one pre-snow, two post-thaw magnolia blossoms. (digi)

Pour the wine and raise a cup
Drink up, brothers, you know how
And spill a drop for Orpheus
Wherever he is now

Some birds sing when the sun shines bright
My praise is not for them
But the one who sings in the dead of night
I raise my cup to him

Wherever he is wandering
Alone upon the earth
Let all our singing follow him
And bring him comfort

Some flowers bloom when the green grass grows
My praise is not for them
But the one who blooms in the bitter snow
I raise my cup to him

I raise my cup and drink it up

I raise it high and drink it dry

To Orpheus and all of us
Goodnight, brothers, goodnight

 ~Anais Mitchell, from Hadestown (for which, by the way, I’m in need of either babysitting or a date or both:  Chicago, Sept. 11)

the one who bloomed in the bitter snow. . .

It is different for me to remain objective during the dark of the moon.  But for whatever reason (serotonin receptors saturated with chocolate?  all other receptors saturated with coffee?  extra sunny vitamin D doses?), I am relatively . . . happy.  Receptive, new-moon-ish, but . . . happy.  And in this strange state, I’m noticing that a lot of people aren’t.  I don’t mean un-grateful, un-zen, what’s wrong with all of you pathetic, un-happy people.  I mean tragedy-induced grief, crisis-induced overwhelm, hormones and cycles and hermitage and clinical depression.  Valid shit.

If you’re one of them, I give you a virtual pat on the shoulder and an “I’ve been there.”  Because I have been there; I visit relatively often, actually.  I offer you virtual sympathy, but I don’t do pity (who wants pity, anyway?).  I raise my cup to you, if, like Orpheus, you’re singing in the dead of night.  And I site Rilke as my excuse to virtually slap you in the face if you are faking it, and/or hoping for something better, you “spendthrift of sorrows,” you. 

May I, one day, emerging from this grim vision,
sing jubilation and praise to assenting angels.
May no clearly struck hammer of my heart
fail to sound from slack, doubting, or
breaking strings.  May my tear-filled face
make me more shining; may my simple tears
flower.  how dear will you be to me then,
you nights of affliction.  Why couldn’t I kneel more deeply
     and accept you,
inconsolable sisters, or loosen myself
freely into your loosened hair.  We spendthrifts of sorrows.
How we keep peering beyond them ahead into sad duration,
to see if perhaps they might have an end.  But they are truly
our winter-enduring foliage, the dark green of our life’s meaning,
one season of our secret year—, not only
time—, but also place, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Tenth Elegy, (trans. Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann)