Pink plaid sneakers

Sometimes the small things, like pink plaid sneakers, bring joy and comfort while I am waiting on the world to change or become more defined.

I put on the pink plaid sneakers

From Target

This morning.

I figured they would help me wait

For the lilacs to come full bloom,

The peonies to unknot,

The purple-and-white-striped clematis

To open on the trellis.

I counted sixteen buds.

The sneakers are not what a professional

Would wear.

When I catch them under the desk

Or my legs suddenly cross,

The pink plaid comes into view.

The wait becomes

Bearable.

I know why they jumped

Out of the closet this morning,

Spooked the cat into cat-fits,

Simply demanded to be worn.

There is new life to be had

To be worn

To be obvious

Under my desk

Crossed legs

Pink plaid with a stripe of turquoise

While I wait.

Memoir... of sorts (for Ian)

I read... a lot.  Every once in a while I read something which, even though the story line is different from mine, simply resonates on an almost under-skin level.  Ian Cron*s sort-of memoir carries that resonance for me.  I am not a prose writer, but I realize it*s what I want to do with the reflections I write, and why I started blogging in April.  It*s the preaching voice, I think.  And what better way to preach, than with our lives?

I want to walk down the street

So people see me

And say

You look familiar

Don*t I know you?

Haven*t we met?

Even if we*ve always lived

On opposite sides

Of the country.

Even though we*ve never met before,

I want them to recognize

The particular way

I favor my right foot

Pluck a blade of grass

Notice the wind blowing the pines

And that shimmy

They do.

I want to write so well

That people read it,

See themselves

Mirrored

Echoed

Common humanity

New possibilities

Formed,

Grace glimpsed.

Even for them

As much as for me.

That would be writing

Well enough

And then some.

Triple rainbow spinner

The spinner is back.  Who knows where it went.  Who knows what prompted its return.  There was conversation in the family about putting it in the backyard... but really it looks good in front.  And I want everyone to see it.  And enjoy it.

Last summer we bought a triple wind spinner

At a festival,

A rainbow for the front yard.

We delighted in it for a month

Before it went missing.

Two days ago the rainbow returned

We found it taking a nap

 behind the bushes.

We do not know where it spent

The winter.

Nine months later

It looks good as new,

Like it spent the winter

In a warmer climate

Or someone*s garage.

I think we*ll never know.

Summer begins with Memorial Day.

The rainbow spinner

Is ready to take its place

In the front yard

Again.

In counterpoint

I stare at the radar map and wonder about the angry red dots, the look of night out the window, the sump pump cycling in the basement, the thunder and rain.  The pick-up choir sang All Things Bright and Beautiful (one of my favorites) this morning.  I ran up the stairs to the choir loft to join them at the Peace when I read it in the bulletin.  I am still humming it as the thunder echoes outside.

It looks like night outside

Green dim night outside

Thunder and rain roll through

The sound echoes

Echoes

Echoes,

It feels like the end of the world.

It seems they got it wrong

By one weekend.

Hardly anyone was in church

This morning,

Except we sang All Things Bright and Beautiful

In counterpoint

To this.

Maybe we wouldn*t notice

The green dim night,

The build-up of thunder and rain

Maybe we would only hear

That final line:

He has made all things well.

Memorial

I just finished reading Ian Morgan Cron*s new book: Jesus, My Father, the CIA, and Me: A memoir... of sorts.  I loved it.  I recommend it.  Highly recommend it.  Read it.  

I looked up Ian*s blog (iancron.com)  Today he invites his readers to come up with a six word memoir.  Since I am a fan of saying as much as possible in as few words as possible... thinking that I will take up less space somehow, yet be heard more (there*s a fallacy here... we are all meant to take up space, and fill it... probably this will be a later reflection... but not today).  But anyway... six words offer an appealing format.  And an interesting way to approach this weekend.  Mine?  
Seeking
Finding Grace.  
Always a surprise.

The flags have been at half-mast

Since mid-week.

It is Memorial Day weekend,

Promised warm eventually

Unbearably hot by Monday.

The beginning to summer but first

We remember death

More it seems

than the war-dead.

An odd but true way to enter summer,

End school,

Juxtapose commencement speeches

Of famous and not-so-famous people

At college launchings

Everywhere.

The pile-up

Words of wisdom

Famous last words.

I am invited to write

A six word memoir on a blog.

It reminds me of haiku.

There is something satisfying

In counting syllables.

Six words to sum up the trajectory

Of a life

At the beginning of summer.

Make it personal.

Make it general.

Make it true.

Count the words.

Raise the flag.

Make it true.

I never know what will bloom tomorrow

I think I have prepared the talks for the retreat ten times over.  No, it is not the perfectionist streak which I know I have.  It is more the delightful surprise of not knowing what comes next, what will bloom tomorrow.  It may well change as I present it.  I realize that while I have always claimed to preach and write short, for this there is a wealth of possibility

I never know what will bloom tomorrow.

The presentation for next weekend

Has changed

Every other day at least.

The spaces I try to keep the same

So I can easily flow with change

Bloom different

Every day.

This afternoon will offer a haircut.

The flowers I picked from the lawn

False Solomon*s Seal,

Something purple on a stalk,

Stray grass pulled

Will mean something different

Tomorrow.

I never know what will bloom,

What will die,

Where the meaning will surface

Or fade.

I used to wait until the last minute

To prepare

I learn so much more this way

Now that I always prepare.

It is not a model of efficiency.

Now I do not know what will bloom

At all.

Now I wait

For the surprise.

MRI

It is an odd thing, taking steps, then waiting... what seems like waiting forever even though the waiting will be done in two weeks, or only maybe done.  For almost sure I will be able to drive, no matter what the MRI shows.  There is always the question, though, of what has changed since last time.  When I think of it, we always get that question, just sometimes it feels more life and death than others.  And with many more things than repeat MRIs.  I watch the weather change, and wait for the hummingbird to reappear.  They say it*s going to be 90 on Monday.  What*s the song?  Waiting on the world to change?

I understand the pounding is quieter

These days.

When I said I was almost done

With a round of antibiotics

For a sinus infection,

She said she could tell my left sinus

Was thicker,

A rather expensive way to have my sinuses

Diagnosed.

Of course I wonder what else

She saw and couldn*t say.

I came home with the envelope

Of pictures

To be compared

With the other pictures.

She asked about weekend plans.

Smiled.

I wonder if she talks with knee pictures

Elbow pictures

Breast scans

The same way.

Probably.

I understand the pounding is quieter

These days.

I am home with my pictures,

Wait for warmer weather

And the hummingbird

To return.

Warmth

OK it*s green.  But so cold?  At this time of year?  Today is the day I get more pictures taken of my brain.  I was so sure the appointment was for 1:30... they called at 10 and asked where I was.  Oy.  I blame it on the cold.  Or the warm bed.  Or the cat.  Or the birds complaining outside.  Appointment now at 1:00.

What do the flowers think?

Does it feel like spring

As usual?

Is it hurry up and bloom before the next

Cold dip

Barely above freezing?

Are the birds sorry they returned so soon,

Hunched fluffed out like bumblebees

Will they need to lay new eggs

Keep the laid ones warm?

Or forego it

This year?

How do they decide?

Is it on nature automatic?

I am glad for the warm house

The bed that encouraged me to stay

The coffee cup warm and solid in my hands

The husband and cat still sleeping

Under the covers

At 10 in the morning,

Warm and solid 

Under the covers.

Inside I am grateful for warmth.

I listen to the birds

Complain.

On the periphery

Now that the rain has stopped for a bit, and it is warmer, the hummingbird returns.  I catch her possibility on the edge of my visual field.  While I wonder about hummingbirds, I also think about how much goes on at just the edge of our vision, what we turn our heads to see full on, what we ignore.  What have we been trained to pay attention to?  What will we train ourselves to pay attention to?  Or ignore?

On the periphery

Motion

The hummingbird has returned

To the columbine.

When I turn I see her full on,

Small green almost alien

In her movements.

Why is it bird men

Get all the colors?

Her mate with the flashy

Ruby throat

Is elsewhere.

She is green, only green,

Hums on the edge of green bushes

Mines the columbine

For nectar

Disappears,

Leaves me with so many questions:

Where is he, of the ruby throat?

What do they do in the rain?

How do they keep flying?

I remember fairy tales

Stories of hummingbird eggs

A delicacy some people ate.

Maybe they still do.

I saw a picture once

Of a hummingbird at rest.

Of course they have to rest,

Nest,

Lay eggs,

Raise little hummingbirds.

How do they teach them to fly,

So I can catch their motion

Out the side of my eye

On the periphery?

Considering sunflowers

This will be a gardening summer.  The yard has needed attention for a long while.  Sure the grass is cut regularly, but this year it*s time to notice what*s already there (lilies of the valley, violets, peonies, the stray columbine which the hummingbird finds even when it*s tucked away behind a bush).  And it*s time to plant.  The heirloom sunflower seeds are in the mail.

I consider the place in the yard

The sun shines

The most,

Prepare the dirt

For sunflowers.

I flew into Fargo once

Late summer

To visit my love.

The plane landed over a field of open sunflowers

Gold and yellow, shining;

The time of day when everything

Looks golden

Late afternoon, early evening light.

Before then I*d seen sunflowers

In ones and twos and threes.

The field began to glow as we came in low

To land.

The sunflowers watched,

Attentive faces.

We could almost pick them out

Individually.

I consider the yard

The best spot for a sunflower mix

Viewed from the ground,           

A family of sunflowers which will show golden

Late afternoon

Early evening

Even as it*s followed the sun

All day.

They will

Watch us land.

Geneology

I am fascinated by those who spend a significant portion of their lives figuring out which important person they are related to.  I am reminded that Jesus did not have any children.  This somehow allows each of us to claim him, or at least allows us to be adopted into His family.  It is an interesting thing in this world of who is related to whom that none of us can trace our lineage back to Jesus... except by adoption.  His of us, and us of Him.  Both ways.

She did a health genogram this year,

Much like the one I did two years ago

For school

But without the zig zaggy lines

Which showed

Where the trauma was.

I trace the lines

Up and down and zig-zaggy,

Even doing some background checks

Of the family tree.

I am eligible to be a Daughter of the American Revolution,

A Colonial Dame.

Years ago my blood tested possibly positive

For Jewish ancestry.

I understand the fascination

Of those who spend years

To search records,

Trace straight and zig-zaggy lines

To find out

Who they are.

Today  I search.

I find it fascinating to see the wealth of people

Who walked before me.

For most there is barely any record

At all.

Like my daughter I say

I don*t look like any of you

But

From time to time I see a picture

and there is

A familiar chin.

I see a bird and know immediately

What it is

How it flies

What it eats

The notes of its song

Up and down the scale.

I remember my great grandfather whose life*s work

Was annotating all the birds

Of Minnesota.

Normal

In an odd ways this feels like Easter again.   Holy Week always feels like the scheduled time to consider endings and beginnings and the triumph of new beginnings.  Harold Camping*s prediction caught more people this time around than 1994. I think media saturation has a lot to do with it.  Whatever the cause, there was no rapture this time either.  In an interesting way, the possibility that Jesus was coming again on Saturday at 6 PM, made the conversation about Jesus* Second Coming (a major tenet of the Christian faith) more real. Now we are back to normal.  I think for a few, it may look a little different.

Today we return to normal.

Some people never left

Normal.

Of course the idea of normal

Has always been

Our creation.

Good, bad, just the way it is

God-given, God-forsaken:

Normal remains

In the eye of the beholder,

The throat

Of the speaker.

Over the weekend:

Floods, tornadoes,

Volcanoes,

The cleanup in Japan

Continued still,

Continues now.

New tears and cleanup

Today

To the south of us.

New prayers as well.

This is normal

When we think of it

Really think of it

None of us are ever

Left behind,

Bereft.

We are in it

Together.

This is normal.

Today I return to survey the garden.

I cannot yet drive to the garden store,

So I assess what God has planted.

I pick four lilies of the valley, fragrant,

Two purple columbine, intricately made.

I declare this normal and wonderful.

I declare this good.

Windows of opportunity

Sometimes it is hard to tell exactly where windows of opportunity come from: whether I am more predisposed, whether it*s someone else, or whether it*s merely something in the air. 

I once worked for someone who would say: We won*t say whose fault this is!  when I knew it was his fault, and he knew it was mine.  It didn*t do a lot for the relationship.  

But... I do think it*s helpful to pay attention to those moments of possibility.  They come in all sizes and shapes and fragrances.   It*s not necessary to tweak out every nuance, but simply recognize them when they come, and be grateful.

There are moments  

When time ripens,

Opens to possibility.

Almost like when the open window

Draws in spring, nearing summer, air;

It is warm but fresh still.

Opportunity enters with it.

The cat knows your lap

Is open for sleeping;

The teenager

Senses the possibility

You may not be as stupid

As you usually seem.

You are perhaps more open

For conversation.

Opportunity wafts through,

Asks to be enjoyed like spring:

A light, almost pale fragrance,

It changes, depends upon

Whatever is in bloom

Right now.

Hard hard rain

It looks like rain outside.  My husband monitors the seismic activity around the world.  Today I take Sawyer shopping at Woodfield Mall, part of the octave of her birthday.  She*s right, shopping is not my very favorite activity.  But today is special shopping and lunch and more shopping.  I wonder what the mall will be like today.

Memories of the range of churches with which I have been involved come back.  I am a cradle Episcopalian, but come with a variety of church camp experience: Episcopal, Lutheran, Salvation Army, Evangelical.  My husband tells me that Hard Hard Rain is about nuclear fallout... well... maybe it is.  Like a lot of Dylan, it*s in code.  Come to think of it, I have plenty of stories about living through the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Who knew that Bob Dylan

Was hard-wired into my brain?

All the verses to Hard Hard Rain unearthed

From church summer camp days.

I was newer

To playing the guitar.

It was Episcopal Church summer camp.

I only went once.

I preferred the Girl Scout variety.

Dylan was really easy

To play.

I remember the young woman,

Church camp veteran.

 Dylan

Was a favorite.

It never occurred to me

That Hard Hard Rain

Was about Jesus

Coming again.

The End of the World.

Somehow my brain hard-wired it

Into the End of the World section.

A section

Almost empty.

Summer camp,

The Episcopal Church

Was not big on End of the World

Particulars.

After college I got a job

With the Salvation Army,

Went as a leader

To summer camp.

We sang non-Dylan things.

I got more particulars for the end of the world section

In my brain.

Today, however, it is Hard Hard Rain

That comes back.

All the verses.

Early memories.

When it doesn*t happen

I think this is worth considering.

When it doesn*t happen,

How will we sit with those

Who waited,

Full in expectation

Of the end?

Bags packed.

Cars given away.

Bank accounts cleared.

When it doesn*t happen,

How will we join with them,

Not leave them behind?

When it doesn*t happen,

How will we rapture them back

Among the living,

Among the not so certain,

Not so sure,

Those of us who continue to wait,

Will continue to wait?

How will we greet them

When it doesn*t happen

Tomorrow?

How will we extend our hands?

Maybe sunflowers

Last year I was content to observe what grew in the yard.  I barely had my hands in the dirt, at all.  

Last year I also observed other plans completely change before my eyes.  It occurred to me to ask: Why plan?  Why plan anything at all?  What is that expression:  God laughs when we make plans?  Still, I realize a corner has been turned when I start planning again.  Of course I never stopped, really.  I may not have been driving around town, but I have learned and re-learned things standing and sitting, watching and waiting, even walking the unplowed sidewalks in the weeks after that February snowstorm.  Spring seemed late this year.  Maybe it is not too late to consider heirloom seeds.

It is late to order seeds

From the heirloom catalogue.

Past mid-May,

I look for the possibility

Of fast growth,

To catch up

Where I would have been

If I had planted before now.

It is late to consider seeds.

Seeds that have seen years and years

Of possibility

Flowers and fruit.

There are flats of annuals

At the garden store

Alas

Annuals have trends

Like everything else.

The nicotiana which drew the sphinx moth

Years ago

Is no longer in style.

Even perennials

Come and go.

It is late to drool over seeds

From the heirloom catalogue.

I consider them anyway.

Tomatoes are obviously

for next year,

The particular heirloom cucumber,

Seeds collected from pickle makers

In Germany.

The varieties of lettuce hold possibility

This year.

Sunflowers hold a page of their own.

I see sunflowers in a row

along the fence.

It is late but I think

Maybe lettuce,

Maybe sunflowers.