It should be snow by now

Last night as I left the library it was raining.  Me?  I am prepared for winter.  And not just winter, but another walking winter.  New winter boots, winter coat and all the winter accessories.  I am actually looking forward to it.  If it ever comes. 

As I leave the library,

As the gray leans to dark,

The rain catches my hair,

I turn my face up.

The woman with the rainbow umbrella

Dry under cover

Smiles at me

As she enters.

I am still on foot.

Almost a new year,

It should be snow by now.

Almost a new year,

I have new boots

In sure and certain hope

Of snow.

But no

It is rain that catches me

As I leave the library.

The woman with the rainbow umbrella

Walks in dry

as I leave

Into the wet.

It should be snow by now

Almost a new year.

I have new boots.

Sought-Out

I love the way the prophets regularly re-name the people of Israel, reminders to them that they are loved and cared for and seen, even sought out by God.  I still need regular reminders.

You shall be called:  Sought Out, a City Not Forsaken.

                                                                                Isaiah 62:12

In this season of gray,

No snow even lightening

The landscape,

Jesus lies helpless in the manger.

Shepherds have returned

To their flocks and fields.

Angels have returned

To heaven.

The ox and ass look on

With the unwed parents.

Soon the Wise Men will arrive

With unlikely gifts,

Fit for a Messiah

Hardly useful now.

He will be alive for years.

He will give us a glimpse,

An inkling in the Temple

At twelve

Of what is to come,

Upstart pre-teen but maybe

There is something there.

Still we wait.

It seems

We always wait.

Isaiah still speaks

To our condition.

He calls us: Sought-Out,

A-City-Not-Forsaken.

In the way of nicknames

We are called

Sought-Out

For short.

There is comfort

In nicknames.

Guided by stars

In my living room is a framed Inuit print of an Inuit family on a sled packed with all their belongings, pointing to  a sky filled with stars.  This is the print that hangs over the table we use for the four piece Guatemalan Nativity set..  Years ago my daughter used to hide Baby Jesus in the table drawer before Christmas.  This morning the Nativity, the print, and oh yes, the mirror ball, all seem to be connected somehow.  And important.

In the chair next to the Christmas tree

I write.

Sunlight catches one of the small mirror balls,

Bounces light all over the ceiling

Of the living room.

The Guatemalan Mary and Joseph are in place

On the living room table.

They watch over Baby Jesus

Under an Inuit print,

Guided by Stars.

The print is huge.

It has hung there for years.

This morning the stars hold forth

For Mary and Joseph, Jesus,

The Wise Men on their way,

And me.

The mirror ball on the Christmas tree

Twists and turns

In the sun,

Bounces light.

The stars

Hold steady.

Holy Innocents

I went in to my office today to meet with a friend to plan a funeral.  Life and death have a way of seeking space in the places we have marked out for celebration and rejoicing alone.  In actuality, both come together, all the time.  Remembering the Feast of the Holy Innocents three days after Jesus was born is simply recognizing this.

They ask why we have to remember

Such a thing

At Christmas.

The angels and shepherds;

The wise men on their way;

The Star shining;

The beaming parents

The newborn Prince of Peace

All somehow escaped

The plot.

All slipped out

Another way.

Shepherds back

To their flocks,

Angels back to heaven,

Wise men back to their country

Of wisdom.

Why do we have to remember

Such a thing

When everything turned out fine

In the end?

Why at Christmas?

Why can*t we just hold on

To the good parts?

Christmas shift

We plan Christmas every year, and often either try to keep things the same, or deliberately different.  Life, however, always intrudes, or interferes, or perhaps embraces us, if we embrace it.  No matter how we think to package it, Christmas is different every year because we are different.  Of course this is no secret to Jesus.

Every year

There is a shift.

It comes with Christmas.

Even when we try to celebrate

Exactly the way we did

Last year:

We don*t.

We can*t.

Different things grab

Our attention.

Life intrudes or perhaps

Life embraces us.

We notice different things

Next to the manger.

There is a knowing look

In Baby Jesus* eye.

Life says

Pick me up and look into my eyes.

Feel my weight in your arms.

Do you notice how things are different

This year?

Christmas shifts things

Even when we try to keep them

The same.

In the manger Jesus winks.

What a preposterous thing,

The image of Jesus winking.

There must be something

He knows

That we don*t,

Even as a baby

Lying in the straw.

We are lifted even as we lift Him.

Life*s embrace.

Jesus winks.

Christmas Up North

I admit. I admire the guy*s chutzpah in even thinking of this.  Now I wonder if he was the only priest the congregation could get.  I can*t imagine taking Christmas off, even when I don*t have an up-front role.  Among twenty million other things, Christmas offers a barometer of the church family, parents bursting with pride at grown children returning, grieving people held, stray people who never darken the doors any other time of the year, but somehow it*s safe late at night with carols, and tinsel on the floor, and Silent Night, Holy Night.  How can you miss this, I think.  Christmas Up North will never begin to compare.

Years ago I knew a priest who negotiated a contract

With his congregation

For being away

At Christmas.

He celebrated with his family

Up North.

I will not name him.

It does not matter.

I admit at the time

I admired his guts.

Every year since

The memory of him

Makes me sadder and sadder.

Now I wonder if he or his congregation

Ever knew enough

To change

The contract.

The tree is still up.

Of course

We celebrate all twelve days

Here at home.

It is probably too much

To hope for all the tinsel remains

To be left on the floor at church

For twelve days

In front of the altar rail.

Still I do.

Hope

That is.

The poinsettias will probably stay

As Christmas placeholders.

Next Sunday Christmas continues.

I will hear

In the beginning was the Word

With the rest of my family.

We will do a Christmas carol reprise.

Better than any Christmas

Up North.

Gifts

I am still learning this.  Next year I may have learned it more.  It*s probably another of those things I will  continue to learn. This year because of non-driving thing, I did on-line shopping exclusively.  Hence the boots from England.  The boots that were originally exactly what were asked for.  But not by Christmas morning.  Hmmm.   Probably lots is wrapped up in this.  This Christmas I remember my father for whom Christmas was particularly important.  I remember the bear puppet with the squeaker in his head that he got me when I was in seminary.  It was the perfect gift.  He saw me with another puppet... and he saw me.  Hard to explain, but it was the perfect gift.  Thomas (the bear puppet)(named after Thomas Aquinas) is still a vital part of my puppet collection.

Do not order boots from England

That cannot be returned easily,

Even if they are a good price.

Do not order semi-gloss boots

When shiny boots are obviously

The right thing.

Do not order navy blue

When it will surely morph to hunter green

Two days after the boots are ordered.

Gift certificates are good things.

Remember gift certificates.

Unless it comes with an exact serial number

Do not order it.

Remember gift certificates.

But

Better yet:

Think of things which match

The person*s eyes

Or complexion,

Things that line up with

His sense of humor,

Her whimsy.

Things that say:

When I saw this I thought of you,

Exactly you,

The way you move

The way you smile

The way you wrote the letter from Santa

In alternating red and green lines,

Noting special appreciation

From Prancer.

Think of things that better say

When I saw this

I thought of you

Exactly you.

Angel chaos

It*s no secret that I love children*s Christmas pageants.  We did not make it to either the 3 or 5 PM services where the children told the story yesterday, where all children were given angel, sheep or shepherd accoutrements at the door.  I appreciated the angel chaos left behind for the more dignified 10:30 service.

At the late service

We walked to the altar rail

For Communion.

We walked through traces

Of angel chaos,

Gold and silver tinsel

Left from earlier services.

Thank goodness

It was left on the floor

For us to see

At the later service.

Glimpses of earlier

Angel chaos.

The Wise Men and Herod (redux)

I am grateful for the way children re-write things.  Often there is Truth involved, if we can see it.  One day, I think, Herod will see fit to follow the Star with the Wise Men, and they will all go home together.

Years ago now

The children re-wrote the Christmas story

The way they always do.

No matter the Nativity script,

The re-enactment is always different.

Years ago now the triplets

Played the Wise Men.

Their best friend was Herod.

The best adult stage direction

Did not help.

They all ended up at the manger

Kneeling before Jesus.

They left together.

That year

There was no Other Way.

Every year I watch the children.

I wonder how the script will play out

This year.

Every year I remember Herod

And the Wise Men,

Kneeling before Jesus,

Traveling home together

On the road.

I wonder when

They will do it again.

I wonder when

There will be no Other Way.

Luminaria

We all do different things to get ready for Jesus to be born.

We drove home from the airport yesterday.

All was brown with traces still

Of green.

In the next community over,

White bags line the street.

Evenly spaced,

They wait

For tonight

To be lit.

They wait

To glow with the entrance

Of the Christ Child

Into time and space

Into Green and brown

And snow (if it comes).

They wait for tonight

to announce the birth,

Evenly spaced

On Irving Park Road.

Different order

With our daughter having the full week before Christmas off, we changed things up and visited the Florida relatives before Christmas this year.  Returning home today, the excitement level on the plane was palpable.  This year we learned new things about the Florida folk, precisely (I think) because we entered their life at a different point.  Things were not as orchestrated.  They felt more real.  Us?  Them?  Who knows exactly?  Best of all, we still have Christmas to come.

The flight was filled

With small excited voices.

As we headed home,

They set out North

To find snow,

Christmas cookies,

Probably a grandparent

Or two.

Any snow we had before we left

Is now days gone.

Still…

Tomorrow is the tree,

Lessons and carols while we wrap.

A different order to things this year

From last.

Florida, then Christmas.

We return home as others leave.

The cat answers the door;

He does not remember

Another order.

Here are still warm laps

To fill,

A food dish,

A new toy.

Florida living room

I grab space where I can.  This week it is the Florida living room in the morning while everyone is still asleep.  At church it is my office outside of PDO.  It is quiet in the afternoons.  The window and door there open to the outside and inside too.  No swimming pool, no ibis, but the now-lengthening light will be there when I return next week.  Maybe there will even be snow.

It is a different sort of cell,

The Florida living room.

It is mine because everyone sleeps

Until noon.

I can read and write,

Notice the ibis mining the grass

For bugs.

It is silent here.

Everyone sleeps quiet

Or at least they sleep

Distant.

This Florida living room

Is mine until noon.

There is a door to the inside,

A door to the outside,

A pool outside the screen.

No one swims anymore.

It is kept very clean.

This Florida living room

Is a different sort of cell.

Mine while everyone

Sleeps.

Right now children own the earth

Children have newer eyes.  I think we often need their newer eyes to see new things amidst the old and familiar.  

Right now

Children

Own the earth.

It has nothing to do with presents,

Santa Claus,

How much

How many.

Or with the older ones:

Christmas break.

Right now it is children,

Younger, older.

They light the way,

Notice new life

Along the road.

The otters in the pond

Dip and dive.

The adults are stuck

In old ways of seeing.

On this darkest day,

The first day of Hannakuh,

They say Look:

The world turns again to light.

Look!

New life on the road!

Look!

Otters!

This morning I practice seeing.

There is a great white egret

Across the creek

Under the palm trees.

The fifteen year olds shake their heads.

They say,

In the way only fifteen year olds can,

I choose to see

Something different.

I practice

Listening to them.

Las Posadas

With the start of a new ministry at St. Mark*s comes a different way of seeing and experiencing Christmas.

This week I pray

For a star,

And possible doors

To knock upon.

I pray for feet to carry me

Door to door,

The will to continue to ask

For a place to deliver

Whatever I am asked

To deliver.

This week I pray

For open doors;

Extended hearts and hands,

Warm voices of welcome.

This week I pray

A star to light the way,

For mangers to be offered,

Mangers prepared,

Mangers used well.

This week I ask for mangers

Prepared

And offered,

Used well.

And plenty of Light.

This is Mary*s week

This is Mary*s week, the final days of seeking a place to give birth to Jesus.  She and Joseph spent a lot of time looking for the manger.  Las Posadas is celebrated in the novena before Christmas, including night after night of looking for a place for the Holy Couple to stay, night after night of looking for the manger.  I remember year after year in parish ministry, trying to find where we stored the manger last year.  One year, unbeknownst to me, someone had brought it home for safekeeping (!)... Oy.  This is Mary*s week, no matter where we are, secular or sacred.  It is still Mary*s week.

This is Mary*s week.

We spend her week in Florida.

The people here

Save every packet of soy sauce

From take-out Chinese.

They believe every plastic bag

Can be used again

For something.

They save awake hours at night

To use for sleep

In the morning.

There is no boundary

That belongs to someone else.

Christmas is a time to count

How many

How much

And by the way,

Save the wrapping paper.

Yet still

This is Mary*s week.

The angels sing around the edges

The Star beckons.

Like every year in parish ministry,

I still have to find where the manger

Was stored

Last year,

So the Nativity can happen

Again.

This is Mary*s week,

No matter who is on the road with me,

No matter how many doors are shut

In my face,

No matter weather,

Warm or cold.

This is Mary*s week.

I think I know,

I think I remember

Where the manger is.

Right

It*s amazing who shows up in church.

In the Florida church
My mind wandered through the space
That was offered
By the sermon.
There were giraffes in the stained glass
behind the altar,
Two of them.
The sermon offered a history of the Church
And Mary.
The sermon offered
Perhaps there were others
Who had said no
To God*s offer to bear
His son.
I heard about Mary saying Yes
Really saying Yes.

I looked at the giraffes in the window.
I heard Bill Cosby
As Noah. 
Who are you?
**This is God**
Right,
Noah said,
Right.

Giraffes in the window,
A small child that echoed Amen
As final punctuation
After every prayer,
Bill Cosby
And us.
The gathered saints.

Right.

Real snow

Doesn*t it stink that the day it finally snows, we have to leave?  she says.  Yep.  I love the way snow draws attention to the light, particularly on dark days.  Even at night it*s there, doing its job, catching every last bit of light it can capture, illuminating the possibility of change.  At the beginning of snow time, I could probably write a series of O Antiphons about snow, just as today we begin the O Antiphons for Jesus.  Come, O Wisdom.  Come, O Dayspring from on high.  Today I am glad for snowlight making things a bit brighter.

Finally we have

Real snow.

No slight snow dust,

But enough to cover the ground,

Illuminate the trees.

Snow brings change with it

Or at least it catches the light

And with it,

The possibility

That Light may make a difference.

There will be no snow

Where we go today.

We know that when we return

From that snowless place,

Green with palm trees

Strung with Christmas lights,

There will be probably be snow,

Reflecting the light

When we land.

It will catch the light

In that way that snow does.

We will catch the light again.

The snowlight

Will guide us home.

Mere twigs

I am in a waiting frame of mind.  Sometimes it feels more hopeful than others.  

Years ago my sister Jane took a five year old child to a play of How the Grinch Stole Christmas.  It was one of his favorite books.  The Grinch was very, well, Grinchly.  Pretty soon her small friend began whimpering, so they went out to the lobby.  But Michael, she said, you know how it ends.  

In a small voice he said: It might be different this time.

Even though I know the way the whole Story ends, it is hard for me to remember sometimes.  Sometimes things appear more hopeful than others.  That*s why I need other people to wait with.

The elderberry bush

Is mere twigs In the garden bed.

It joins the leafless trees and bushes.

I know they will return to leaf

In the spring.

They always do.

The elderberry bush

Has only a hope

of return.

I would like to check its roots

For life.

I clip the clematis vine

Back to the ground.

I have seen it return fuller

Every spring.

I throw out the collapsed pumpkins

From the pots in front.

The squirrels have thoroughly mined them

For seeds.

Perhaps there will be a pumpkin vine

When the weather comes warm again.

New this year,

The elderberry bush

Is a complete unknown.

Sticks in the garden bed.

Mere twigs.

I know there is hope underground.

It will not show itself alive,

Potentially come on the scene,

Until spring.

Sent people

I often wonder: How does God do all of this?  Because I know it is God who sends: people out into the wilderness to wait, toes dipped in the Jordan, on the look-out for who and what is next.  I know wilderness and the Jordan can be found everywhere, even in Glen Ellyn, and the accompanying music can be everything from Handel*s Messiah to Jingle Bells to something I have yet to know or imagine.

This is a season

Of people being sent,

Out Into the wilderness (yes),

But also to my office door,

Next to the children

Who sing Jingle Bells,

Part of the Advent repertoire.

This is a season of

Sent people:

Bearers of Word and wisdom,

Carriers of overwhelming hope and light,

People of understanding, new promise.

I am struck dumb, dizzied, blinded

By those who come

Mute and deaf and blind,

Sent people and me

We stand on the banks

Of the Jordan

Our toes in the water,

Listen to another chorus

Of Jingle Bells.

We wait.

We wonder who will join us 

Next.

Dark night of the soul

Today is the day we honor St. John of the Cross, the mystic who named the dark night of the soul as part of the spiritual journey.  It does seem fitting that his day comes right before the darkest day, before the world begin turning toward light again.  It is cold and gray and wet (and yes, dark) this morning as I write this.

So close to the darkest day

We see fit to honor

The dark night of the soul

Before the way opens again

To the Light.

It is always darkest

Before the Dawn.

Today it rains.

It seems today is determined to be

As gray and dark as possible.

So close to the darkest day,

Today we pay homage to the dark.

It will allow us to notice

The first glimmer of Light

When it comes.

We wait for

For the leading of the Star

So bright

We can*t help

But follow it Home.

Who are you?

John invited everyone into the wilderness.  Naturally everyone thought he was the One they were waiting for.  Now that I*ve got you here (he said), let me tell you That One is coming.  It*s a promise.  It*s a hope.  He will be like everything you*ve thought He could be, and still more, I tell you.  He will be so much more.

Who are you?

Are you the one with the answer?

Are you the one who will solve

The problems of the world?

Tell me they are wrong.

Tell me I am right.

Tell me you are the Messiah

Who comes to set everything

Straight

In the wilderness.

I am not that one.

I am a voice.

I am an ear.

I am an eye.

I am feet and hands

To show the way.

I am the one

To open the curtain for the One

Who will come

As promised,

The One who will show you everything

You never knew

To ask for.

I am the one who lives in hope

That all may see

That One who is coming.

Nine more days

I remember a small boy in a parish I served years ago.  Ben was 3, the same age as my son that year.  As I was putting finishing touches on my Christmas sermon, Ben and his father appeared in my office doorway.  It was almost evening.  Ben wants to show me a particular spot of dark he found (his father explained), it*s somewhere in the building but he doesn*t remember exactly where.  And then they left, down an already darkening hallway, to find that particular piece of dark.  I often think of Ben and his dad, at this time of year, looking for a particular spot of dark, and looking for it together.

We stopped saving daylight later this year.

I am still not accustomed

To regular time.

Perhaps it is not really

Regular.

Evening finds me craving bedtime

Sooner,

Under the covers

Until I can drink morning coffee

In full light.

People ask if my schedule

Is full.

For accounting purposes,

It isn*t.

The light winds down,

And my schedule

With it.

For accounting purposes:

Nine more days to wind down.

Nine more days to notice

How dark it can get

Before turning

To light.

Before turning

Once again

To Light.

Snow dust

As I write this the first service in Spanish at my home parish should be about over.  It is a new thing.  So new that I do not know what to expect next.  I am now on the edges of planning such things.  New things happen in the midst of the old and change comes to both.  It has Holy Potential, this new thing in the midst of the old.  What did you come out into the wilderness to see? asks John.  I am not sure what to expect next.  

Spots of snow dust remain.

In the sun and blue

The light angles lower.

We hear the second lesson

Of John the Baptist.

He is not worthy

To tie Jesus* shoes.

He opens the way in the wilderness

Anyway.

Maybe people will see their way clear

To find Him

In the wild,

If they cannot venture through

Temple doors.

He is coming.

He comes.

He came.

He will come again,

A light dusting of snow

On his shoulders,

Light angled lower and lower

Even in the sun and blue.

Two weeks of wait,

Then born again

As the sun

Begins its angle higher.

Snow promises heavy

This year.

Here in the North

The snow drifts through Epiphany,

Then out into the wilderness again.

So much begins

In the wilderness.

Now there is snow dust.

Now we wait.

Weak coffee

Sometimes love is not calling attention to weak coffee, but drinking it anyway.

Weak coffee this morning.

I made it pale,

Without limp intention.

I did not employ the careful plans

Of so many scoops

To a cup,

So many cups

To a pot.

In the morning

I do not count.

Truth be told,

Counting has rarely got me

Anywhere,

And

My non-measure eyeball method

Usually works.

Still

This morning

The coffee is weak.

My breakfast companion who counts

Scoops and cups and pots,

My breakfast friend, with care,

Does not note

The pale demeanor

Of the coffee.

Grounded

Here I was, getting so much accomplished.  Then I got grounded.  I wonder whether we are sometimes grounded so as to get a new perspective on things.  Not driving, being on foot for another winter, I have to go slower, pay closer attention to the things around me.  Sometimes I am quicker to catch on than others.  Sometimes I get the point.  Sometimes I even get the punch line.

It seems that when I have done much

To complicate my life,

Some thing

Some one

Comes along

Grabs my attention

Says

Stop.

Here.

Now.

Sit in these complications.

There is little choice

But to sit.

When I have done much,

When I simply can*t do another thing,

I am reminded again.

It seems

When I don*t listen

And then

Don*t listen again:

I am brought to ground

To sit,

Watch the world spin.

I notice again

The sun does not use me

As its center point.

It rises and sets as it always does.

The stars continue in their courses.

They even twinkle,

Offer star giggles,

Like they know the same punch line

I do.

Bottle

Now I wonder.  This feels Buddhist-y to me.  Or some explanation of The more things change, the more they stay the same.  This is one of those things I knew I needed to write, but just exactly why, I don*t know.  Here it is.

Last night I dreamed I found a bottle

In a cornfield.

It was right where I*d left it

Last year.

Its message was the same.

I was glad to find it again.

I knew somehow,

In the meantime,

It had traveled around the world

Carried by water or wind.

Here it was again.

I knew it had circumnavigated the world,

Brought back so much more

With it

Yet

Its message was the same.

Its message,

I tell you,

Is the same.

Happier

There are a number of Advent calendars out there which encourage random acts of kindness.  I admit I do get joy at buying coffee for the stranger behind me at the Starbucks drive-thru window on occasion, and I will continue doing this.  But... there are studies which show us happier at the end of the day when we connect, person to person.  Of course this always begs for me how happiness is measured.  I won*t go there right now, because it is true to my experience.  Yesterday was one of those days with several significant connections.  I was significantly happier at the end of the day, no matter the happiness scale.   The picture here is one that appeared on Facebook, with attribution to Grace Al-Isha.  It too makes me smile.

Studies show

We are happier at the end of the day

If we connect

With someone else.

Buy them a hamburger at McDonalds

Perhaps a cup of coffee.

Sit with them.

Look into their eyes,

Pay attention.

Studies show a check in the mail

Does not affect our level

Of happiness.

Studies show

It has nothing to do with money

At all.

Nope.

It*s connection.

We were meant to connect

With each other.

Really

It*s the time we spend.

Really

We are all happier

That way.

Really.

Connected

David Wilcox is one of my favorite muses.  I love his music, his insights, his particular take on things.  He is not a pastor but he preaches in a voice that reminds me of what I already know, somehow.  It is Advent. This comes through a Facebook link from a friend (Cathleen Falsani), linked to Jim Wallis* blog, linked to a David Wilcox YouTube.  If you are so inclined, I encourage you to listen to the story that precedes the song.  It*s all connected. 


https://www.facebook.com/godgirl/posts/330058793686550

Once again I see

It*s all connected.

The winter light,

The office

Next to the children gathered

After the parents have left.

Once again I see

It*s all connected again.

Of course everything

Has always been connected.

I just lose track,

Often,

All too often.

All of it

Is connected.

The Holy threads through

All of it.

I lose track

From time to time.

The Holy threads through

And

It is all connected

Always.

Now I see it

Now I don*t.

There it is again

Almost snow

I really thought I*d find it last night, walking under the streetlights, on a mission to Walgreens for gold chocolate coins.  It did seem imminent.  Snow pending.  There*s something about waiting... all the particulars become pointers to the possibility.  Kinda like Advent.

I walked to the store last night

In the almost snow.

The streets were wet

With possible winter.

The dark had that

Snow smell.

I knew I would find it

Hidden around the corner

Of the next block.

On the edges

Snow waited to come.

I am still

Waiting it out.

Snow has been sighted

In Michigan:

Two fluffy inches.

My vision continues blurred

With the possibility of snow.

I am dizzy with its scent.

It is almost almost here.

Every morning I look out the window

Sniff the air

For coldness.

Juncos

Sometimes the signs of the season are not obvious, until they are brought to our attention.

I hear the cat chitter,

The special sound he only makes

For birds.

The juncos are back in town.

They always look like there*s a special occasion,

Dark grey suits with white shirts,

No tie.

It is hard to tell that winter waits.

No snow.

Two stray purple clematis blossoms

Have survived the frost.

Meanwhile we mark time

To Christmas.

Two candles on the Advent wreath.

We mark time

With the juncos.

They are dressed for the banquet

At the King*s table,

At the Baby*s christening.

They wait on the lawn

For the vine out front

To return to winter mode.

They wait

For the snow.

They wait for the banquet,

The baby.

They are already dressed.

Some things learned in the grocery store this afternoon

Adventures are what we make them.  I have never seen onions being vacuumed before.

The blackberries were three containers

For the price of one.

Eyebrows raised,

We bought them and will wash them

Thoroughly.

The onions were in the process

Of being vacuumed.

Is there a special produce vacuum?

Better yet

An onion vacuum?

We didn*t see.

We asked and were told

Loose onion skins

Make the display messy.

There were packs of ping pong balls,

(No paddles)

Next to the soft drinks.

No explanation

But I*m sure I can come up with some sort

Of a connection.

Twenty-five minutes in the store

I practiced seeing what food looks like

In a partial seizure

Eyes wide open.

I read Smart Bran

As Smart Brain,

Openly wondered how a cereal

Could make such a promise.

Come to think of it:

How can a cereal

Be smart?

This wasn*t even

What my mother-in-law would call

A hotsy-snotsy grocery store.

Now we are home.

The blackberries are thoroughly washed.

I consider vacuuming the onions.

The Smart Bran is on top of the refrigerator

With its ambiguous promise.

I remember how much I used to enjoy

Ping pong.

Eyes wide open

It did not seem a mystery to my friends.  Of course it*s better to keep your eyes open, they said.  They reminded me of spinning as a child. One even reminded me of how much worse it got after too much wine if you let yourself close your eyes.  Oh yeah, I thought.  That*s right!  So how come I forgot?  Here*s a good place to cite the value of companions who can help us remember.  I have good company.  How come I so often forget?

I puzzled why I couldn*t close my eyes,

Regain composure,

When I got dizzy and blurry.

Of course you can*t

He said.

She said.

You only make it worse.

Still

I puzzled.

On the way to church this morning

I was reminded about spinning around

As children,

That wonderful dizzy feeling.

When we fell to the ground,

Shut our eyes,

The dizziness increased.

Now I remember:

Something happens when we grow up.

That wonderful dizzy feeling

Loses its wonder;

The stomach does unpleasant

Flip flops.

We no longer relish

The feel of the world turned upside down.

Our adult brains

Seek equilibrium,

Stability,

At least the ability

To see straight

Without the loss

Of lunch.

Now I work to keep my eyes wide open,

Despite dizziness and blur.

I catch things I missed

When I closed my eyes against it.

I catch things I missed
when I look through the haze.

I catch things I missed

When I remember

To keep my eyes wide open.