Skip to main content
Loving Long Island

I wrote this poem, a thanksgiving affirmation and prayer, back in the fall of 2012, in my second year of ministry here in Stony Brook. I was learning to love my new home on earth, and invited the congregation to travel with me across the island and back and forward in time to name the blessings we inherit and pass on. 

Our Long Island home is shaped like a fish! 
and it is swimming towards the big city 
and its tail is in the sea and the sound.
It’s 110 miles long and 20 miles wide, 
700 miles and 124 stations on the Long Island Railroad,
72 miles of Long Island Expressway,
hundreds of sights and sounds and colors long,
on the parkways and highways and byways
that take us where we need to go,
all seven and a half million humans beings who live here,
We love this our long island home, 
this land beneath our feet, this ancient story we’ve entered.

Ancient glaciers scraped up these Long Island hills 
and dragged out the beaches,
dug out the coves, bays, and harbors;
filled all the estuaries, channels, 
ponds, lakes and streams with water;
ground up the soil for the grasslands and barrens 
and meadows and fields and forests;
ploughed up a home for the bluestem and hairgrass
for the heath and heather, the blueberry and bearberry 
for the pitch pines and the tupelo and the hickory trees 
for the beach plum and bayberry and boneset 
for the black oaks and the red maples 
that shade our picnics and swing our swings, perch the birds 
and make safe homes for all our animal relations.
We love the gift of the long melting, slow-moving ice,
this land beneath our feet, this ancient story we tell.

All the dinghies and sailboats and motorboats and barges and yachts,
the ferries that take us to Bridgeport and New London,
from Greenport to Shelter Island, and from there back to North Haven;
to Fire Island from Sayville and Bayshore and Patchogue,
from Montauk to Block Island and Rhode Island—
all the boats that breeze us out into the sparkling water 
and bring us back safely to shore,
all the gulls and terns and herons and ospreys 
that swoop and squawk the cloud blue sky,
and all the beautiful sea creatures 
that live in the Sound and the Ocean,
whom we love to see and care for and learn about,
and the seafood that graces our long island tables:
Fluke and flounder, lobster and bass, weak fish and black fish,
Peconic Bay scallops and Blue Point Oysters—
We love the boats and water and the lives they bear, 
these rhythmic waves that wash and lift us, 
this song that sings around and in us.

Long Island’s beaches, bluffs and dunes,
trails and boardwalks, 
parks and museums and mansions,
the preserves and orchards,
ball fields and lighthouses and picnic tables 
and fishing holes and bridal paths 
and garden beds and piers and island tours and arboretums 
and zoos and campgrounds and working grist mills—
all these places bring us back to earth.
All the amazing creatures we spot as we walk and watch,
plant us again in the sandy island dirt,
draw our roots down deep into this long island.
We love the places we can go to look and learn and play! 

Today in thanksgiving we remember the first peoples of this land—
thirteen native tribes who preceded us here by eons:
the Canarsee, Rockaway, Merrick, Mar-sa-peague, 
the Sec-a-togue, and the Un-ke-chaug 
on the South Shore
the Ma-tin-e-cock, Nes-a-quake, Set-al-cott, and Cor-chaug 
on the North Shore; 
the Shinnecock, Manhasset and the Montauks 
way out east.
Of all of these only the Shinnecocks 
and the Un-ke-chaug Nation of Poos-pa-tuck Indians
remain among us today.
They called this long island “Pau-ma-nok,” which means “land of tribute.”
We love and name and honor those who cherished this island before us, 
who trustingly tended and tendered this land, suffered and survived!

From Port Washington to Orient Point,
from Breezy Point to Montauk,
from the high peak of Jayne’s Hill 
to the pebble beaches of the North Shore
and the white sands of the South Shore;
from the sky above us 
to the four aquifers deep beneath our feet that gift us with fresh water;
from the Nissequogue River to the Connetquot
from the East River to the Peconic
from New York Harbor to Gardiner’s Bay,
from way back then to right now and beyond,
We love this our island home!

We remember. We see. We hear. We touch. We smell. We taste. 
We celebrate. We care. We tend. We give our thanks.

We love this this beauty onward through the years 
to hands that hold and hearts that love and feet that walk here 
when we’re gone.

AMEN.  AMEN.  AMEN. 




The Rev. Margie Allen serves as minister with the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship at Stony Brook.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Make even these days count

One of the most popular features on a local newscast of a small TV station is something rather surprising. It is a feature called- “The Day of the Week”.  Today is…….. Monday!  The station put forth this as a kind of joke at first, but it was so popular that it became a regular daily addition to the morning newscast.  Apparently, so many of us have lost track of what day it is that we need a reminder. During this stay-at-home time, every day seems to blend into the next.  It is truly difficult to remember how many days we have all been quarantined at home, what the date is and what day of the week it is.  Many of us have a few markers that help- jobs that pause for the weekend, celebrations of Fridays, Saturdays or Sundays- special days of worship.  But even with these, the days seem to bleed into each other like a striped shirt washed in hot water. The period that we are in right now in the Jewish calendar is ironically, a time of counting. A time when we purposely try to keep

Our Diversity is Our Strength

I was riding the subway with my husband.   We were headed towards Penn Station, returning home after seeing a Broadway show in Manhattan.   It was rush hour, the subway was crowded and I was lucky to get one of the last seats.   It was amazingly quiet for such a crowded car.   Most people were looking at their phones or listening to a device.   There were quite a few pairs of wireless earphones on people.   Their heads nodded slightly to the beat of noiseless music, or their eyes glazed over as a mystery book played in their ears.   There was a rich variety of humanity on that single car- multiple ages, ethnicities, races, ages and income levels.   I marveled at the diversity and the peaceful coexistence in this tiny piece of New York City. My eyes glanced over to the man sitting next to me.   He was holding a book and reading it very intently.   Reading an actual book is a relatively rare occurrence these days, but what truly caught my attention was the unusual prin
Compassion On the radio a few days ago there was a piece about refugees arriving by boat to the shores of a country that in the past had been welcoming, but this time people were yelling angrily and running into the water to block the boats from landing.   The boats were full and there were children on board. The turmoil and anger in the crowd was audible. I don’t speak their language, but the reporter said that people blocking the boats were shouting “Go back home. We don’t care about the babies.” I was repulsed. I could not stop thinking about it. “We don’t care about the babies.” What would it take for me to say that? For my friends to say that? My neighbors? Horrible thought, that people I know might be moved to yell at desperate people “We don’t care about the babies.” I started to ask myself how that could happen, what it would feel like to push away needy people and shout “I don’t care about the babies.” Please don’t stop reading when I tell you that suddenly my hea