are resting inside me, waiting for the right time to come out.
And it’s autumn again. The slender maple outside our bedroom window is shining with the light of autumn. And the slender maple is so beautiful: a beautiful, silent, stalwart companion.
My stalwart companion in autumn. photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 2024
In the mid-2000’s I had my dna researched by several services to see if/how they overlapped. It was no surprise to me to learn that my dna was mostly connected to Eastern Europe, with a fair amount in Western Europe. And through dna research, the websites offered the names of others who share some of the same dna. There are ways to walk back through the generations to discover the exact connections, although I have not ever done that.
Many of the folks who have their dna work completed do so and then disappear, their curiousity apparently satisfied. I had thought to possibly connect with others who were interested in meeting others. But for the most part, that thought was not satisfied. One day, however, a message appeared for me – from a distant, distant – distant relative, a cousin. He was from the same place in Ukraine that my grandparents were from (I’ve written about them, both illiterate, in other posts).
And so, through the magic of the Internet, I met Volodymyr. For several years, we stayed connected with numerous messages on Facebook. If I’d text him, he’d respond. In these days of internet connections, I consider that a miracle! We learned about one another’s politics – and agreed to simply disagree with no more conversation!
In August, Jeff and I made a trip we look forward to each year. In the months leading up to our few days away with Rainier, Lia, and Celeste, who live in Seattle, we talk about places we’d like to see. This year, we traveled from our home in Oakland to Seattle by plane, and then we drove two cars from Seattle to Vancouver, B.C. Vancouver, where my cousin Volodymyr lives with his wife, Olesia, who had lately returned from a visit to Ukraine. In some (covoluted) way, Rainier is also related to Volodymyr.
Jeff and I, Rainier and Lia were all happy to meet our cousin and his wife, Olesia. When the seven of us met in at their high rise condo in downtown Vancouver, my cousin and I stood a few feet from one another, uncertain. He looked pleased to finally meet me. I felt happy, too. We stepped forward and gave one another a wam, welcoming hug! For this moment, I am grateful.
Volodymyr, Olesia, Rainier and Lia and Celeste, and Jeff and I spent several hours together, walking through downtown Vancouver, ending up on the shore of the West End of the city. Sometimes I walked alongside my cousin, and sometimes his wife. We chatted about our lives, about their trips to Ukraine. We shared photos from our phones. My cousin and his partner were generous with their time spent with us. We were happy to meet them and so happy to have those several hours together.
Volodymyr tells me that our common relatives were from (anglicized, of course): Buzifka, or probably Sabadash. He had on his phone a photo of a babushka, like my grandmother, a relative distant to me.
And so, I made a connection to that distant place. I had hoped to travel there again – I’d been in Ukraine in 1988, in the last years of the USSR – but the continuing war and the struggle there now prevent me from traveling, although Olesia had just returned from Ukraine. I am grateful for their generosity, and for their interest. Before we parted, we took a picture of us all along the water. I cherish this memory.
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world,
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
