Saturday, March 31, 2012


This weekend I visit my son in the city where I grew up.  I just had my birthday.  So many things converge.  I think it should all be more complicated, but instead it is somehow simple.  In talking with my brother I realize again we hold more in common than shared parents.  I may be the youngest, but we are both in the same stage of life, the time that it becomes more simple.  We have both quit what we were doing to start again.

It was simple
when I was young.
Now it is simple again.
I know what I don*t need to know.
Now everyone is important
and no one is.
Now everything is important
and nothing is.
Now there is a ring around the moon,
around the ant building the anthill
grain by grain by grain.
There is a ring
Around the child,
The man by my side,
The woman who brings me coffee.
Now we have all quit
to start again.
The poet who lives in each of us
finds his expression,
Her expression.
We use different images.
Still the metaphors carry us
to the same place.
We have all quit
to start.
Somehow it becomes simple

Friday, March 30, 2012

The youngest of the oldest generation

 I grew up in Minneapolis.  Now my son lives here. I learned to drive in Lakewood Cemetery.  My daughter drove most of the way north from Chicago.  She is learning to drive in different places.

It*s not the same place I left.
Of course it never is.
The last time we buried
The end of the generation above.
I am the youngest of the oldest generation
We all learned to drive
In Lakewood Cemetery.
Little traffic.
No small children to dart out
make us practice our braking,
Only uphill and downhill parking,
Curve after curve after curve.
It"s not the same place I left
Or even returned to
It never is.
Three years ago
We buried the last.
Now I am the youngest
Of the oldest generation.
My daughter practices her driving
On freeways,
In construction zones,
Me in the back seat:
The youngest
of the oldest generation.

Thursday, March 29, 2012


Today we drive to Minnesota to see son Erik (age 25).  We may not make it in time for dinner because, while it seemed a good idea to leave early, now it seems a better idea to leave late.  I am the birthday girl.  I decree it.  Of course it is entirely possible to do this on other days of the year.  Still... it is easier to decree things on one*s birthday.

It is my birthday.
I use my birthday power
To slow down the day.
Because we drive to Minnesota
Because I made the motel reservations
Because now I am 57
And it is my birthday,
I declare we will take the day
Leave later,
Pay attention to the cheese curds
On our way through Wisconsin.
On the bridge over the St. Croix
 from Wisconsin
To Minnesota
We will lift our feet
So they won*t get wet.
We will do it again
When we cross the Mississippi.
It is my birthday.
I decree
We will slow down
The day.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

And I think I*ve got it bad...

Today I am in a why do I bother? mood.  I know everything counts with God.  But God is not the IL licensing board for counselors.  I do not mind being supervised (actually I enjoy it).  I do not mind unpaid hours on the fly (I am a priest, this is what I do).  I do wonder whether God watches all of us and shakes his head while He/She waits for each of us to get it.

Over the last few days
I have reviewed the hours that count.
It seems I will always
Have to count.
I have chosen,
Perhaps I have been chosen,
For a clientele
Who would rather not
Be counted:
The person who always takes a card
For someone else;
The soul who calls and calls,
Always has that one more question
Then never calls again;
The one who has my card,
Dog-eared with thumbing.
It gives him comfort to know
I am here or maybe there.
I think perhaps he prays with my card.
It gives him comfort to know
I wait for him whenever
It gets bad enough.
It seems I will be dead
By the time he calls.

It occurs to me
Even God has a time frame.
Still it seems God knows how to count
To infinity and beyond.
Even death
Is not God*s last word.
God has a particularly stubborn

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Holy Week, free and clear

It*s been four and a half years since I left parish ministry.  Without a doubt Holy Week has been the time I have missed being in the role the most, particularly the liturgy planning role.   This year it seems I have turned a corner.  This year it seems I can face into it and do it with my eyes open, even when the monstrance makes its yearly appearance on Maundy Thursday.    

At least my birthday is not on Good Friday
This year.
I can encounter all of Holy Week
Free and clear and newly 57.
Now I am back in priest skin.
I have mostly grown accustomed
To my part in the liturgy
From two pews back
On the right.
Sometime I even arrive late
Just before the Gospel.
This is Holy Week number four.
I know what to expect
In this place.
I may be able to pray it here
This year,
Not rail against the oddities,
Nor find the sticky places.
I may even be able to keep my eyes open
When the monstrance appears,
Take my turn
In the Garden of Repose.
There is a distinct possibility
I may encounter all of Holy Week
Free and clear
Two pews back
On the right.

Monday, March 26, 2012


My husband has a friend who is in Russia with his family for the year.  He was allowed to write his name in the frost on the rocket along with the astronauts going up to the space station.  He was always fascinated by outer space.  His name was launched in the frost.  Almost as good as going there himself.  Another friend talks of growing up with cardboard box rocket ships, he and his best friend traveling to outer space in the excitement of his back yard.  

He considers the life of the astronaut:
Notes different rules
In different countries,
For astronauts
For Mission Control.

We never hear about astronauts anymore.
No more trips to the moon.
They are off the usual radar.
No news is good news, I guess,
No one blown up,
Only Russians and U.S. citizens
Who orbit the earth together,
Round and round,
Learn each others* language
And acronyms,
Maintain the space station
From so far up
We are not even ants,
Our cities perhaps a dot of light
When they circle by.
They a dot of light if we watch
The night sky

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Hokey Pokey

Years ago now I wrote a paper in seminary about the priest as square dance caller.   Images often help me get hold of realities in new ways.  Today I might write a paper on priest as dancing the Hokey Pokey, not in any way to make light of it, but perhaps to get a new handle from this different perspective, standing on the edge of things.

Called to the edge
I tilt and tip on the rim of the world.
I am a novice
At this art.
One foot in
One foot out;
One hand in
One hand out;
I am part
Of the novitiate of an order
With no name.
My whole self in
My whole self out
I seek balance on the rim
Of the world.
I practice the steps
Over and over.
Sometimes my head is in
Sometimes my head is out
Sometimes my very heart
Is on the line.
Still I dance.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Stay put!

Today was clergy quiet day at the Morton Arboretum.  We sang and prayed and participated in a whole-group version of lectio divina of our ordination vows.  It is clear to me that I am being told to Stay put.  It reminds me of being a child and talking at night with my brother and sister in the top floor of the boathouse.  There was a one-way intercom so my father and mother could hear us in the cabin.  My father would stand at the top of the hill and shout: Pipe down.  This has the same commanding tone: Stay put.  Where?  I think.  How?  I think.  Couldn*t you ask more nicely?

The woman on the bike
Finds me staring at a robin.
I cannot determine whether
The bird has found a worm
Or perhaps a piece of nest material.
She motions me over,
Asks what is happening.
I tell her it is a clergy quiet day.
She puts her finger to her lips
And reads my name tag.
Oh, Episcopal !
She says.
She even pronounces it correctly.
I won*t say another word!
I tell her it*s ok,
There*s a difference between quiet
And silent.
She lived next door to the man who died
Before Convention last year.
Her husband knows a colleague of mine.

Before the robin,
Before the woman,
In the quiet,
I was told
Stay put!
It seems to address a bigger notion
Than robins
Or women on bikes
Who know how to pronounce Episcopal.

I would like more clarity
Or maybe even
A nicer tone of voice.

Friday, March 23, 2012

God is a saver

Now that it is rainy and green, with thunder in the distance, it really feels like spring.  It occurs to me, five years after leaving parish ministry, I am now more able fully to inhabit my vocation as a priest, with deep thanks and appreciation for those who have held it precious for me in the meantime (for Steve, Jeff, two Georges, and others, too many to name, including some I do not know).  God is a saver.  Indeed.  I am grateful.

God is a saver.
He does not throw anything
She finds a use for every little thing,
Every big thing.

God is a saver.
Sometimes we are that little piece of string
From the twine ball,
The string which wraps around
The porch column,
Something for the clematis to grab.
Sometimes we are the twist tie
From the now-empty bag of bread.
We help the tomato plant
Grow on the trellis.

God is a saver.
He does not throw anything away
Nothing big
Nothing small
God is a saver.
She is creative.
She finds a good use for every one
And every thing.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Bear dreams

I do not know what it might mean that my husband and I both have dreams of bears.  Black bears and polar bears and grizzly bears.  This is the time of year the black bears come out of hibernation.  It begs the question about the polar bear constitution... do they hibernate?  If so, where?  But these are dream bears.  For whatever reason they want our spot in bed.  For whatever reason, they come down the choir loft stairs.  For whatever reason, we shove them out the door.  Bears.

This is the time
The bears wake up.
We have both had dreams
Of bears.
They growl and push us
Out of bed.
They lumber down
From the choir loft.
We have shoved them
Out the door,
Called in game wardens
To tell them
To leave.
Bear dreams.
This is not just the time
Everything greens again.
It seems this is also the time
The bears wake up.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Spring dreams

Something about this season of spring seems to grow the imagination, even the way we dream things possible.

At this rate the clematis
Should take over the front pillars
By early May.
Of course I will see
Whether this dream
Comes true.
With spring really here
I dare to dream such things.
With spring finally here
I dream rhubarb sauce
Early asparagus.
This morning the robins and rabbits,
One squirrel
Vied for the front walk.
They even held their places
When I came out the front door
Into the sun.
Last night the house was held
By Venus and Jupiter,
They held  hands over the house,
Orion four feet over.
Spring lines things up
By night and day.
Everything holds, yet shares
Common space.
I dare to dream the house overtaken
With clematis.
Rhubarb sauce
Early asparagus.
Wildlife covers the sidewalk;
Stars hold the house
In place
In spring.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Vernal Equinox

It is amazing to me how I could not embrace spring until today, when it was marked on the calendar.

When my son turned three
He told me:
Now I use the toilet.
Really?  I said
He knew three years old
Was the time all big boys
Use the toilet.
Today the daylight begins
To overtake the dark.
It feels full spring.
Somehow today it is all ok.
What difference does a day make
In accepting the arrival
Of spring?
The day kicked off
In full bloom.
The calendar says
Now it is spring,
So now I can see it,
Accept it,
Even dance
In the sun.
Now, the day of the vernal equinox,
I can accept spring
And all it brings with it.
 (I hear my voice
From 22 years ago)

Monday, March 19, 2012

Cloud cover

Today I am glad to be able to see the spring changes.  Clouds help.  Somehow I am able to think more clearly, see more clearly.  I find more clarity when the light is not full in my eyes.

The sun is covered by clouds today.
I am thankful for the clouds
In the upper atmosphere.
They feel somehow more accurate,
More apropos
To this time of year.
I can see more clearly
What needs to be seen,
What needs to be heard,
Perhaps what needs to be done,
Without the static of blinding sunlight.
There is a chipmunk on the front porch.
He runs
From bush to bush.
I imagine hawks also see better
In this light.
Today the forsythia is bright
In the back yard.
Today I am grateful
For the clouds.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Gold made real

This morning there was enough contrast to see the forsythia on the way to church.  No gray skies, but still enough contrast to notice gold in the lower light.  Goldfinches have arrived too, but they have not changed color yet.  They swoop disguised as common birds.  Soon enough they will change and join the golden multitude.

The light was low
This morning.
We finally saw the bushes and sprays
Of forsythia,
Golden in the lower light.
Tree buds flashed
Spring green.
Goldfinches have returned
Not gold yet
But soon.
Soon they promise gold,
Swoop and dip
Tree to tree.
They are early too,
Like everything else.
Soon enough  all the gold will be realized
In the low light
In the twilight
In the half light
In sunlight through leaves:
Dappled realized gold.
Gold will be there for the spending
The saving
The reflection when the sun
Shines through leaves:
Realized dappled gold.

Saturday, March 17, 2012


Last year I wrote a lot about the forsythia.  It seemed I had never seen so much of it.  It was gorgeous.  Particularly the way it stood out against the gray spring sky.  Now, all of a sudden it is almost summer, warm and almost too bright to see.  Even when I wear my sunglasses, it feels overly bright.  I realize I miss the contrast of last year.  Not the cold, really, but the contrast.

I woke up this morning,
Realized I had not seen
The forsythia.
If the weather has turned so
The forsythia
Must be blooming
This morning I realized
With the sun so bright,
I missed seeing it.
This morning I see
It has bloomed already.
With the sun in my eyes
I couldn*t see it
Last year it was a study
In contrast:
Gold against the gray,
Sprays of gold.
The forsythia punctuated
cold and rain
And gray.
Last year it stood out,
Bright yellow spots on the way to church.
This year
It went missing
In the sun.
Not enough contrast.
I wonder what else
I won*t see.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Watch and see

I learned a new word yesterday:  phenology.  Thank you,  NPR.  I usually listen in the car on the way home from work.  Now that I am driving again, it*s just me, and I can choose the station!  It seems there are people who make their living paying attention to such things as the timing of spring, the budding and hatching of things, when the birds migrate, and any number of natural things, not just when the sun and moon rise and set.  Of course there are so many different kinds of natural things to pay attention to, and we really know so little, in the bigger scheme of things.  Still... it was stunning to me that there are scientific folk who pay attention to such things, and try to make a bigger picture.  Phenologists.  Here*s to them.

There are buds on the clematis.
I wonder how long it will take
To climb the porch pillar,
Bloom purple?
It is early for clematis.
The woolly bears were wrong
Last fall.
The weather line
To the groundhog
Got clogged,
His vision plugged
With those spring allergies
With all the predictors
We will have to watch and see:
Which birds return when;
Watch and see:
Whether there will be enough worms
For the robins;
Watch and see:
Whether the snowy owls
Now go home
To their tundra to the North;
Watch and see,
Test the earth,
Figure out anew
When to plant the tomatoes
This year.
Watch and see
Test the earth
Reconsider the cycles
Maybe even rewrite
The Farmers Almanac
For next year,
The year after,
The year after that.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

When we plant blueberry bushes or asparagus

With this very early spring, and little winter, I wonder whether the we had a complete-enough cycle this year, particularly a complete-enough Northern Illinois cycle.  I wonder how it will manifest itself in the longer scheme of things.  Meanwhile I*m keeping an eye on the asparagus patch at church.

When we plant blueberry bushes
Or asparagus,
We speak
Or at least
Green hope and promise
For the future.
We say we will be here
For a long long time
To watch and wait.
We say
We expect a harvest
In years to come.
When we plant the over-winter plants,
The growth that needs one hard frost
Or two
Or three,
We will to wait.
We speak the possibility
Of harvest
In years to come.
But first we pray
For that first hard frost.
We dance at new signs of life
In spring.
We look under leaves
For the signs
All is well.
We wait for the cycle
To go around
Once again.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Dish garden

March 14 and it feels like summer.  It is so early for so warm: I*m not quite sure how to take it.  While I hold thoughts that it is too good to be true, I look at my window well, watch a barefoot child, and dream of dish gardens blooming outside my window.

It is oddly spring.
Already it feels summer.
People lay bets on how it will all
Play out.
Is this really it?
It is not too late for a final snow.
The insects have barely begun.
I wonder about who or what pollinates
The crocus,
Whether the space
In my window well
Will hold a dish garden
Or perhaps an amaryllis.
A small blonde girl
Walks barefoot through the grass.
She giggles.
Already it feels
Like summer.
I think a dish garden
Will do the trick.
Perhaps next week
A dish garden.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

One thing I forget every year

I*m sure there are other things I forget, but I forget now what they are.

Every year I forget that daffodils
Can only live with other daffodils.
There is a reason they are not sold
With other flowers.
If I were a florist
This would be as obvious
As worms on the sidewalk
After a rain.
Every year I forget
Because they are only sold
With other daffodils.
My house is filled with yellow
In every vase.
Every florist knows
Daffodils poison the water
For other flowers.
If I were a florist
This would be as obvious
As the fact
Salt shrivels garden slugs.
Every year I forget
Yellow in every vase
Daffodils in every vase
All by themselves
Daffodils fill
Every vase.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Office at the mall

For this dream, in part, I blame Daylight Savings Time.  I*m sure I know the fruit lady receptionist from somewhere.  Beyond DST, however, I have always been called to serve on the edges of things.   It*s a life theme.  What better place to serve than at the mall, with the mass of humanity shopping for who knows what?   And rent for $100/month?  Who could resist?  Of course the office was near one of the entrances, right next to a nail salon.

In my dreams I opened a therapy office
At the mall.
Only $100 rent per month.
It came complete with a receptionist
Who had always worked there.
I believe the previous professional occupant
Offered massage.
The good kind.
I know where your mind was going.
The receptionist kept bowls of fruit
In the office refrigerator.
A guy from auto sales down the way
Stopped in before I could get anything
Set up.
He took a piece of fruit,
Made an appointment
For tomorrow.
I thought
Oh this will work then.
Before that,
I had my doubts.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Counting redwings

It is surprising to me what captures the attention of others, even those, like family, who are close.  It is particularly gratifying when we notice similar things and see fit to note it out loud.  

Little sleep but still
She counted redwing blackbirds
On the way to church.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Sandhills return and return

There is something eerily odd about the call of the sandhill.  Distinctive.  It seems they are a little early this year, but then everything seems early this year.

The sandhills circle over the house,
Continue to circle
Over the house
Cold spring air,
Washed out blue sky,
An odd migration,
They announce themselves
Like no other,
Fly around and around
And around.
They announce themselves.
We run outside in our pajamas
No matter the neighbors,
Stare into the sun
Watch them circle
Washed out blue back
To the picture.
No matter the neighbors,
We do not know
Where they are going

Friday, March 9, 2012

In spring the words rise different

I drove my daughter to school this morning.  It was just as cold as many winter mornings.  But... not cold and crisp.  Cold, yes, but brisk.  It surprises me, amazes me, when the words that come as I sit to write, the words are so different from just two months ago.

Amazing to me how,
In winter
Snow or not,
The days are cold and crisp.
In spring,
Snow or not,
The words rise different,
Cold, perhaps,
But brisk now,
Wind or not,
Still brisk,
Cold perhaps
But cold and brisk.
We could get a spring snow.
The briskness would tell us
The melt is on the way.

In spring the words rise different,
Like sap.
They beg to be tapped.
They beg
To be made
Into something simply

Thursday, March 8, 2012


I love it when it*s time for the dry-pack daffodils at the grocery.  I love cutting the ends, putting them in vases of water all over the house, then watching them open.  When I looked in Elburn (during internship), the grocery lady told they didn*t carry them because they don*t sell well there.  So sad.  I thought about being a daffodil evangelist in Elburn.  

The dry-pack daffodils opened over a day.
They have stayed four days
Full and yellow.
They trumpet spring
In the house
Whenever I walk through the door,
Sit in the chair,
Read or write or simply
Do nothing.
The cat chitters
In accompaniment,
Catching sight of robins
On the lawn.
I celebrate spring
In full wait and watch.
It comes without my knowing
What exactly
Comes next.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


It feels like one of those Ecclesiastes times.  I do not find this in the list from Ecclesiastes chapter three, exactly, but it seems this is a time not to add things, but to weave everything that is already there together:  into a nest, an open air nest.  This is both appealing and scary.  Usually that*s the way of true things.  Appealing and scary.  That about sums it up.

I wake up and know
I do not need to add one more thing.
Now is the time to weave the pieces
The orange piece of yarn:
I found it hung on a bush;
The stray piece of twine
From the driveway;
The memory of my friend*s father
Swinging me around
How*s my girl?;
The phone call from the acquaintance
I barely know,
It asks something of me,
I would never come up with
Something I never knew
Was needed.
Now is the time of collection.
Now is the time to weave the pieces
A nest open to the elements,
Sun and wind and rain,
Snow and sleet.
A nest tagged with the orange yarn
From the bush,
Everyone will know
It*s me.
Orange yarn, of course,
Not to mention the twine
From the driveway.
No need to be showy
All the time.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

No need for weather reports

Yes, I am driving again.  I have also discovered that several of the things I linked to seizures were in actuality migrainous activity.  I have even learned a new adjective: migrainous.  Of course spell-check does not recognize the word.  I do not get the headache part, just the bells and whistles of blurry vision and dizziness and the occasional slurred word.  It does pass.  And it does seem connected to the weather.  I ask you: Who needs weather forecasters?

I have joined the group
Connected in body
With the weather.
I used to dismiss the ones
Who knew it was going to rain.
They felt the weather change in their knees,
Their hips.
Now my vision and stability rise and fall
With the barometer
The humidity
The sunny or cloudy day.
Now I find the many who wait
For migraines
On days like this.
Now I find we only need Grandma*s knees
To predict rain.
Now my vision and stability rise and fall
With the barometer
The humidity.
I realize we never needed weathermen
At all.

Monday, March 5, 2012

Full bright as Jesus

We make sense of the world, our reality, in many ways.  This is part of the way it makes sense to me.  There is a concept in Judaism:   tikkun olam.  It literally  means the repairing of the world.  It has come to mean many things: accomplishing all the things that need to be done to allow the Messiah to come, or even the Kabbalah legend of God creating the world with parts of God*s self, then shattering it (which is where the shiny bits come from).  I encourage you to google it... there*s lots more.  

I follow Jesus.  I, of course, believe the Messiah has already come, and will come again.  In the meantime, there is work to do.

In the beginning,
After the Garden gates were crashed
From the inside out,
Life spilled out into the world.
It could not be contained.
Everything else escaped as well,
Pandora*s box opened and shut,
Hope still glued to the bottom.
There are many stories to explain
The beginning
The end
Everything in between.
So many stories for what we know
Is true.

In the beginning
Light and darkness spilled out
Multiplied and filled
The whole earth:
Evil yes but all the sparkly bits
As well.

We collect the bits.
They shine
Like the sun.
They shine
Like Jesus.
We share our collections with each other,
Together they are so much more
Than the sum
Of their parts.

In the end
All will be collected
Together again
Together again.
The River will flow.
The Tree will span the river.
The Fruit of knowledge,
The Fruit of life,
Will both be One.
The leaves of the Tree
All the leaves
Every single leaf
Will heal the nations.
We will shine brighter
Than any sun.
We will shine
Full bright as Jesus.

Sunday, March 4, 2012


There*s nothing like a day which started with a list of necessary things to do (which I indeed would have done, gladly), a day which now requires that I stay home with a soft blanket and herbal tea, watching the cat have cat fits.

Some days require
A soft blanket
A cup of herbal tea.
No need to focus
On anything difficult.
Some days it is enough
To watch the dry-pak daffodils
Begin to open,
The cat as he frenzies
From the living room to the kitchen
And back again,
The cat who takes away
Any need on our part
To frenzy,
Only watch the action
From the sidelines
Under the soft blanket
A cup of hot herbal tea,
It warms the hands.
No need to emulate the cat
The almost-emergent daffodils
On the living room table.

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Loss happens

Wow.  What a week.  

Naomi Shibab Nye, a poet I love, speaks of teaching young children to write poetry.  One of the exercises she uses is to ask them to write a list of what they have lost.  The lists go on and on.  Small things, large things.  Young children, mind you.  When we get older, we tend to categorize things into big and small losses.  Of course it depends on who you are and how you categorize big and small.  Still.  Loss is loss.  It is personal, intensely personal.  Sometimes we make casseroles for others, and sometimes we receive them.

Loss happens.
Loss happens.
If it doesn*t happen to us today,
This week,
Our mortality still sits
On our shoulders,
On the shoulders of those
We love.
It whispers in our ear.
It reminds us that this is what we get.
Pay attention.
This is what you get.
Some weeks, like this week,
It piles on.
The only thing we can do
Really do
Is hold someone*s hand.
Bring a casserole,
The time-honored casserole,
Somehow macaroni and cheese
In times like these,
Maybe even a spiral-cut ham
Offers something.

Sometimes it is our turn
To answer the doorbell,
Receive the ham.

Friday, March 2, 2012

I went to Wheaton

I went to Wheaton College for my masters degree in Clinical Psychology.  I could have gone somewhere else.   I didn*t.  I got a good education there.  I had fine teachers, a fine cohort.  I went there in part because I did not understand it, yet I knew there was something there I needed to learn, precisely because I did not understand it.  Now here I am... an Episcopal priest who attended a Quaker college and an evangelical graduate school.  Out the other side I appreciate silence and Paul.  Out the other side, further up and further in, I am still Gospel girl.

I went to Wheaton
In part
Because I did not understand it.
It took almost two years
To get a glimmer,
A peripheral vision
Of an understanding.
I eked out that A
In theological anthropology
Mostly because of the final paper,
Not because
I agreed in the centrality
Of Paul.
I went to Wheaton to find
The good there.
I found it in the glimmer,
The peripheral vision
Of an understanding.
I found a place for Paul,
A hallowed place for Paul.
I went to Wheaton
To begin
To understand.
On this other side I am still
Gospel girl.
On this other side
I dance with Jesus
Further up and
Further in.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Driving again

I may not have to learn to drive, but I do need to learn to drive again.  It takes more concentration, particularly in weather like the rain and sleet at dusk last night.  Of course I thought it would be an easy run with my daughter to Panera for supper.  I already knew I would need my own driving chops again, until I will be able to supervise her driving.  I was not prepared for the difficulty driving at dusk in sleet last night.  Now is my time learning again to concentrate, to focus on different things from the driver*s side.  Alone.  Me and the car.  Learning each other again.

Like my daughter learning to drive
For time number one,
I search for my driving mind
I figure at least a week
In sun and rain and snow,
In various stages of dark and light,
Sun in my eyes,
Sun at my back.
It will take at least a week
Driving by myself.
I remember it takes time
Oh yes time
I remember it takes time
To get up to speed.
I have my license
It still takes time.