Reroute: Close Encounters with Innocence
the sound of one hand clapping, William Blake, & things made of maybe
Note: this is another Substack Intensive I posted a few weeks back for Paid Subscribers (with a few changes). I’m trying to finish a new column on Onions and Stars in the next few days, so I figured I’d open the vault one more time.
“On a cloud I saw a child.
And he laughing said to me” — William Blake
Sounds of innocence and delight; sometimes echoes travel twice, then twice, and twice again, through blood and tears, the unknown and the known.
My wildest & widest visions open my eyes; too many facts, figures, and ideas are made up by invisible people in power. People who formulate laws and rules which determine our farming practices, gender roles, and financial futures, which end up frustrating me. But, at this moment, now, I’m thinking of songs of innocence—of whether prayers are real and whether blessings might become more fully real, and whether noises I heard as a child were what I really thought they were, as real as I believe, as wild as I hoped. Were they possibly formed of once-upon-a-time magic? Did those long ago imaginary games in the backyard behind our house teach me anything? I find myself moving closer and closer to yes.
During a late March walk today, I noticed the unmistakable shrill of not just one Bald Eagle but another and another, as well as the dark dots of many a crow in the tree tops along the Kickapoo River.
So many sounds lapping like drips of aroma, everywhere, around me, unpeeling, spring’s arrival is in the air. Primal purrings, the first snaps of color out of the earth, a child giggling, a tulip bulb rising, bright colored birds returning. Late winter moonlight glowing against swift night clouds, the earth a thing of delight. My mind returns to Blake: “Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night...”
I wonder about my place in this wide world. I take notice of conversations and thoughts about solitude and catastrophe these days. Snow falls the night before April first, and overnight snowdrifts have formed in the wind and walled me in amidst the driftless hills. I’m reminded nothing rising falls equally. There are definitely opposite and unequal reactions. There’s nothing new about any of this. Nothing unusual about how I’ve been both unkind and kind. I’ve done unto others as I’d not want done to me at times. Of course, I have also wished and wanted the best for people. I’ve tried to make a difference, but who knows. Maybe this is too innocent? I’d rather trust than distrust. I heard someone say, “grief is the receipt of love.” This seems fair and full of honest tears.
I’ll go out with more Blake, my innocence in need of a little more charm—
“And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs'
Every child may joy to hear”1
My past, present, and future are created of, and made of, and based on this world being full of surprise, and joy, for every child of every age to hear.
As the “Car Talk” brothers used to say of their association to NPR: even though I’m sure they all cringe when I point this out, I’m a member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup.
First and second Blake quotes from his poem Introduction to the Songs of Innocence, the middle from The Tyger
As I look 75 years of age in the eye. You have provided much for me to ponder.Thank you for the timely thoughts.
"My past, present, and future are created of, and made of, and based on this world being full of surprise, and joy, for every child of every age to hear." This is so beautiful!