Hello, dear ones—
Today, I have to begin with the hurt, as I just learned of Monday’s shooting at The Covenant School in Nashville. I hate that I didn’t know about it until just now, and I hate that I just said “Monday’s” like a shooting is as regular as a gym class or a lunch menu. Living here in Italy, in a privileged community with a room overlooking fluorescent grass, the violence of my home country feels distant. But whenever I hear of people, especially children, dying at the hands of gun violence, the rage floods back. The poem “How Far Away We Are” by U.S Poet Laureate Ada Limón is helping me place the feeling of distance from tragedy, and the desire to share in sweet safety. Originally from her 2015 collection Bright Dead Things, Limón recently shared it publicly on Twitter, so I figured it would be okay to share it here, too.
How Far Away We Are
So we might understand each other better: I’m leaning on the cracked white window ledge in my nice pink slippers lined with fake pink fur. The air conditioning is sensational. Outside, we’ve put up a cheap picnic table beneath the maple but the sun’s too hot to sit in, so the table glows on alone like bleached-out bones in the heat. Yesterday, so many dead in Norway. Today, a big-voiced singer found dead in her London flat. And this country’s gone standstill and criminal. I want to give you something, or I want to take something from you. But I want to feel the exchange, the warm hand on the shoulder, the song coming out and the ear holding on to it. Maybe we could meet at that table under the tree, just right out there. I’m passing the idea to you in this note: the table, the tree, the pure heat of late July. We could be in that same safe place watching the sugar maple throw down its winged seeds like the tree wants to give us something too— some sweet goodness that’s so hard to take.
Poetry is not only a salve for hard times, but also a spotlight for good times, and I feel so lucky to have it around for both. I’m always browsing poetry websites and flipping through poetry books to see if I can find a poem to match a feeling or answer a question. Sometimes I don’t find one, and sometimes I do. Poet Charles Simic once wrote, “The purpose of poetry is to return that which is familiar to its original strangeness.” Yes! School shootings are strange and horrific and grief-inducing and should never be familiar. AND the opportunity I have right now, to learn and exist in this ancient city, is strange and wonderful, and should never be familiar. Here’s to remembering — and really feeling — the strangeness of it all, good and bad.
I’ll leave you with a little joy. This past weekend, my friend Eliza flew to Rome, and we spent the weekend together. We met in college, and spent nearly every waking (and sleeping) moment together until we graduated. She now lives in Philadelphia and works long hours at a children’s hospital, while I’m in Rome/New York, working long hours in the food industry. This is to say that our weekend wandering around Rome and sharing an Airbnb studio was bliss. Instead of going through everything we did, I’ll share some captioned photos, which I think capture the warmth of the weekend.
Lots of love,
Phoebe
Aww Phoebe, it always makes me feel better to read your weekly musings and see your photographs. You are a beautiful and direct writer. You get right to the point and explain the world and all it's ups and downs to all of us. I love the photos you took of Eliza too! Such a sweet weekend.