Margaret Atwood

Of all the books I read for my book group last year, Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin was my definite favorite. I’m ashamed to say I have not sampled more of her works (The Handmaid’s Tale, Alias Grace, Oryx and Crake, etc.), but I love her style and look forward to discovering more of it in the future.

Today is her birthday, and in honor of this event, I’d like to recognize one of her poems. But first, a little context . . . I’ve been thinking about how the Spirit whispers to me—what language it uses. One woman in my Relief Society commented on Sunday how learning to speak the Spirit’s language is just as difficult as becoming fluent in a second language. I would argue that it is even more complicated, since the Spirit’s language varies with each individual. Fast-forward to later that day when I was feeling deficient and overwhelmed: my prayers were rote. I didn’t study my scriptures enough. I felt like a shadow of a Saint in Zion.

Seeking comfort, I prayed for a confirmation of God’s love and was overwhelmed with the response. The first part of Atwood’s poem, “Flying Inside Your Own Body,” relates how the Spirit responded to my plea:

When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon

and your heart is light too & huge,

beating with pure joy, pure helium.

I love that weightlessness, that pure joy. Sometimes the heavens seem so remote, but a confirmation like that gives me a sense of divinity and how close God is. Not until I am reminded of that feeling do I realize how empty I am without it. It’s confounding how something can be so filling, yet so light at the same time. Atwood captures the sensation perfectly, while accurately contrasting it with its opposite in the latter part (to me, what it feels like when I’m not doing my part to keep close to God). Part inspiring, part gruesome. Wholly thought-provoking.

In case you’re curious, here’s the full poem:

 

“Flying Inside Your Own Body”

Your lungs fill & spread themselves,

wings of pink blood, and your bones

empty themselves and become hollow.

When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon

and your heart is light too & huge,

beating with pure joy, pure helium.

The sun’s white winds blow through you,

there’s nothing above you,

you see the earth now as an oval jewel,

radiant & seablue with love.

It’s only in dreams you can do this.

Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,

a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;

the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight

down on the think pink rind of your skull.

It’s always the moment just before gunshot.

You try & try to rise but you cannot.

 

Do you love Margaret Atwood? What about her poems? How does the Spirit speak to you?


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