What Owns Me

Last week in my class on the monastic vows, we discussed Benedictine poverty (which is part of the vow of fidelity to monastic life). It was helpful to me to think of poverty in terms of what I cling to, which broadens the concept from things I own to other aspects of life. For example, I love to read, but will I be able to let go of that ability gracefully if my eyesight ever fails? My musings about what I can and cannot let go of prompted the following poem. May we all support each other in our efforts to grow in poverty of spirit.

Right of Ownership

If you own anything you cannot give away,

you don’t own it—it owns you.

                                       —Albert Schweitzer

The clock my dad made for me has laid

claim to my hands, for it must be winded

every week and adjusted twice yearly when

we move time forward and back again.

My mom’s Betty Crocker cookbook

has staked out my stomach,

and her recipe cards have divvied

up my small and large intestines.

Collections of poetry have possession

of my heart, generously allowing piles

of prayer books to take up residence

among the bronchioles in my lungs.

A lithograph of a tree of life

has custody of my eyes,

and a myriad of CDs are jamming

with my cochlea and eardrums.

Keepsakes from a lifetime of loving

ooze out of the pores of my skin,

and a laptop computer has stashed

the contents of my brain in the clouds.

The rest of my body is given

over to memories, with only

a small, still voice left to be

appropriated by God, who says:

“Sell all that you have and give it

to the poor… then come, follow me.”