Halfway House: Day three

Internship at the halfway house.  What a good place to be, and learn, and weep.  I know it*s not for everyone, but really, I wish it was.  I really wish it was.

Day three at the halfway house.

Clearly it*s not for everyone.

Not for all addicted people,

But really

I mean Everyone

I mean all people everywhere,

Addicted to any substance whatsoever

Or even addicted to anything that blocks the road

To Life.

I figure that*s all of us.

Day two I found myself in tears

Four times

Listening.

I am an intern.

I listen and learn and, it seems,

Weep.

I learn again it*s not for everyone,

This place of accountability and honesty,

This place where people sign over

Their lives to learn better ways

To live.

I learn again

Indeed it is for everyone but sometimes

Now is not the time,

It may never be the time.

Here people learn they have to

Ask for help,

They can*t do it alone.

Day three.

I want to admit everyone

To a halfway house

Including myself.

I hear the reader in church.

Choose life.

He says

And then, because it bears repetition,

Perhaps we didn*t hear the first time,

He says again:

Choose life.

The summer sun tracks different

Sometimes I write to figure out where I am.  Even though I*m watching shadows, long spider shadows in particular, I also watch how the sun is bright on the cat, sprawled, or shines purple through the clematis on the living room table. From the chair in which I write these days, the summer sun is just beyond the edge of the window, which means I do not have to draw the shade, but can feel its warmth on my right arm.

It is day two of my internship and I am excited to experience what Wednesdays are like at the halfway house.

The summer sun

Tracks different

In the sky.

In the spring when I wrote

It landed in my eyes.

Now I can see.

It seems I always notice particulars,

My self

The beginning reference point.

We each need a place

To begin.

The cat finds the summer sun track

On the carpet,

Sprawls to catch every ray.

The spider between the window

And the screen,

Casts a long spider shadow

On the floor.

He is not as big

As his shadow,

But still healthy

nonetheless.

Today I continue to make new tracks

Alongside the summer sun.

I make new tracks

In new summer places;

New shadows:

Sometimes bigger,

Sometimes smaller.

I am still the exact same size

God has made me.

Appearances perhaps to the contrary,

I am still

Just as God has made me.

The Landing

I started my 300 hour CADC internship yesterday.   In exactly the right place, at exactly the right time, exactly the right people.   I went to internship seminar and there it was again:  I may have suspected, but I didn*t know until I got there, both places.  

(This feels like one of those Dr. Seuss reflections, or possibly something from the Gospel of John, or Paul.  I*ve never put the three in one sentence together.  I wonder if they would like it.  I wonder if they all hoped what they wrote was comprehensible.)

Can you tell?  I love the new beginning.

Sometimes God lands me

In the exact situation

Where I can learn exactly

What I need to know

But never knew I needed to be there

To learn it

Until I got there

And knew.

Sometimes, often,

I learn it as I go,

Find the particulars

Later.

I know it is exactly the right place

With the right people.

They may even have tiny offices

Without windows,

Whiteboards with the names of people

On the wall.

But there is laughter between

The tiny offices,

When someone goes out for coffee,

They bring a cup in

For the person left behind,

With just enough cream,

The way he likes it.

I know you know what I mean.

Sometimes you have to be there

To know what being there

Exactly means.

Sometimes God lands you

And you just have to be there

To know

It is exactly the right place.

Rough places made smooth

Today with certified clean teeth, and near-certified clean carotid arteries, I vacuum the living room and clip flowers from the garden for the front table.


This afternoon I begin the CADC internship at Serenity House.  Another new beginning.  I run my tongue over my teeth and remember.

It is easier to keep things clean

Than do it all

From scratch

In the first place.

I have just returned from the dentist

With now clean teeth.

My tongue finds the rough places

Made smooth.

It is almost biblical.

I search for the right psalm

To quote.

I wait for the call

From the doctor.

If the technician is to be believed,

It promises to certify

My carotid arteries

Plaque-free,

The blood flow to my brain

Clear and free.

Today I begin again:

Clean teeth,

Clean arteries.

Clean slate.

I vacuum the living room,

Put flowers from the garden

On the front table.

My tongue finds the rough places

Made smooth.

I am reminded:

Today I begin again.

Thin spots

Thin-ness comes at particular times, as well as in particular places.  This week my daughter went to the Episcopal Youth Event. I listen and it sounds like the Bethel College campus was a thin place this last week.  

Our parish mission trip returned from Nigromante in Southeast Mexico and felt the presence of God, maybe even more so this year because there was no project planned, and it was all about hospitality and receiving from each other.  

There was a conference in North Carolina called the Wild Goose Festival.  The Wild Goose is a Celtic metaphor for the Holy Spirit.  Thin-ness was reported there, as well.  

Praise be to our God known in the thin places, especially so we can find Him when things become thicker, and still hear the flutter of wings.

This week summer came.

Thin spots emerged.

God broke through again and again and again.

In Minnesota they built a house,

Sang and prayed and sang again.

I am told God broke through

Again and again and again.

In Mexico they were greeted

With a brass band and fireworks.

With no project to do,

They met the people again

Anew.

They received the hospitality because

They came

With emptier hands.

It is hard to receive

When your hands are already full.

God showed up.

In North Carolina

The Wild Goose flew.

We have yet to see where it will land.

When there is thin-ness

It is hard to know

The end result,

As if we ever know the end.

We catch a glimpse of the beginning,

A flutter,

A rush

Of wings;

The combination of song and prayer,

The brass band and fireworks,

The meeting in thin places,

And the Goose,

The Wild Goose,

Taking flight.

Eagle*s Wings

On Eagle*s Wings seems to be one of those songs.  I like it, despite its difficult verses trying to work in all the syllables of the scripture.  It takes some learning and practice to do so.  A little like I am the Bread of Life... which a number of choir directors also hate (and I love).  So this morning it is Eagle*s Wings from the choir loft.  Off to practice.

I have been waiting to sing

All week.

Today the pickup choir sings

On Eagle*s Wings.

It is a song that choir directors everywhere

Hate,

Maybe only the ones who cut their milk teeth,

Trained their keyboard fingers

On the 18^th Century.

But I have been waiting to sing this song

From the choir loft

All week.

When Mom died my sister said,

We could sing anything but Eagles*s Wings.

Today I will sing Eagles* Wings

For Mom,

My sister,

And choir directors everywhere.

I will sing that everyone

Will be Raised Up.

Healthy Spider

I have people who say they miss my writing about the ducks in the back.  This year, I have the spider (or he has me).

It seems spiders are part of the picture this year, particularly that one black spider living between the window and screen.  How he does it, I don*t know.

The spider works his territory

Between the window and the screen.

I am still not sure

How or what he eats.

Somehow he is the spider picture

Of health.

I imagine Healthy Spider magazine

With articles on finding prey

In difficult situations,

Ways to live fully

Without a web,

And even

The advantages

Of limits.

I might even buy a copy

And read

Between the lines.

God is the only One who gets it all right

It is interesting to me how artists often span out into other art forms.  And often (not always) because of their popularity in one, say, poetry, they dabble in other art and offer their art for sale at high prices... and no one seems to dare tell them that, well, You are a wonderful poet, but that painting?  Really?  Really?

There seems a balance

Between noticing things

In the way tried and true

And the finding

Of new paths

For noticing.

I look at poets who believe

They can be painters,

Brilliant authors of science fiction

Who think that now it is time

To write essays

Or paint a picture.

Every once in a while

A songwriter spans the arts

Writes a book

That seems to work.

Of course God is the only One

Who gets it all

Right.

Every time.

No one ever tells Him

Tells Her

That metaphor just didn*t work,

If only You*d have used

A different shade of green

That plant would have really popped,

You know

A little more blue in the sky

A more unusual tint of cloud.

And that Voice from the cloud

Identifying Jesus?

You might have used

A tone that caught more peoples*

Attention.

Possibility has its limits, thanks be to God

I remember growing up and being told I could be Anything I Wanted to Be.  Perhaps the key was in the wanted  part.  A few years ago now I had a dream about asking a beloved colleague for his shirt.  He said Of course and started to take it off.  But as he untucked his shirt, the tails went on forever (like those scarves being pulled out of the magician*s sleeve)... in the end he couldn*t take it off.  Months later, I realized I get my own shirt.   We all get our own shirts.  It*s why we have been made in our particular ways.  God has it covered, completely covered, when each of us does what we are called to do, even when friends get Really Good Jobs and I wish it were me.  But it*s their shirt!  Not mine.  I can rejoice looking at the possibilities before me, that make particular sense for me.   Mind you, sometimes I go back to thinking I can be anything I want to be, as if I really want to be just anything.  I*m grateful God is in charge.  Today I am grateful to consider the things before me.  They are plenty.

I have a friend who is like me

In so many ways.

He just got what looks like

The ideal job.

I try on the possibility of his job,

Realize

It would not fit me

Around the neck.

Every time I swallowed

I*d pop another button.

This morning I realized again,

I am not in search

Of endless possibility.

Out the window

The seeds ripen in the green pods

Of the columbine

Long past the flowers.

They will split and spread dark seed

In August,

Sprout and green,

Then bloom and purple again

Next May.

They have columbine possibility.

I have discovered my particular purple,

The time of fallow,

The time of bloom,

The time of ripening seeds

But

None of it is endless.

References

So many of my friends and acquaintances are now in the job search.  I realize I am always at at least a partial loss re: what to put on my resume, and always have been.  The things I do best are often undefinable.  I see connections between people and institutions.  I like being on the edges of things: I see better there.  And references?  Who do I put down for references when so much of the work I do is sight unseen, and is best done that way?  When I can leave the proverbial silver bullet, and be thrilled to watch a person shine with new light and life, even a little?

It rains again.

I watch the spider between the screen and window

Still going strong.

Me too.

Along with so many friends these days,

I consider my references.

These are the people who know my work.

These are the people

Who would even praise me to the skies.

There is at least one

With no home address

No phone.

Some make secret visits,

Perch on the sofa in my office.

Some are only comfortable

If we meet at Starbucks.

Some find me outside public restrooms,

Or when our toenails are drying

Newly pinkly polished

At the nail salon.

These are the people I would never name.

Even if I knew their names.

They will never be the ones

On the bottom of my resume,

Or In finely-nuanced italics

On Linked-In.

These are my real references.

They will net me no paid job

At all.

Yet these are the references which tell me

Yes

Yes

This is what you must do:

Even when it rains

And I am the spider

Healthy between the screen and window

Going strong.

Solstice

Perspective and definition.  Today people around the world dance for different reasons.  We Christians have found it easier to re-define the winter solstice.  Jesus as the Light being born into the world makes a lot of sense as we begin to see the light lengthening.  At least it makes sense from this Northerner*s perspective.  We humans are the universal adaptors.  We can rationalize nearly everything.  I have no doubt that Australia makes its own sense of the birth of Jesus coming at a time when the days are at their longest.  If I lived there, I would have known this to be the clearly understood thing.  Perspective.  Definition.

The season has changed

Finally

Officially.

Like all marker days,

The solstice is there for a reason.

Today has to do with the earth

And the sun;

The longest day

The shortest night.

In the Northern Hemisphere

People dance.

In the South people dance

For different reasons.

They dance for light*s return.

Genesis said it best

John echoed with Jesus as the Light

Of the world,

The perpetual Light of the world,

No matter the outward appearances.

The movement from dark to light

Seem easier to capture.

Today, we claim the height of light;

Tomorrow, we begin to darken.

The South begins the journey

The opposite way,

Easier to see

Easier to grab onto.

It is amazing we share the same calendar.

In the Australian restaurant two nights ago

The map of the world

Was upside down.

Spider

I think some days are sit and watch days.  Rain helps.  It is interesting to me that on sit and watch days, I still think that productivity is called for.  As I was writing about the spider, I thought: but where will this end up, and what does it mean?  It seems the spider is having a sit and watch day too.  He (she) looked pretty healthy when I saw him yesterday.  I assume he is today as well.

There is a spider

Healthy, but really

Not large by spider standards.

He or she lives between the window

And screen.

The window

Is next to the chair I write in.

This spring it proved itself

The hummingbird chair.

Now it is the spider chair.

We have meant to get the screens fixed

For three years now.

There are holes

They allow spiders.

This one even appears

Sometimes

On the inside window.

I have a rescue cup

On the window sill but really

I have come to believe

He or she is not in need

Of rescue.

Last night it rained.

I see the water droplets caught

In the screen

The street looks like a green-washed watercolor.

The spider

Is nowhere to be seen.

Father*s Day

Today I think it*s not just the personality of the father or the mother, or the roles each has carved out for him or herself within the family.  There does seem to be a male/female distinctive about the way we celebrate.  As I write this Jeff is upstairs finding bicycle clothing, gently egged on by our daughter.   The day will end in ribs, which now that I think of it, has an Adam/Eve resonance to it (except eating (the ribs) and barbeque sauce had nothing to do with that occasion).  Vive la difference!

No matter the father or mother involved

The days are different

In themselves.

They can*t help

But be different.

Today involves

A list of things to do:

A bike seat to be fixed,

Followed by the father/daughter

bike ride;

The cartoon movie

Of a Wild West chameleon

To be seen;

Finally

Take-out ribs

To be eaten

Before collapse

Ensues.

In May I got flowers

And a nice lunch.

In the afternoon

I took a nap.

Circus cannon

This one is probably along the lines of: If the tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it...

If we perform a brave, possibly stupid act, and there is no clown to light the fuse, and no one around to see, does it matter?  If we haven*t flown across three rings in front of grandstands of people, and taken the bow at the end; and then:

if we go back to making breakfast and reading the paper (and writing the blog for the day), and on top of that, no one notices the red and white striped circus cannon parked in the driveway, except for us, does it count?   I think it does.  Somehow.  In the way of dreams.

Who knows the content of dreams

The night-time ones,

I mean?

Things happen or don*t happen

In the night.

Sometimes we think they are stray sparks

Between synapses

Sometimes things happen or don*t happen

Are rehearsed perhaps

At night.

They seem more than stray.

Last night we had a circus cannon delivered,

Red and white striped

The length of the barrel.

It was the cannon I used to plug my ears for.

The man in the helmet and sparkle suit

Climbed in,

A clown lit the fuse.

The man flew the length

Of the three rings,

Landed safe and sound,

Took off his helmet

And bowed.

Last night I looked at where the cannon was pointed,

Climbed in

Waited.

Waited

Bravely.

Nothing happened.

It seems there was no clown

Assigned.

So I climbed out again.

No one was looking.

I went and made breakfast.

No one was the wiser,

Except me.

Francis... waiting for a saint

I catch myself looking to follow others... hoping that the exact blueprint will show me step number one, then step number two.  Somehow they have figured out how to do it right.  I do this even when I know I would do something different anyway, or at least redefine it.  I remember my daughter, when she was five, being concerned about all the people who prayed to Mary.  Don*t they know they can go directly to Jesus? she asked. We must tell them.  Still... we have this wonderful calendar of saints, and the ways they followed Jesus.  We have saints for a reason.  They give us examples of people who were more fully themselves, the way God intended.  They show us the boots we are to fill... are our own.  Today, here, for me, it involves the sparrows.

It seemed Francis redefined

What the Church could be.

There are books after books

On the Church that re-emerged

When he heard and lived and sang

The Gospel,

Stripped naked in the square,

Preached to birds,

Even rescued worms

So they wouldn*t be stepped on.

I have waited for a Saint

To come,

Make big Yeti footprints

In the Himalayan mud;

Me, the small child

Wearing Daddy*s boots,

Could slip and trip

After him or her.

Today the sparrows

Nested In the light on the back of the house

Might be ready to fly.

The sparrows in the vent

On the side of the house

May have flown

Already.

All the sparrows knew

we had too much room

For just three people.

We were clearly safe to nest

And birth and house

Many more.

Clouds

This is my earliest memory of encountering The Holy.  I believe all children experience God, but often don*t have the words for it.  I don*t blame my mother (anymore, anyway) for not getting that this was a God experience.  Even mothers aren*t expected to be perfect... (being a mother myself has helped me understand this... and it has still taken awhile...)   I put this out there because I spent years thinking that cloud experiences don*t compare with the folk who see the Sacred Heart of Jesus and don*t just see clouds but hear God saying, from the cloud itself, You are my beloved child.  I spent years thinking that because I didn*t feel called at four to celebrate Eucharist with my assembled teddy bears, my vocation as a priest was suspect.  Now I know (capital *K* KNOW) that God calls each of us particularly.  Way back when, He showed me the clouds, and moved them for me.

When I was three, maybe four,

Pixie haircut,

Bright pink sundress my mother made,

Playing in the back yard

By myself,

I saw the clouds move.

Rather

I Saw The Clouds Move

And I Knew

(capital K)

There was so much more to things

Than me.

I ran and told my mother in the kitchen

I SAW THE CLOUDS MOVE.

Yes, dear

She said

Lunch is almost ready.

Now I know

It was God.

Moving.

Today the clouds are painted

On the sky.

How they stay in place

Is beyond me,

But so much seems

Beyond me

Right now.

The appointment I knew I had

This morning

Is next Thursday instead.

The clouds remain

In place.

Painted in place.

I know this afternoon

They will look different.

They will have moved on

When I wasn*t looking.

They may still look painted in place.

It may be a new painting

This afternoon.

When change comes big

I wrote this thinking of the nine people who lost their jobs today at the Diocesan Center.  As with most advice, I give it to myself as well.   Change often comes big, looms large and incomprehensible.  When I think about it, most change comes big.  Pitching rocks seems to help.  Friends definitely help.  My prayers and blessings go with the nine, and with all who are walking through really big change, whatever that change may be.

When change comes big

Really big

It can be hard

To get your arms around it.

Sometimes it helps

To pitch rocks

In the backyard,

Take aim

At the back fence

Until it is finally

Finally a little smaller.

When change comes big

Really big

Even if it is almost entirely

Expected

It can still slip through your fingers

Incomprehensible.

Sometimes it helps

To find the plumbline of friends

Who have known you forever,

Or at least

A very long time,

Remind you of who

You still are,

Who they know you

To be.

When change comes big

Really big,

I recommend a pile of rocks,

An anchoring

Of good friends.

Lessons learned at the doctor*s office

One of my clergy friends wore a red hat to the bishop*s retirement party.  It was awesome.  I could never have pulled it off (I don*t do hats well, any size hat).  She, however, wore it well, with panache.

Usually I am able to sluff off patronizing remarks, though some days are more difficult.   I have made it through the six month no-driving thing, and am out the other side, for now.  And now there is another test ordered to scan my carotid arteries.  

Somehow planting the elderberry bush, and planting it deep, seemed the right thing to do after that doctor visit.

A doctor my age or older

Is less likely

to patronize me.

Even the doctor*s gender

Does not seem

A determining factor.

I understand

I am now

In the older category.

I still have a fifteen year old

At home

And getting a physical

For an internship

Is not just

A nice way to keep busy.

I would rather garden.

The internship will not be

Pleasant volunteer work

Making lace doily placemats

For the nursing home.

Oh sure

I think, but do not say,

 I*ll come back

For regular TB tests

So I can see all of you

More often.

Yesterday I planted

The elderberry bush

Next to the rhubarb.

I dug deep so its roots

Would find a home

Next to the rhubarb roots.

I will watch it bloom and fruit

But first I want to make sure

Its roots

Have room enough.

Things learned not driving: small trips

It continues.  Lessons learned.  And already the amnesia begins.  My garden store trip netted two flats of annuals and an elderberry bush.  I do not have planters for a full two flats.  With a car I am a lot more self-indulgent, because I can be.  I want to plant a rainbow on the front lawn,  I think I will have to give away a number of the coleus (the spotted varieties are so much fun).  Still, I am glad to be able to pick up mushroom compost without walking a wheelbarrow for three blocks.

A small trip to the store

Means one, at most, two bags

With handles,

Preferably the same weight,

So I am balanced.

One gallon of milk

Counts as one bag.

Charcoal briquets

Are out of the question.

Forty pounds of mushroom compost

Require at least

One day*s planning.

There are local folk who always shop

This way;

The store clerks

Know them by name.

The people

Who live next to the train station

In assisted living

Often walk.

Some have motorized carts.

These trips are a large part

Of their social life.

They offer joy and the possibility

Of different vision.

I learned small trips.

I learned joy and possibility

Live next to the train station.

Lessons learned not driving: riding shotgun

I am not a fan of being carried... anywhere.  I like to go places in my own way, at my own speed, in my own time.   I do not like being considered something, someone, to be planned around.  When the cat jumped in my lap this morning (his idea, mind you), and then decided my lap was not quite stable enough, he dug his claws in.  I do not have the gift of retractable claws, but I know his feeling.  It*s hard to feel safe and anchored when the ground (or lap) does not feel solid enough.

I have learned to pray

In place

Better.

There*s nothing like existential crisis

To bring God

Closer.

I have learned to watch

The light shift as I sit

In one particular place,

The family come and go,

But often

Me with them.

I have learned to ride

Shotgun

Sometimes to relax into it

Sometimes even appreciate

Being carried.

Better I have learned

Cat as steady companion

And not so steady

When he anchors his claws

In my leg

For better purchase.

Sometimes I have claws

Like the cat,

Try to anchor myself

Not so steady.

I have learned.