Halloween rescue

It seems that rescue is a way of life.  I had a friend years ago who said, in an evaluation, that I would find the good in any scumbag.  This was good, she said, often.  But sometimes there is no good.  I still disagree with her, over 27 years later.  

We bought a pumpkin on Saturday,

It needed a home.

We call it

A plotz pumpkin,

Affectionately

Of course.

It looks partially

Melted

In a pumpkin kind of way.

No way it can stand up straight.

No way to carve it.

We scoured the patch

To find

A pumpkin with character.

This one fit the bill.

We do this every year.

This year we have a plotz pumpkin

With character

And a companion pumpkin

Full of warts.

Thank God we have an artificial Christmas tree.

We cart it up from the basement

Every year.

Years ago we got it on discount.

It was the going model

From two years before.

Who knew they had models?

At least we don*t have needles

All over the carpet;

We are attracted to real trees

With character.

At least with the model from 14 years ago,

There is a place to hang

Years and years worth

Of ornaments.

The cat we got from the animal shelter

Is still going strong.

Sunday afternoon nap

Years and years of Sundays as a member of the clergy take their toll.  Nearly every clergyperson I know with one service, two, or three, looks forward to the Sunday afternoon nap.  Somehow I thought, when I left parish ministry, it would change.  Nope.  I think it*s in the bones, or blood, or sinews.  The Sunday afternoon nap.

I just woke up.

Even though Sundays have a different pattern

These days,

Already I long

For the Sunday afternoon nap

The pumpkins are in the planters,

Ready for Halloween.

The day is chilly.

Church is soon.

Today we celebrate Reformation Sunday.

Our Lutheran is on the roster

To preach.

She preaches well but still I find myself

Remembering

The Sunday afternoon nap.

It calls out

Its possibility

Even before I finish my morning coffee.

Tracing the routes

I remember more dreams Saturday mornings.  Perhaps it*s because often I can sleep in, and I get more morning sleep.  A luxury.  I traveled a lot last night.  A lot were church dreams and church people (I have been in a lot of different churches and met a lot of different people over the years).  At night they all blend together.  In the morning I figure out where the dreams came from, particularly on Saturday morning, when everyone else sleeps longer than I do.

At night I travel.

Sometimes I only take out road maps,

Trace the routes with my finger.

Sometimes the places are real.

Only a couple details

Are changed.

Most often

A conglomeration of places

Is moved to different states

Or countries.

The people who live there

Are jigsaw puzzles of people

I once knew

With familiar smiles.

That*s the way with dreams.

Any reality at all

Is possible.

Most often an element of truth

Lives there.

I can trace the route back

To where I encountered it.

I can find the towns in Illinois I visited

Growing up

In Minnesota.

Sober

I have had a new feeling word added to my vocabulary: existent.  When a person has gotten used to not feeling anything, existent can be a good place to start.  Across the room from existent was exuberant,  Quite the range.

The group began with mindfulness,

Shorthand for closing our eyes

And being quiet for a time.

Then came the feeling word,

A group rule,

A house rule.

Last night they were also asked

For weekend plans.

The second to the last guy said he felt

Existent.

Everyone knew

What he meant.

So much of chemical use

Is escape from the world

As it really is.

The last guy asked

If everyone knew the word sober really meant:

Son Of a B****, Everything*s Real.

The laughter lasted

A long time.

I never would have thought existent

Was a feeling word.

Clearly

It is.

Messy bits

There is a reason why people come to particular people.  If they ask for a book that involves the messy bits of life, and you*re not the librarian in the public library, there*s a reason why it*s you.  Sure, they may also be looking for a book, but it is you they are asking.  

When you are asked for something,

Pay particular attention

To the fact

It is you they asked.

There are no books,

For example,

That will resolve the messy bits

Of life

As we know it.

There is no equivalent

Of

What to Expect When You*re Expecting

For divorce

For dying

For

My husband is an alcoholic and says he will stop drinking

Tomorrow.

When you are asked for something,

Like a book,

Pay particular attention to the fact

It is you they asked.

Sit down.

I said Sit down.

Offer the chair opposite you.

Put on the tea kettle.

Hearts sing

I took four weeks off of internship after the seizure.  Now that I*ve returned, I find a different experience.  Somehow I have more to offer, more to expect, more to experience.  I even have more in common, somehow.  More of me combines with more of them.  Tonight is music night in group.  Tonight I expect harmony of a different sort.  We all have color to add to the group.  I am grateful.

It*s music night

At the halfway house.

The guys will bring in songs

That speak to their recovery.

There is something about the way

Words and music combine.

Hearts sing.

Last night was gratefulness

After dinner.

One of the new guys said

He was grateful

For adding color

To the house.

There are a lot of ways to sing

At the halfway house.

Last music night the group next door

Applauded through the walls.

There is something about the way

Words and music combine.

Hearts sing whether they are in the room

Or not.

Other things

Yes, we helped unload the pumpkins this year... but we have not prepared for the holiday, even though we love to see the children dressed up, and carve pumpkins. The Mr. Mustard costume has not seen the light of day.   This is one of those years when other things have gotten in the way.  They are beginning to settle down.  Maybe it will look normal soon.  Maybe.

It is cold and wet and windy.

Usually we have our pumpkins

By now.

Usually we have thought of what we will wear,

Unearthed the Mr. Mustard costume

Jeff is proud of.

This year we have been distracted

With other things.

Still

The church lawn is full

Of pumpkins.

Mr. Mustard is somewhere

In the house.

Halloween is a few days away.

Soon the time change will give us more light

In the morning.

Soon

Other things

Will be not so other,

But part of the normal routine.

We will be able to think again

About pumpkins

And Mr. Mustard.

Maybe it will be in time

For Halloween.

How many fingers?

This is probably not going to seem odd to people who have made the run of medical specialists.  My left eye is still blurry, but it does seem to be improving on its own.  Hurray!  How many fingers has become a family joke.  Jeff and I do imitations of the eye specialists.  There is an Emergency Room version, an ophthalmologist version, a retina specialist version, and the neuro-ophthalmologist version (almost as hard to spell as Episcopalian).  Humor definitely helps.

I have now seen the range

Of eye doctors.

Each of them knows

My blurred vision is not

In their area.

They know

It probably should have been found

By the doctor

Before them.

Each of them sports a different version

Of how many fingers do you see?

Some use one or two fingers.

One guy (I swear)

Used one finger

And a fist.

How many fingers in a fist?

Four and a thumb?

Five?

Some do it slow.

Some flash like lightning.

How many fingers?

I wonder if each specialty

Has a version they*re taught.

The eye guys need more ways

To distinguish themselves.

One finger or two?

Women learn to say Why Not

It is a good thing to spend time with other women.  There is a lot of creativity involved, and it*s not just cooking and quilting.  Driving home from Indiana last weekend we talked about careers which involved catching things in mid-air and learning how to say Why not?  I have been catching things for a long time.  Jeff says it*s like being put at third base.  You never know when the ball will come flying into your mitt.

We talked about never knowing

What we would do next.

She said men generally

Have it all planned out.

They follow the path they have figured

From the beginning.

Women have things thrown at them.

They have to figure out

How to catch;

Learn what to do

With the stray pieces.

Women learn to say

Why not?

And

How does this fit in?

And

Perhaps I will find a home

Here.

Women are adept

At quilting things

Together.

Sunday funnies

I was reminded in church this morning that we are a people who believe in healing.  I believe in healing.  It seems I believe it more for others.  The word came through a person I do not admire.  Of course it did.  And this evening it came through the Sunday funnies.  Of course it did.  It seems I need to learn this in stages.  It seems I need multiple lessons in grace.  It seems I need the whole grace curriculum.

I am in the blue chair again.

I reflect on helping to save the woolly bears yesterday.

Jeff is grading.

Sawyer is homeworking

If that is even a word.

I pick up the Sunday funnies.

I realize I can read them a little better

Than last week*s funnies.

I close my right eye and yes

My left eye is a little better,

Just a little better but still

Better.

It seems appropriate somehow

That I would notice

Through the Sunday funnies.

I think about the blind man

Jesus healed in stages.

First he saw trees walking

Then the whole picture emerged.

Of course it would come to me

Through the Sunday funnies:

Color pictures in the comics.

I want to knock on wood.

I want to wear my sunglasses.

I want to hold my breath.

Trees walking.

Right.

I want to know if there was something in particular

I was to learn.

I want to know if it will stay

If I have learned it.

I want to know if it will stay

If I haven*t.

Woolly bears

Yesterday Jeff and I walked around the local reservoir.  Lovely weather.  It was also time for the woolly bear migration.  I have always loved the way Jeff saves earthworms from drowning after a hard rain  Yesterday we both rescued woolly bear caterpillars from being squished by shrieking children, run over by cyclists.  The Farmer*s Almanac says that the woolly bear*s red-brown middle stripe signals the kind of winter we are going to have.  Everyone seems to be predicting a hard winter.  The woolly bear promises a mild winter.  This is a much more appealing prospect.  

We walked around the reservoir.

Sure we watched the occasional bird,

But really

We saved woolly bears

From the children who shrieked

Poisonous caterpillars.

We were afraid the woolly bears,

The ones who made their way across the footpath,

Would never make it across

Alive.

We sped up,

Moved sufficiently ahead

Of the children and their parents.

We saved the furry caterpillars,

The ones who promise mild winter

With their wide red-brown stripe.

We figured they should have a chance

To find shelter from the cold to come.

Woolly bears.

We must have saved twenty of them.

It mattered

to each and every one.

So many birds

As the sun changes its course to fall, I wonder about the birds still hanging out: the robins, the herons, the red-winged blackbirds.  Why do they stay?  Sure it*s still pretty warm, but don*t they notice the signals that mean winter is coming?

So many birds

Have missed their ticket south.

They have

Lulled themselves into complacency

By occasional warmth;

Slept through

One or two frosts;

The fall change of light

Goes unnoticed.

The birds should have gone

By now.

The herons pretend the water

Will never freeze.

The robins still chirp in the trees,

Look for worms.

The red winged blackbirds

Have missed the season change.

They fill trees

As if they will never

Have to leave.

I would like

To shoo them south.

It*s time

It*s time

The light has changed.

There is potential frost

At night.

All too soon the water

Will freeze solid.

Four on the floor

There are similarities between school and recovery.  Thank God we sit in pews in church.  No way to lean back and go over backwards.  I have been a fan of movable chairs in church.  Maybe this is one of the arguments for pews.

When my son was in second grade

He was placed in the class

With those who needed

Special attention.

A class full of those

Who needed special attention.

As near as I could tell,

He didn*t.

The teacher introduced meditation,

A darkened room,

And sitting on the floor.

At the parent-teacher conference

She said the only thing

She was concerned about,

Was my son leaned back on his chair.

That was it.

Really?

That was it.

I told her there were other things

That seemed important to me.

In the halfway house

One of the rules is

Four on the floor.

Yep.

Thank goodness there are also other things

Like

Keep coming back

And

Coming back

And

Coming back again.

It*s like forgiveness

Seventy times seven times seven

Times infinity.

It*s like all the forever things

We know are right and good

And meant to last

More than a lifetime.

Four on the floor

(OK)

But

Keep coming back

And coming back

And coming back

Again.

How does he do it? The cat?

There*s something about living with a cat (or any animal).  They are who they are.  Beyond the cat flexibility (I*m not sure I*d like to be able to clean between my toes with my tongue, anyway), the ability to sleep in the sun for a quick nap, then move on, would be an asset, I think.

How does he do it?

The cat?

He spreads the toes

On his left back foot,

Cleans between them

With his tongue

Until he is satisfied

They are clean enough.

He finds the particular spot in the sun,

Covers his eyes with his left front paw,

Goes sound asleep

For the morning nap.

How does he do it?

The cat?

He makes everything

Look so easy.

Smooth cup, warm hands

Ah, the pleasure of simple things in the morning.  This morning it*s the smoothness of the ceramic cup I bought years ago, the warmth of the hot coffee.  It is even the two rough spots where the handle broke off when I dropped it on the floor.

It*s not so much the coffee,

Dark or light with cream,

As the warmth of my hands;

The smoothness of the cup;

The handle broken off

A few years ago;

My thumbs which find

The two rough spots

Top and bottom.

It*s not so much the coffee

As the cup,

Smooth cup,

The rough of the two places

The handle broke off

Years ago.

Smooth cup, warm hands.

More lessons

What a blessing to be at the halfway house, to be learning from the staff and the clients there.  My vision is still wonky.  I still have epilepsy, though I hope the increased seizure meds mean that I won*t have another seizure.  I have a lot to learn, as well as a lot to give.  Part of what I continue to learn is the receiving piece, something I could ignore when I was reasonably self-sufficient.  Again, I am blessed to be at the halfway house.  Perhaps all of us are only halfway there.

I continue to learn

To receive.

It*s not so easy

With genetic arrogance

Which says

I can do it all

Myself.

I can*t.

Of course I can*t.

I was never in control

Anyway.

Now I have to ask for help

Or spend a lot of time

In squint.

Now I wait for the trainer

To lead me to the next place.

I could travel on the train to Union Station

And back out

To Glen Ellyn,

Hours on public transit to go

A short distance.

Or I could ask for help.

I was never in control,

Anyway.

I watch the guys in the halfway house,

Caught by human foible,

I watch them

Learn to ask for feedback.

I think

They are not in control.

Just like me.

Office climate

I wonder how my clients do it... coming dressed for the office climate.  It*s a mite chilly today.  I learned from yesterday to wear wool today.  I will bring in blankets tomorrow.  At least now I can open and close the window.  I know I can never really know what will come tomorrow.  Somehow my clients come prepared.

The temperature in my office

Is barely regulated.

I now wear wool.

It has gone from too hot

To colder than usual.

It seems I can never tell

From one day to the next.

There is a shelf for blankets,

A window that opens and shuts.

The possibilities are endless.

Clients seem to know

How to dress

For the occasion.

Today is cloudy and wet.

The damp creeps in.

I wear wool.

Tomorrow may bring

Something else.

It always brings

Something else.

Driving dreams

It seems every specialist I see wants to make sure I*m not driving.  I*m not.  It gets irritating being asked.  It is easier not driving the second time around, though.  I even realize there*s a possibility I will never drive again.  Somehow conniving with my daughter helps, even if it is only in my dreams.

Last night I drove my daughter to dance,

In my dreams

Of course.

When we were coming home I remembered

I was not to be driving.

We figured out ways

To get the car in the driveway,

Without anyone noticing,

Giggled all the way home,

Thought maybe we*d park a block away

And walk

So no one

Would ever know.

Me and the cat

I am enjoying the sun from a different place.  Jeff tells me I need to learn the word vicarious.  So I am learning how to vicariously enjoy the sun this morning, watching the cat, sprawled in the morning sun coming in through the window.  

It*s me and the cat.

He has found the morning sun.

Light reflects white whiskers,

Eyes slit in morning doze

Speckled belly like a trout.

I write in the shade,

Watch him

From the blue recliner,

Drink one more cup of coffee.

Me and the cat.

He sleeps for me in the sun.

Trout belly

Paws curled

Completely relaxed

In the morning sun,

Except for the occasional

Flick of his tail.

Attending church in Wawasee

I attended a retreat in Northern Indiana this weekend.  It allowed me to attend the Episcopal church in Wawasee.  It reminded me of all the delightful pieces of liturgy that a small congregation can offer which will never find their way into the Book of Common Prayer, or the Book of Occasional Services, or Enriching Our Worship, or any other official or semi-official Church Book.  

Here the greeter hands us a bulletin,

Then invites us to take a copy

Of the poem he wrote

This week.

Here there is a drawing

for six homebaked cookies,

Blessed by the baker

As they are mixed,

Prayers combined with the flour

For the health and well-being of the person

Whose name is drawn from the shoe box

By the youngest person in church.

It is part of announcements.

This is part of the liturgy

Every Sunday.

Here the same young person skips and twirls

To the altar

To pick up the offering plate.

The greeter who writes poetry,

Skips with her.

We are all in recovery from something

I am back at the halfway house and grateful for it.  As I sit and listen to people talk about feeling like they are walking about with a sign over their head... the feeling is familiar.  My sign says different things at different times.  Nothing like wearing a clerical collar, or even having a seizure (not to equate the two :) ).  Someone last night asked me if the seizure meant I had epilepsy... and I said yes it did, thinking about the sign over my head, not unlike the sign that everyone in the halfway house wears simply by being there.  

They say things as if

No one has ever felt them before,

Said them before.

As if they are the first

To walk the path of recovery.

It winds out into the world,

Circles back home again.

We are all in recovery

From something.

To something.

This seems important

To note

In this halfway place.

Everyone is uniquely made

Special

Just like everyone else.

Where do we come from?

Where will we go?

From this halfway place.

We wind out into the world

Circle back home again.

It is all so familiar.

We are all in recovery

From something.
To something.

Trees walking

I was reminded of the two stage healing of the blind man today (thank you, Steve).  Sometimes insight comes in stages.  Sometimes we stop at stage one and decide it*s not worth it.  I returned to the halfway house yesterday and found two men who made it through the halfway house program, dropped out of the three-quarter house and were back on the streets using and selling.  I was sure they*d make it.  I*m learning.  I*d prefer not to learn this.  Sometimes when we see trees walking we think that*s all there is, and find it easier to return to life pre-healing. something with which we are familiar.

For as many as Jesus healed all the way,

All at once,
What about the man

Who saw trees walking,

Then had to choose healing number two?

What about all the people Jesus did not heal?

The crowds and crowds and crowds,

The men who left the halfway house

Poised on full life,

Who have gone back

To the beginning again?

What about them

Back to drink and heroin

Back to sales on the streets?

What about their mothers

Who weep?

What about those who are back

To square one

Or minus one?

What about the people

Jesus healed half way

Then it was back to square one

Or minus one?

Who tried to make it

Three-quarters and slid

To square one

Or minus one?

What about those who only saw trees walking

And decided to quit?

What about those who have to decide

To start all over again

Or decide they will never make it?

What about all those

Jesus waits for

At square minus two?

Showing up

What is it about human beings that when we don*t see something for ourselves, we believe the worst? This week I am back at it, and glad for it.  I am back at working out with Jeff, back at church, back at internship, back at having lunch with friends.  I am showing up, and showing up, and showing up again.  My head did not fall off.  No, I can*t drive until March (God willing).  Yes, my eye is still blurry.  Yes, my head is still firmly attached to my body.  

I learn once again

The best way to keep rumors

From taking over

Is to show up

And show up

And show up again.

No one believes

You are fine

In absentia.

Jeff tells me about his classmate

In high school.

He dove into the water,

Got a concussion.

While he was in the hospital,

The rumors went from concussion,

To broken neck,

To his head fell off.

It*s not just teenagers.

No one believes

You are fine,

You will be fine,

In absentia.

Not really.

This week I am showing up

And showing up

And showing up

Again.

It is the best way

To keep rumors

From taking over.

They grow

In absentia.

Seeing

Years ago now, I met this woman.  This was the sum total of her answer to How are you? I*m blind (she would say).  She was not born blind, it came on her later in life.  I never learned the story of how she became blind.  I, like many others, did all I could to move her in what I thought was a more positive direction.  It is probably not a surprise that I found myself thinking of her this morning, after exercising at the gym, and losing sight of the trainer.  Exercise causes both eyes to go blurry.  Now I have to tell people that they need to tell me if they*re going across the room, especially in a crowd of people.  I may lose track of them, not because I don*t care, but simply because I don*t see them.  Ah, pride.  I have new appreciation for beginning the conversation with I*m blind.  Of course, I do my best not to stop there.

Whenever anyone asked her

How she was,

She would answer

I*m blind

As if that summed it up.

We used to laugh

About her response.

She was, after all, so much more

Than her blindness.

Now I look through shimmer and blur

With one eye.

I am not blind,

Not even close,

But these are times

I better understand her answer,

So many years later.

There is much that comes

With the shimmer and blur.

Now I see in different ways,

Not better

Not worse

But different.

I see a halo and sparkle

In particular light,

I see the world

As through a drop of water.

The doctors cannot explain it,

But then

I really did not expect them

To explain it.

I*m blind

She said.

I*m blind.

I know a tiny bit

Of what she meant.

Christopher Columbus

Today it struck me that ole CC did not know where he was going, either.  Just set sail for what he thought was probably China and found... the Bahamas.  In the midst of journeys which have their unfamiliar pieces, I am glad for the familiar touchstones, glad for family and autumn and writing something every day, no matter what.


Today is Columbus Day. On October 12th, 1492, Christopher Columbus landed on an island in what is now the Bahamas.

The Bahamas sound appealing

But first

I*d rather not miss anything here.

I squint at the computer screen

Blown up larger than life,

Write in the morning sun.

It slants autumn

Through the front window.

Fall completely arrived

Over the weekend.

In the backyard

Leaves fill the lawn.

The clients I did not have in summer

Called to set up appointments

For the one day

I was never in the office

Before.

Christopher Columbus did not know

About the Bahamas

Before he set sail.

I imagine he thought he would end up

Someplace familiar.

Me too.

I planned a different trip.

Now is the familiar

Through shimmery eye, bigger letters,

Another six months of chauffeured

Luxury.

Now I find familiar fall light

The family breathing soft upstairs

And the Bahamas

On the horizon.

Me and Chris.

Chris and me.

What shall I wear?

Today*s gospel from Matthew got me thinking.  I always hate that the guest invited at the last minute was thrown out for not wearing appropriate clothing.  I remember early on in ordained life calling female colleagues before official gatherings and asking if they were wearing their collars (and being called by them asking the same of me.)  Maybe men don*t do that, but it was a version of not wanting to be over or under-dressed.  I have always worn comfortable shoes.  It is a gift from my mother... the importance of comfortable feet.  Now that I have the gift of different vision in my right and left eyes, and realizing I get to live with it for now (even if they could figure out what it was), deciding what to wear seems a question of which eye I choose to see through.  I have entered one more six month non-driving period.  It almost seems like I didn*t pass the first six-month period and there is more to learn. What shall I wear?

What shall I wear?

These days it seems

An eye patch

And comfortable shoes

Are in order.

Of course it all depends

On the occasion,

What I will be doing,

Not to mention

Whether I need to blend in

Or stand out.

What to wear?

Is it a banquet at the king*s house

Or trimming the bushes in back?

Will I stand behind the table

To serve the food

Or kneel with hands outstretched

To receive whatever is offered.

What shall I wear?

I stand by the closet and wonder

Which eye to look through,

Straight on

Or shimmery?

Either way is not clear.

An eye patch and comfortable shoes?

Dark glasses and a collar?

Perhaps the bushes in back

Need a trim.

Perhaps there are hands I need to see

Held out.

What to wear?

Which eye needs the patch?

I think comfortable shoes

Are always in order.