Otherwise

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A recent conversation reminded me of Otherwise, poem written by Jane Kenyon, in which she describes a mundane and beautifully observed day. The poem ends with the statement, "But one day, I know, it will be otherwise." Every day I hear of something that 2 years ago I wouldn't have believed possible. And while I can still observe the beautiful citrus of this winter season, in the way that Kenyon regards her peach, my delight in the citrus is now connected to concern, as the antagonism is extreme, and the danger is manifold and real. The violence is no longer constrained. While harm has always been present worming pernicious roots, entwining with language and system, it is now taking an ever more active role as participant. This means that my work as an artist, as synthesizer and interpreter, is ever more vital. I must remain diligent to the foundations of observation and reflection, beauty and knowledge. 

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Otherwise
Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.