Tables, Houses, and Storms on the Move

Perhaps the World Ends Here

by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,

we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the

table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe

at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what

it means to be human. We make men at it,

we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts

of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms

around our children. They laugh with us at our poor

falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back

together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella

in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place

to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate

the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared

our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.

We pray of suffering and remorse.

We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,

while we are laughing and crying,

eating of the last sweet bite.

Last night, my early-to-bed attempts were interrupted by what sounded like a mean and drunk gorilla knocking holes into the sky with a big flickering flashlight. I commenced the curl-into-yourself-and-think-of-safe-and-pretty-places method of returning calm to my mind. Thunder and lightning danced the finale of their dispute right above my head until a turning earth pushed them elsewhere and I got to sleep again.

I got to thinking about disaster, about the recent earthquakes, tornadoes and floods. About how very little we actually control, but still hold tight to the illusion that we can. I thought about the impermanence of our stuff, how every time I walk into Crabtree Mall and see the dire, frenzied look on the shoppers' faces, I'd like to pick up their pretty bodies and sit them on a mountain, inside a canyon, or by a big fire next to a rugged guitar player. Then, for kicks, I'd smear some dirt on their nose and say, "Who needs Abercrombie, anyway?" I also want to do this for myself when I sink into ruts of worry. Call up a hellicopter and plop into a place where I can say everything by saying nothing and smile big while the Robin builds her nest.

That's what I love about this poem. It reminds me that no matter what: no matter what disaster, what worry, what heartbreak, there's a table (or a place) we can go to receive love, nourishment, healing, and acceptance. I think that's the point of love, however imperfect the outcome, to at least try, at least get the people around the table and do the best you can. I love how the author personifies dreams. "They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves," because sometimes, when we've tried and tried and tried and still, NOTHING: We feel fallen apart, broken. And it's okay, because "we put ourselves back together once again at the table."

I think "the table" has different names. Tom Waits sings about "the house" in this song, and I think we can agree, Tom Waits knows what's up.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJBqRzjCBSE


Love,


Corrie Lynn