I read this to my Bastyr University students about midway through the Life Transitions and Initiations class. Many look at me like I'm crazy after I read it - they just don't get it.
I think that's what I like about the poem - I just don't get it, too. At least the "small me" doesn't. I like to think of triumphing over things. This poem turns that on its small obstinate short-sighted head. Maybe being broken open by big life transitions has a much larger context?
When we win it's with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestler's sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.
~Rainier Maria Rilke
Comments