Subway Poetry and Coffeeshop Flowers

I was sitting on the G train.

Just sitting.

It doesn’t run as often as others do, so me and the train sat for a while as people trickled in.

I was a little annoyed. My friend was running late, and I’d be there soon, and I’d have to kill time, and I hadn’t brought anything, and I was annoyed at other things too. I don’t know. Just annoyed.   

I squirmed in my seat, poked around on my phone, and glanced around the subway. To the left was a poem. I looked at it and looked away.

But then the final line: “the white cotton curtains hanging still” suddenly caught up to me.

And I thought about it some.

White cotton curtains hanging still.

I recognized something in it: beyond words, beyond the quiet picture in my head, a feeling of some kind. And I paid attention. I looked back at the poem and read it again. Different lines stood out to me this time. I read it again and again.

I was experiencing something. Something quiet, something secret. I couldn’t quite tell you what was happening except that I was responding.

Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment

when,   nothing

happens

no what-have-I-to-do-today-list

maybe   half a moment 

the rush of traffic stops. 

The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be

slows to silence,

the white cotton curtains hanging still.

“The Moment” -- Marie Howe.

I thought about the poem all the way to Brooklyn.

Then, while I was walking, while I was settling into the coffee shop, I thought about other things. What I hadn’t gotten done this week, what I wish I could be doing instead, what I still needed to do this week, what I needed to do next week, what I could do right now as I was waiting, why I hadn’t brought any work with me, and how my phone was about to die so what do I even do? So I fidgeted and waited for my latte and thought about all the could be’s and should be’s and glanced around and then I remembered the poem. And then I realized—what should I do while I wait?

I should

Take a moment.

And wait.

And so I tried to start to pray. “Oh Lord…thank you…” and then I would drift off and try again, “God I really need…” and it just wasn’t working. I tried to pray all kinds of coherent sentences and put together all kinds of thoughts but it didn’t feel authentic. And I looked around at the Brooklyn hipsterdom around me with the jar of flowers and the table that looked like a porch swing and the vintage lights and the distressed walls and I thought—what is the point in all this? Like what’s the point of aesthetics and what’s the draw? And I was like nothing, there’s not really a point, people just enjoy it or something.

Like what’s the point of pretty flowers? Nothing. They’re for your enjoyment.

And then I realized—oh.

How often do I just sit and enjoy something?

So I took a breath.

And tried again.

I took a moment.

I kind of talked to God, but mostly, I just sat with Him. I observed. I listened. I thanked him for lattes. I thanked him for flowers. I looked at the flowers for a long time. I admired pretty designs. Thirty minutes passed. It was good.

The poem was not preachy. It captured a moment in time. The flowers did not explain things. They simply were. But that day, they taught me something about stillness and delight. They ushered me into God’s presence with no agenda except to be with Him.  

Poetry and flowers slow you down.

In the slowness, delight in them.

Because God wants you to. When God created, God delighted. When He saw what He had made, He exclaimed “It is good!”

And when you delight in them, you delight in God—in His creativity, His goodness, His nearness.

No agenda. Just delight.