Over the next two months, we’ll share a series of appreciations for the work of U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón, who we’re bringing to Nashvlle on May 3 and 4, 2023. Limón will be teaching a two-hour workshop, give a free reading, and appear in conversation at our annual fundraiser with the new host of The Slowdown and former Porch board member Major Jackson. We are thrilled to share Limón’s beautiful work with the greater Nashville community.  

‍

First up, we have Porch instructor Melissa Jean’s reflection on one of her favorite Limón poems, “Calling Things What They Are.” - Ed.

‍

I sat down to write about this poem and looked out the window near my desk and shouted, “henbit!” It is the first henbit I’ve seen this February: my earliest yard-flower, purple bloom rising like a proud llama on its green leaf-island. When I moved to Tennessee a decade ago, I didn’t know what henbit was. The first time my kids and I saw one, we named it Purple Llama Head Flower, a truly apt moniker.

‍

Tennessee wanted me to learn that my entire yard could be eaten or turned into tea, and that learning the plant names would teach me how. Tennessee wanted me to call things what they are.

‍

At the time, I was on principle resisting learning the scientific and common names of creatures and plants; they were all invented by humans anyway, I thought, so how much could the names possibly teach me? But Tennessee had other plans for me. Tennessee wanted me to learn that my entire yard could be eaten or turned into tea, and that learning the plant names would teach me how, and Tennessee wanted me to buy every flower and mushroom and tree and bird guidebook in the bookstore; Tennessee wanted me to call things what they are.  

‍

Seeing that names are doorways into greater understanding, I began trying to learn them all. I learned to pay close attention to the details that would tell me which kind of iris or owl or moth or maple was before me. I found my sense of the world coming alive with the clarity of seeing afforded by knowing the names. But I also noticed something new happening: Sometimes I would look closely, closely, closely, until the guidebook gave me a name, and then I would stop looking. And the next time I saw a similar salamander I would look less closely, less curiously; like I’d already figured this one out. As if it could ever be enough to know that humans call a creature a spotted salamander without always wondering what that spotted salamander calls their self.

‍

Because there are the names we know, and there are so many more names we will never know. There are the names we were given and the names we give ourselves. There are the names spoken in other languages—the language of wind and wings, the language of scuttle and swim. There are the names we made up to try to hide the gaping fact of how many things we will never know.  There are the wrong names that stuck with us—like how I was sure they were crows in the hedge but they were ravens, like how we thought love meant pain, silly us—and there are the years we spent unlearning all those old names. And there is, always, this year’s work: the wisdom of coming to know when a name is a door opening and when a name is a door closing.  

‍