They lengthen shorter

It seems I should have known this, but the light does not move forward in even increments, until June 21, when it begins getting shorter, but not by even increments.  I suppose the scientists among us can explain.  That is not my bent.  I assumed evenness, regularity.  No.  I just watch the days grow longer. Probably they are even in some predictable way... just not even in the way I thought.

I watch the days lengthen

One day at a time

Almost three minutes a day

This time of year.

They lengthen less and less

As they come to summer.

The Sweet Williams in the front pots

Are still green.

Usually they do not overwinter here.

The sparrows sound different,

More chirpy.

It seems the ducks are off

On other errands.

No lady in red or denim.

Already the morning light

Angles different.

I watch the light lengthen

One day at a time

They lengthen shorter and shorter,

Until summer finally comes.

Timing

As I think about temperatures in the 40s and 50s this week, I find the thought of early spring appealing.  This morning I heard about the warblers coming through early.  That appealed as well... until I heard about the possibility of them starving to death.  So much depends on timing.  This morning I am praying for warblers and bugs and timing.

The thought of an early spring

Appeals:

Warmth and sun

Early crocus, daffodils

Even forsythia shining

Sooner than expected.

This morning I heard about

The possibility of an early warbler

Migration.

They come through every year

At the same time,

A particular insect hatches

Just in time

To feed them.

This year they may not synch

With the insects.

An early spring appeals.

Still

Trees filled with hungry warblers

Does not.

The air filled with particular insects

With no bird to eat them

Does not appeal

Either.

I so often forget:

Timing has so many

Implications.

While I wait

This morning I wait to hear whether a second interview is in the works.  I wait to drive later this week.  It seems I always wait for the next thing.  Yet things continue to happen all around me.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJG698U2Mvo

While I wait

For something to happen,

Things happen all around me.

I do not count them.

The black gorilla

Walks through the black and white uniformed

Ball-bouncers.

Focus on how many bounces

Of the ball,

They say.

The person

In the black gorilla suit

Goes entirely missing.

Unlike the gorilla film,

We don*t get do-overs.

There are black gorillas in the front yard.

They sit in the snow,

Play with the rabbits.

The black gorilla feeds the ducks

Across the way.

The lady in red or possibly blue

Has taken a vacation.

She has left her bags of corn

For the person

Who wears the gorilla suit.

I wait for the lady in red.

I think the ducks

Will never be fed.

While I wait

For something to happen,

Things happen all around me.

Waiting for the train

I know there are many who go out of their way to avoid the trains on Main Street.  They have multiplied in number since another company bought the tracks.  Now it*s not just passenger trains, but seemingly endless freights.  It means more waiting these days.  There are lots of ways to wait.  Sometimes it means paying attention to those who wait with you.

The possibility of crocus

Brings longing for spring.

The homeless man next to the Prairie Path,

Layer on layer on layer

To keep him warm,

Still clearly

Cold

As he waits for the freight train

To pass,

As we wait for the freight train

To pass.

The man carries the longing

For the possibility

Of spring.

The days grow longer in hope.

The crocus sprouts

Longing

For spring.

All of us wait

longer hopeful days

For spring.

All of us wait for the train.

What it isn*t...

Lent, almost like Christmas,  has accrued its own oddities.  Whoever came up with all you can eat fried fish was probably a marketing genius. 

Lent is not

The Friday

All-you- can-eat fried fish

Buffet,

Even if it is

All cod.

Or Sunday off

To fulfill every chocolate

Desire

Before Monday comes

Even if it doesn*t count

In the number of days.

It is not 

forty days in a wilderness camp

With hot running water,

Sherpas who schlep everything

For us.

Ah the temptations

Mostly unnamed

In this wilderness,

Life with the wild beasts,

Angels-in-waiting.

Even though

I am able this morning to pay attention to the small things.  I am able to name the wellness, come to terms with the way things are, see where God is alive among them.  All is well with my soul.

Even though it is Lent,

All is well with my soul.

The sun shines,

Glistens off the snow.

Rabbits live

Under the bushes

In front.

Even though it is Saturday,

The lady in red

Does not take a vacation.

She also spreads corn

For the ducks

On weekends.

The family sleeps;

They breathe warm in their beds.

Even though it is still

February,

I am warm with coffee

In my favorite earthen mug.

My thumbs find the place

The handle broke off,

Rough where all

Used to be smooth.

Even though the handle

Is no longer present,

I remember it

In its absence.

It is Lent and Saturday,

February;

Sunny and snowy and warm.

The family sleeps safe upstairs.

Rabbits and ducks live near.

My thumbs find the rough place

On my favorite cup.

All is well

With my soul.

February snow

This morning I am grateful for safe and warm and dry, looking at snow pictures out my window.  I am blessed.  Even as I look, I see the lady out back who feeds the ducks every winter morning, snow or not (and snow makes life more difficult for ducks).  I also know that snow makes life more difficult for those who have no regular safe and warm and dry as I do.  

From inside

It is gorgeous

White and thick.

From inside the warm and dry

I name it soft and fluffy

Even though I know

It isn*t.

From inside

I see the way

The snow lights up the world,

The morning.

I glimpse the lady

Again in red.

She stands in the middle

Of the ducks,

Flings corn.

From a distance

Even from a distance

The ducks look concerned

About their next meal.

From blessed inside

Warm dry inside

I note the light

The trees caked with frosting

I see it white and also wet.

There are many more than ducks

Who pray for warm and dry,

A quick melt,

No puddles,

The next meal spread

Before them.

Walk for short, drive for long

Often I do not figure out what I need to do or not do for Lent until Lent actually arrives.  Lent has now arrived.  I will blog in a separate space for Lent (considerthisskipforlent.blogspot.com)  but because I am one person, Lent will most likely permeate this one as well.  Next week I will move back to driving myself (Yeah!), but I am also aware of what I have gained in walking places.  For Lent I will continue to walk those shorter distances, and drive the longer ones.

They say it will snow today.

We will see.

The duck lady across the way

Wears a red vest.

Perhaps she knows something

I don*t.

Perhaps she prepares for the winter

We have yet to really see.

Perhaps she has an extra supply

Of corn.

She waits for the snow.

Today I am home.

I savor my last week

Of chauffeured freedom.

After next week

I will maintain the freedom

To walk,

To see other walkers,

To note the time it takes

To go from point A

To point B,

To pay attention to the line

That connects

The two.

For Lent I will walk

For short,

Drive

For long.

Every day

I will walk for short.

Every day

I will drive for long.

Every day I will endeavor

To savor

The choice.

Costume changes

Ash Wednesday.  First a client (no collar), then speaking dust in English and Spanish in the library (collar), and  now a job interview (no collar, and on third thought, no ashes).  Costume changes, but still the same underneath.  Dust, even shining gold dust.  Like everyone.

This has been a day

Of costume changes.

I feel like the child

Who goes through the dress-up closet

To find the right fairy princess

Costume.

No tiara but still a day

Of costume changes.

I wash my face

Change out of the clerical collar

For the job interview.

I do not know what I will wear

For dinner.

It remains to be seen

Or in this case

Worn.

Late valentine to the chauffeur, for all the world to see

I come to an end of my time as only a passenger.  My beloved has been my chauffeur.  I am glad for the coming independence.  I am also grateful for morning and evening conversations, the ways we both point out particular birds or signs or possibilities, the talk of the day ahead, and the day behind.  Most of all I am glad for the talk.

No one sits in the front seat

With the chauffeur,

Plays footsie or alternatively

Handsie,

Comments on the odd street signs,

The way the clouds move,

The particular order

To the day ahead.

Shall I pick you up at 4:30?

He says.

4:30 is good,

She says.

No one kisses the chauffeur

Goodbye,

Then waits to kiss him hello

When he returns.

No one that is,

But me,

Sits in the front seat

With the chauffeur without a hat

Plays handsie,

Waits to kiss him hello

When he returns.

Guns

Wow.  Last week a teenage girl from North Caroline ranted on Facebook about her parents. Then her father saw it, taped himself on YouTube reciting what she had said, and then shot her computer with nine hollow-point rounds.  Wow.  I have read many things which name what was going on here. The expressions include everything from horror to justification.  I suspect our personal experiences have something to do with our reactions.  It usually does.  Mine was closer to the horrified end, my daughter*s reaction, not as much.  I don*t pretend to know what this means.

I grew up

We grew up

With a gun in the house,

Carefully stored away

For possible protection

Against unknown intruders.

There were none.

I grew up

We all grew up

We knew guns were not meant

To kill anything.

The gun lived in my father*s

Bottom drawer

Cleaned and primed

Never aimed at anything

Or anyone

Except perhaps

A target on the range.

My mind tries to wrap around

The teen*s computer

Shot to death

By her father.

It was punishment

For misuse.

It was rage.

It was shot to death

By her father.

Nine exploding hollow-point bullets.

The computer was killed

Nine times over.

Perhaps it*s understandable

Somewhere

Somehow.

Where I grew up

The gun

Was kept in the bottom drawer

Under my father*s underwear.

It was never used to kill

Anything.

Sunny with possible pancakes

It*s not even the official pancake day yet.  It is a day off from school, however.  It is sunny, bright, and now it*s time for pancakes.

The morning is bright

With sun and birds.

She chirps in the kitchen,

Begins to pour pancakes

To be sacrificed

To the gift of maple syrup

On the dining table altar,

The gift of maple syrup

Decanted from trees,

Cooked down

From the north woods

Of Wisconsin.

It came with a story.

The pancakes develop a story

Of their own,

Raw

Burned

Finally perfect brown,

Quite a story of their own.

The maple syrup

Waits on the table.

It is sunny today

With very possible pancakes

And syrup

Of course

Syrup.

Ready or not...

Maybe there are people who have it all figured out, who can name what they are doing or not doing for Lent long before Lent arrives.  Me?  I rarely know.  Some years I even figure it out after the fact.  I know people who give up chocolate or alcohol every year. I wonder if it makes a real difference other than: if I can*t have chocolate, it must be Lent.  

This year I am doing something a little different.  I am blogging Lent.  The priest part of me has a lot of ideas.  I have no idea how consistent it will be.  But there it is.  I expect it to start Ash Wednesday, maybe even Shrove Tuesday.  I expect it to last through Holy Week.  Then stop.  I have it set up as Consider this: Skip through Lent.  considerthisskipthroughlent.blogspot.com   If it seems like a helpful thing, join me there too.  If not, I will still be here at:  All will be well.  Period.  Because no matter how we do or don*t do Lent, Easter still comes.  God continues Wonderful.

I am not quite ready

For Lent to begin.

I rarely am.

The post Ash Wednesday plan

Of what to do

Or not to do,

The different ways to think or be,

Or not,

The several ways to prepare

For the Crucifixion

The Resurrection

As if there is anything

That could truly acknowledge

Such things;

As if preparation

Was entirely possible.

I am not quite ready

For ashes,

For Lent to begin.

Of course every year

I never am.

Every year I need the kick-start

The Ash Wednesday deadline.

Every year I am reminded

This is about way more

Than an absence

Of chocolate.

Every year I wonder what God

Will offer next.

I am not really ready for Lent

To begin.

No

Not ready, I tell you,

Not ready.

Soon enough

Today is sunny and snowless.  I know the winter is not over.  I have discovered we live in a decent place for someone who needs to walk places.  Amenities (grocery, drug store, hardware store, train station... not to mention the library and Starbucks) are in easy walking distance.  When it snows?  Not so easy.  The temptation is to focus on spring, particularly in this unseasonable winter that masquerades as spring.  Soon enough I will be driving.  I will most likely lose the perspective of the walker, the perspective of the one who needs to be driven.  Maybe I will remember some pieces. Already it begins to fade.

Soon enough

I will be driving.

The streets will look less dark.

When it snows,

The uncleared sidewalks

Will give me no nevermind.

Now I know the property

No one claims.

Soon enough

I will not pick my way

To the library

To Starbucks

As I skirt

Humps of ice

On unclaimed sidewalks.

I will not be eye-level

With those who walk.

Soon enough I will

Be driving.

Now I walk street-level

With those I never used to see.

Each of us a different story.

We are more

Than a motley crew:

Like everyone else

Even those who drive.

Soon enough I will

Be driving

Soon enough it will be spring

Soon enough it will all

Be different.

Soon enough

It will all be

The same.

Miracle in blue

It doesn*t matter if anyone else names this a miracle.  It is small... yes.  Even tiny.  I name it a miracle.  God has gladdened my heart.  I am grateful.

Yesterday I saw the duck lady

Out back.

She wore denim

Blue yes blue

As she spread corn.

The ducks waited

Not so patiently

But the lady

She wore blue yesterday.

I had not seen her this winter.

Maybe she only wears red

Against the snow,

Like the cardinal against the pure white snow

Black branches

Posed for a picture of Christmas.

But the lady…

Back to the lady:

She wore blue.

I named the possibility

Of blue

Last week.

It is a small thing

A tiny thing

I know many wear denim jackets.

Perhaps I have seen her before

Without note

Wearing blue.

Perhaps.

Still

Yesterday the lady in red

Wore blue.

I saw her.

Yesterday she was a miracle

In blue.

Lent for sale

This is the assignment I have before me this afternoon.  Write one or two paragraphs to describe the season of Lent: what it is, what it means, what possibilities await us.  Say it in a different way.  All I can say is: I*m sure it will be different.

The assignment:

Sum up Lent

In a paragraph or two.

Say it in a different way

Than usual.

Make it understandable

Accessible

Invitational

Make it appeal

To all who might read

The web page

The bulletin

The Lenten brochure.

Sum up Lent

In a paragraph

Or two.

I dare you.

I invite you.

I appeal to you.

All of Lent.

Thin places

I really did google thin places as if there would be some sort of thin place directory.  There wasn*t.  I only found people arguing about its origins and who owned it.  I was looking for a map.  No map.  I knew my experience in Santa Fe was of a thin place.  But is it for everyone?  Probably not.  I list the responses I got from four separate Navaho about the Corn Dance.  I think about the Eucharist and our attempts to describe it.  Perhaps the only real answer is How was it for you?

While I wait to find out

About Iona,

I wonder if there is a map

Of the thin places

Of the world,

The places where heaven and earth

Meet,

Or at least breathe

into each other.

Perhaps I can go

To one of them.

My research says

There is no common mind around

Who has ownership

Of the term

Thin places.

Certainly no map

Exists.

I smelled heaven*s breath

When I stayed in Santa Fe,

The scent at morning*s arrival,

The thinner air,

Two coyotes passed me by

At dusk.

The indefinable Corn Dance:

No one would name its meaning

Except

I don*t know

Or

I*m not allowed to tell.

And finally

How was that for you?

What did it mean to you?

No one owns the thin place,

The meaning

Of the thin place.

There is no map.

I am told in Iona the air

Is thin.

Perhaps I will see

What it means to me.

Waiting list

I added myself to the waiting list for a pilgrimage to Iona yesterday.  I have long wanted to go to Iona on pilgrimage.  In the midst of everything else, of all the uncertain things, it seems counter-intuitive somehow to be adding more things to my personal waiting list.  Shouldn*t I be doing something more productive?  Still, there is a lot worth waiting for.  I have also discovered such things will not be forced into being at particular times..  Oh yeah, that*s right.  I forgot again.

Some things are worth

Waiting for,

But really

How ironic

With the number of things that remain

On The List:

To add one more

By intention,

Give the credit card number

Just in case

Someone*s plans change,

Allow myself to hope and pray

This dream will come true

Without ill wishes to anyone else:

Only good things:

A family wedding,

A baby to be born,

Only good things,

A lovely turn of fate

For all involved

Including me.

I wait

Really I wait

For things to happen

As they are meant

To happen.

Really.

Time to focus on the ducks

Back before the blog I wrote about the ducks out back ... a lot.  They are still there every morning, part of the  morning landscape.  Because I have been paying attention to other things, I have not really seen them for awhile.  For quite awhile.  This morning: there they are again.

Time to focus on the ducks

Again

Some are hunkered down

Across the way

Some

Drop in their flight angled,

Land heel first

Do ducks have heels?

Land heel first

Skid on the creek

Duck waddle up the hill

Figure where the corn is

The perfect spot to hunker down

The spot the corn landed.

Most likely thrown

By the lady in red.

This year I only conjecture

She wears red.

Maybe this year it is someone

Entirely different

In blue.

I only see the ducks

This morning.

What counts as going to church?

I spent time with church people at church today, but I did not attend worship.  I know the rules.  I grew up in the Church.  If you skidded into the pew just before the Gospel, you*d made it in time.  This morning I went to two adult forums on politics and faith, taught by my husband.  I went to the annual meeting, voted, and balanced everything on my lap.  Did I go to church?  I read the lessons in the bulletin, and ate a meal with the congregation.  We balanced and ate our food, together.  We stood in line to fill our plates.  Did we go to church?  Did we all go to church?

I went to church today

But not

To Church.

I did not sit in the pew.

I bought tickets

For the fundraiser.

I found people who hang

Around the edges.

Some never sit in the pew

At all.

Well, hardly ever.

Any Sunday.

I drank too much coffee,

Listened to

The financial report,

Balanced food and annual report,

A bottle of water,

On my lap.

I did not go

To Church

But I did.

Urban Meadows

What are those things that bring us closer to health, closer to living more fully?  Today*s newspaper brought the story of a florist shop in Chicago which was created specifically to provide jobs for those with severe mental illness.  In warmer weather I garden.  It is no surprise to me that flowers may bring out the best in us, even grow us into fuller human beings.  Here is a link to the article:  http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/ct-met-valentine-florist-20120211,0,5750000.story

She learns to stick with it

Longer and longer

As time goes on:

This woman who arranges flowers

For her life.

She has talent

Yes

Yet flowers

Give her reason

For living;

Flowers offer the entirety

Of what they are

To her arrangements,

Value displayed

In each arrangement.

There is little suspicion

From others

She has not arranged flowers

For hours and hours

Every day

For years upon years.

She learns to offer each arrangement

Separately.

She has talent

Yes

The flowers fill more and more of the spaces

The voices filled.

Now she is filled more and more

With flowers.

She has talent

Yes

And flowers.

Creativity speaks to the presence of God

A middle of the nighter, this one.  Sometimes I get a one-liner that kicks me out of a warm bed.  There in the backyard the moon shines so white on the snow... it is simply simply stunning.

Creativity

Speaks to the presence of God:

The voice that awakens

In the middle of the night.

The moon:

It shines even whiter

On new snow.

The voice:

It commands us to look,

To see

The sheer whiteness,

Not think of snow shovel,

But Moon and White and Snow

Together:

The voice that says

Look

Look

Look and know

In all combined:

This is the Presence of God,

The way it all connects.

I woke you up

So you could see,

My voice loud yet

Whisper soft,

So you could see Moon and White,

And Snow

Together.

See what I have done

So simple

So simple

I woke you up

So you could see

And Name Me.

Ecclesiastical Acts

This is the season of parochial reports.  Every parish needs to file a parochial report.  There are numbers which must to tallied, people counted. 

For those of us ordained folk without a parish, we need to name and number Ecclesiastical Acts.  Have we been out and about?  What have we been doing?  This is a good thing, I think.  But it seems that it might be a good exercise for all of us ordained folk, inside and outside parish ministry.  A good thing to report where we are, what was important last year, what are we looking forward to this year.  Maybe something along the lines of a Christmas letter so many used to write.

It is February again,

The time for all non-churched clergy

To report their activities

Of the past year.

We are invited

To fill out a form.

It asks for the naming of

Ecclesiastical Acts,

Where we did them.

Still

They will not be part

Of any databank

Of ecclesiastical acts.

There is no definition even

Of the term.

We are supposed to know

What counts.

I have never known

What counts,

Even in my parish church days

I did not know what counted

Really.

I continue not to know.

I choose the letter format.

I can write what needs to be said.

The Bishop may read it.

What did I do last year?

What are my hopes and aspirations?

In the larger scheme of things:

What counts?

In the larger scheme of things

What deserves

To be highlighted?

What deserves

To be mentioned?

The trick is to love anyway

What*s to say?  It*s been quite a week.  I have learned some things about the way in which the brain works in my life, from neo-cortex to amygdala to neo-cortex to anterior cingulate (great names for great brain parts... see this link: http://knowledgeisnecessity.blogspot.com/2012/02/cortical-factor-what-is-going-on-in-our.html#.TzLnFUbiBnM.facebook  by way of longer explanation.  I have watched it illustrated in myself and others this week.  I have learned the trick is to love anyway, no matter what.  The trick is to stay engaged and love anyway.  Certainly not always easy, but sticking with it, no matter what it is until it reaches the empathy spot... that*s the ticket.

The trick

Is to stay engaged.

The trick is always

To stay engaged

For the long haul.

The trick

Is to watch the logical brain

Move to primitive response,

Maybe back to logical,

Then hopefully

Down to the source of empathy,

Allow mirror neurons to speak

To mirror neurons.

The trick

Is not to get stuck

In fight or flight

Or freeze

But to keep moving,

To stay engaged.

The trick

Is to love anyway

No matter where the other

Is stuck.

The trick is to notice the stuckness

And to stay

Engaged.

When all else fails

To notice

And notice

And notice

And love

Anyway.

The world is a Petri dish

I don*t think it*s the flu, but almost everyone I know seems to have a cough, congestion and even dizziness. There is a bottle of hand sanitizer outside my office door for all the parents and teachers and children of the morning nursery school.  My son*s father is a tumor immunologist at NIH.  I can still ask him medical questions, if necessary, but now I am married to a political scientist.  The world being a Petri dish has taken on new dimensions.  It*s been a mild winter.  It seems like all the hand sanitizer in the world just won*t do it.

The verdict remains unknown:

Whether hand sanitizer,

Disinfectant wipes,

Bleach

Make the world

A safer place

or merely

Don*t give our immune systems

Practice.

Once we went to the local pond.

They had stocked it knee deep

In fish.

Every small boy had a fishing pole.

It was sunny and warm.

All the parents

Were lined up behind the boys

With buckets.

I sat next to the mother

Of my son*s friend.

She had the biggest bottle

Of hand sanitizer

I have ever seen.

She cleaned her son*s hands

After every fish.

The world is a Petri dish,

The whole blooming world.

The whole blooming stinking wonderful world

Is a Petri dish.

It is impossible to clean our hands

After every fish.

The world is a Petri dish.

It is impossible to know

What might grow.

Collected in the palm of God*s hand

This is in part my vision of Heaven: People and all the world hanging out in the palm of God*s hand.  Sure some are still hiding on the edges, but perhaps in time, perhaps in God*s time, we*ll all find our way to the crossing of the life line, and the heart line.

Once again I see disparate people

Collected in the palm

Of God*s hand.

The hand is calloused

From hard labor.

Forget all the cartoons

About the different rooms

In heaven,

The dividing walls that allow everyone

To stay safe in a home

Of their choosing.

Heaven is that hand outstretched,

Calloused from hard labor.

Disparate people:

They believe disparate things.

One hides in the shadow

Of the thumb,

Another hangs out

With the little finger.

Still

A number have found the life line,

The heart line,

The places the lines come together,

Disparate people

Collected in the palm

Of God*s hand.

Mindfulness

So many kinds of treatment seem to bear the stamp of common sense.  When has mindfulness not been a good idea... in therapy, in relationships?  It now has a fancy new name, and there are proponents lining the streets and giving workshops.  It seems to be the new magic penny, the treatment of the year.  Being present, as fully present as possible, continues to be vital in our work as therapists, in our work as clergy... really in our work being human.  In that, no one has a corner on the market.

Mindfulness seems to be

The treatment of the year

As if it sprung new and whole

Like cropped pants once known

As pedal pushers,

Half socks now

Now Knee highs

Mindfulness comes on the scene

With a new name:

Being present

Here and now,

Really present

Here and now.

Mindfulness claims

The treatment of the year award.

Workshops upon workshops

They teach us to be fully aware

To teach our clients

To be fully aware.

Mindfulness comes on the scene

New

Yet older

Way older

Than the hills.

When I let it out to breathe ordinary air

I have begun reading Awaken Your Senses: Exercises for Exploring the Wonder of God by J. Brent Bill and Beth A. Booram.  They are offering a contest and a challenge for the next five weeks.  This week involves paying attention to how the sense of taste enables a deeper understanding of God.  Join them and me this week. http://holyordinary.blogspot.com/2012/02/taste-sense-of-week.html   I understand there are prizes.  Prizes are good (and fun).  This also seems a good pre-Lenten activity.

Many of us  

OK, I*ll admit it,

I

All too often

Engage in the practice

Of disconnection

From the world

From God

From self.

I am good at it.

When many of us

OK

I

Have everything beautifully ordered

In my head

It usually enters chaos

When I let it out to breathe

Ordinary air.

It goes from tightly ordered

Beautiful

Recognizable

To anything but ordinary.

Connection swirls it around to be something

I barely recognize

When I let it out to breathe

Ordinary air

There is no telling

What might happen.

I regularly forget what I have known forever

Sometimes, caught up in what passes for adult living, I forget what I have known forever.  Sometimes all it takes to remember is watching a small child at church during coffee hour, secure and laughing behind his daddy*s legs.  Sometimes it still takes an hour or two, shoes and socks off, feet up, to remember. 

I regularly forget

What I have known forever.

Then I return home again

And again,

Sit and let my pores breathe,

Take off my socks and shoes.

Then

I remember

What I have known forever:

The small child this morning

Hanging behind his daddy*s knees

Laughing with that small child

Abandon.

Then I remember

Back to days hanging behind

Daddy*s knees

Laughing

Full out laughing

With abandon.

Regularly I forget

What I have really known

Forever.

I forget until

I remember.

Waxing gibbous

Language is a funny thing.  I think our brains work to find the connections, everything with everything else.  I think they are meant to operate this way.  I think God made us this way, to see our connections, one with another, our infinite connections one with another.  Forget the six degrees of separation... that*s a lot.  No, we are all connected, here and now and forever.  You and me, the chief of the Kayapo people of Brazil, the new Brazilian president, and species heretofore unknown, and even the waxing gibbous moon.

I am back to the weather page                                             

On the web.

It is 36.7 degrees Fahrenheit

Where I live.

Apparently it feels

Like 34.

The moon

Is waxing gibbous.

Waxing gibbous…

It sounds like an animal

From the rain forest.

It lives in the trees of Brazil.

Even when I dally,

When I hide

On the weather page,

I am brought back

To less ordered,

Less safe topics.

This morning the moon

Waxes gibbous

On the weather page.

The thought of waxing gibbous

Returns me to the picture

Of the chief of the Kayapo tribe.

I see the chief.

He weeps for his people.

They will lose their home

When the river is dammed,

The rain forest is flooded.

They will lose their home

So the third largest hydroelectric plant

In the world

May bring progress.

Many species will also disappear.

Perhaps the waxing gibbous

Among them.

When I find it especially hard to keep still...

I don*t believe that God wishes any of us to be sick.  He doesn*t work that way.  Sometimes, though, it seems I am given things to tie me down, so I can hear Him/Her? breathing.  Today it*s a cold.

When I find it especially hard

To keep still,

I am given things

To tie me down.

The message seems to be

Don*t go gallivanting about.

Have a cup of tea.

Here*s a blanket.

Put your feet up.

I*ll just sit here,

Keep you company.

I will be so quiet

You will hardly know I*m here,

Unless of course

You keep really still.

Then you will hear me breathing.

When it is especially hard

To be still,

Like now,

I am invited to sit down.

When I don*t listen

I am given things to tie me down,

Like now.

I always recognize the mourning dove

Social media: I*m learning a new one.  I know I am way behind a number of folk.  I just got a new cell phone.  The last one was four years old.  It is a simple thing compared to most.  Still, it is a few generations beyond the last, so it takes figuring out.  I like the bird clock, the mourning dove that coos at 7 AM and 7 PM as long as the battery lasts.  Now I am learning how to use Twitter, and tweet.  I have no idea how long this will take me.  Still, it is important to learn new music as we go.

The bird clock

Offers a different bird

On the hour.

I always recognize

The mourning dove.

The challenge for me today

Is to figure out

How to twitter and tweet.

There is whole new vocabulary

Here.

No mourning dove, just

New etiquette,

New ways to sing, to warble,

Way more than twelve different birds

On the face of the clock.

When I learned Facebook,

I had to go back to kindergarten,

Ask people to be my friends

All over again.

It got easier

With time.

I always recognize

The mourning dove.

She sings her song at seven

In the morning,

Seven at night.

I always recognize her

Even as I learn the new birds

In my life

Way more that twelve different birds

On the face of the clock.

Today Jonah is my kin

I am glad the book of Jonah is contained in the Bible.  Jonah*s recalcitrance, his reluctance to follow what God would have him do, gives me hope.  On days when I know God has placed me where He wants me, and I have a better idea, which of course, is not better, Jonah gives me hope, even when I don*t see the way home.

Today Jonah

Is my kin,

My brother under the skin.

I sit under the plant

On the beach,

Look out to the sea

Under the plant

God has grown

To give me shade.

 I sit in sulk and sorrow and anger

Yes, anger.

People hear

What God wishes them to hear.

They hear a voice.  It sounds like mine

At my best.

They repent.

Yes, I admit it:

They repent.

I know the right response is

Gratefulness,

Awe at the beauty of it all.

I know the right thing to see

Is the graced beauty

Of it all.

Today Jonah is my kin,

Brother under the skin.

I watch the plant shrivel

As the worm chews.

There is no whale waiting

To swim me home.

No ship.