Simple

This weekend I visit my son in the city where I grew up.  I just had my birthday.  So many things converge.  I think it should all be more complicated, but instead it is somehow simple.  In talking with my brother I realize again we hold more in common than shared parents.  I may be the youngest, but we are both in the same stage of life, the time that it becomes more simple.  We have both quit what we were doing to start again.


It was simple
when I was young.
Now it is simple again.
I know what I don*t need to know.
Now everyone is important
and no one is.
Now everything is important
and nothing is.
Now there is a ring around the moon,
around the ant building the anthill
grain by grain by grain.
There is a ring
Around the child,
The man by my side,
The woman who brings me coffee.
Now we have all quit
to start again.
Now
The poet who lives in each of us
finds his expression,
Her expression.
We use different images.
Still the metaphors carry us
to the same place.
We have all quit
to start.
Somehow it becomes simple
Again.

The youngest of the oldest generation

 I grew up in Minneapolis.  Now my son lives here. I learned to drive in Lakewood Cemetery.  My daughter drove most of the way north from Chicago.  She is learning to drive in different places.

It*s not the same place I left.
Of course it never is.
The last time we buried
The end of the generation above.
I am the youngest of the oldest generation
Now..
We all learned to drive
In Lakewood Cemetery.
Little traffic.
No small children to dart out
make us practice our braking,
Only uphill and downhill parking,
Curve after curve after curve.
Still
It"s not the same place I left
Or even returned to
Ever.
It never is.
Three years ago
We buried the last.
Now I am the youngest
Of the oldest generation.
My daughter practices her driving
On freeways,
In construction zones,
Me in the back seat:
The youngest
of the oldest generation.

Birthday

Today we drive to Minnesota to see son Erik (age 25).  We may not make it in time for dinner because, while it seemed a good idea to leave early, now it seems a better idea to leave late.  I am the birthday girl.  I decree it.  Of course it is entirely possible to do this on other days of the year.  Still... it is easier to decree things on one*s birthday.

It is my birthday.

I use my birthday power

To slow down the day.

Because we drive to Minnesota

Because I made the motel reservations

Because now I am 57

And it is my birthday,

I declare we will take the day

Slower,

Leave later,

Pay attention to the cheese curds

On our way through Wisconsin.

On the bridge over the St. Croix

 from Wisconsin

To Minnesota

We will lift our feet

So they won*t get wet.

We will do it again

When we cross the Mississippi.

It is my birthday.

I decree

We will slow down

The day.

And I think I*ve got it bad...

Today I am in a why do I bother? mood.  I know everything counts with God.  But God is not the IL licensing board for counselors.  I do not mind being supervised (actually I enjoy it).  I do not mind unpaid hours on the fly (I am a priest, this is what I do).  I do wonder whether God watches all of us and shakes his head while He/She waits for each of us to get it.

Over the last few days

I have reviewed the hours that count.

It seems I will always

Have to count.

I have chosen,

Perhaps I have been chosen,

For a clientele

Who would rather not

Be counted:

The person who always takes a card

For someone else;

The soul who calls and calls,

Always has that one more question

Then never calls again;

The one who has my card,

Dog-eared with thumbing.

It gives him comfort to know

I am here or maybe there.

I think perhaps he prays with my card.

It gives him comfort to know

I wait for him whenever

It gets bad enough.

It seems I will be dead

By the time he calls.

It occurs to me

Even God has a time frame.

Still it seems God knows how to count

To infinity and beyond.

Still

Even death

Is not God*s last word.

God has a particularly stubborn

Clientele.

Holy Week, free and clear

It*s been four and a half years since I left parish ministry.  Without a doubt Holy Week has been the time I have missed being in the role the most, particularly the liturgy planning role.   This year it seems I have turned a corner.  This year it seems I can face into it and do it with my eyes open, even when the monstrance makes its yearly appearance on Maundy Thursday.    

At least my birthday is not on Good Friday

This year.

I can encounter all of Holy Week

Free and clear and newly 57.

Now I am back in priest skin.

I have mostly grown accustomed

To my part in the liturgy

From two pews back

On the right.

Sometime I even arrive late

Just before the Gospel.

This is Holy Week number four.

I know what to expect

In this place.

I may be able to pray it here

This year,

Not rail against the oddities,

Nor find the sticky places.

I may even be able to keep my eyes open

When the monstrance appears,

Take my turn

In the Garden of Repose.

There is a distinct possibility

I may encounter all of Holy Week

Free and clear

Two pews back

On the right.

Astronaut

My husband has a friend who is in Russia with his family for the year.  He was allowed to write his name in the frost on the rocket along with the astronauts going up to the space station.  He was always fascinated by outer space.  His name was launched in the frost.  Almost as good as going there himself.  Another friend talks of growing up with cardboard box rocket ships, he and his best friend traveling to outer space in the excitement of his back yard.  

He considers the life of the astronaut:

Notes different rules

In different countries,

For astronauts

For Mission Control.

We never hear about astronauts anymore.

No more trips to the moon.

They are off the usual radar.

No news is good news, I guess,

No one blown up,

Endangered,

Recently.

Only Russians and U.S. citizens

Who orbit the earth together,

Round and round,

Learn each others* language

And acronyms,

Maintain the space station

From so far up

We are not even ants,

Our cities perhaps a dot of light

When they circle by.

They a dot of light if we watch

The night sky

Closely.

Hokey Pokey

Years ago now I wrote a paper in seminary about the priest as square dance caller.   Images often help me get hold of realities in new ways.  Today I might write a paper on priest as dancing the Hokey Pokey, not in any way to make light of it, but perhaps to get a new handle from this different perspective, standing on the edge of things.

Called to the edge

I tilt and tip on the rim of the world.

I am a novice

At this art.

One foot in

One foot out;

One hand in

One hand out;

I am part

Of the novitiate of an order

With no name.

My whole self in

My whole self out

I seek balance on the rim

Of the world.

I practice the steps

Over and over.

Sometimes my head is in

Sometimes my head is out

Sometimes my very heart

Is on the line.

Still I dance.

Stay put!

Today was clergy quiet day at the Morton Arboretum.  We sang and prayed and participated in a whole-group version of lectio divina of our ordination vows.  It is clear to me that I am being told to Stay put.  It reminds me of being a child and talking at night with my brother and sister in the top floor of the boathouse.  There was a one-way intercom so my father and mother could hear us in the cabin.  My father would stand at the top of the hill and shout: Pipe down.  This has the same commanding tone: Stay put.  Where?  I think.  How?  I think.  Couldn*t you ask more nicely?

The woman on the bike

Finds me staring at a robin.

I cannot determine whether

The bird has found a worm

Or perhaps a piece of nest material.

She motions me over,

Asks what is happening.

I tell her it is a clergy quiet day.

She puts her finger to her lips

Shh!

And reads my name tag.

Oh, Episcopal !

She says.

She even pronounces it correctly.

I won*t say another word!

I tell her it*s ok,

There*s a difference between quiet

And silent.

She lived next door to the man who died

Before Convention last year.

Her husband knows a colleague of mine.

Before the robin,

Before the woman,

In the quiet,

I was told

Stay put!

It seems to address a bigger notion

Than robins

Or women on bikes

Who know how to pronounce Episcopal.

I would like more clarity

Or maybe even

A nicer tone of voice.

God is a saver

Now that it is rainy and green, with thunder in the distance, it really feels like spring.  It occurs to me, five years after leaving parish ministry, I am now more able fully to inhabit my vocation as a priest, with deep thanks and appreciation for those who have held it precious for me in the meantime (for Steve, Jeff, two Georges, and others, too many to name, including some I do not know).  God is a saver.  Indeed.  I am grateful.

God is a saver.

He does not throw anything

Away.

She finds a use for every little thing,

Every big thing.

God is a saver.

Sometimes we are that little piece of string

From the twine ball,

The string which wraps around

The porch column,

Something for the clematis to grab.

Sometimes we are the twist tie

From the now-empty bag of bread.

We help the tomato plant

Grow on the trellis.

God is a saver.

He does not throw anything away

Nothing big

Nothing small

Nothing.

God is a saver.

She is creative.

She finds a good use for every one

And every thing.

Bear dreams

I do not know what it might mean that my husband and I both have dreams of bears.  Black bears and polar bears and grizzly bears.  This is the time of year the black bears come out of hibernation.  It begs the question about the polar bear constitution... do they hibernate?  If so, where?  But these are dream bears.  For whatever reason they want our spot in bed.  For whatever reason, they come down the choir loft stairs.  For whatever reason, we shove them out the door.  Bears.

This is the time

The bears wake up.

We have both had dreams

Of bears.

They growl and push us

Out of bed.

They lumber down

From the choir loft.

We have shoved them

Out the door,

Called in game wardens

To tell them

To leave.

Bear dreams.

This is not just the time

Everything greens again.

It seems this is also the time

The bears wake up.

Spring dreams

Something about this season of spring seems to grow the imagination, even the way we dream things possible.

At this rate the clematis

Should take over the front pillars

By early May.

Of course I will see

Whether this dream

Comes true.

With spring really here

I dare to dream such things.

With spring finally here

I dream rhubarb sauce

Early asparagus.

This morning the robins and rabbits,

One squirrel

Vied for the front walk.

They even held their places

When I came out the front door

Into the sun.

Last night the house was held

By Venus and Jupiter,

They held  hands over the house,

Orion four feet over.

Spring lines things up

By night and day.

Everything holds, yet shares

Common space.

I dare to dream the house overtaken

With clematis.

Rhubarb sauce

Early asparagus.

Wildlife covers the sidewalk;

Stars hold the house

In place

In spring.

Vernal Equinox

It is amazing to me how I could not embrace spring until today, when it was marked on the calendar.

When my son turned three

He told me:

Now I use the toilet.

Really?  I said

Really?

He knew three years old

Was the time all big boys

Use the toilet.

Today the daylight begins

To overtake the dark.

It feels full spring.

Somehow today it is all ok.

What difference does a day make

In accepting the arrival

Of spring?

The day kicked off

In full bloom.

The calendar says

Now it is spring,

So now I can see it,

Accept it,

Even dance

In the sun.

Now, the day of the vernal equinox,

I can accept spring

And all it brings with it.

Really?

 (I hear my voice

From 22 years ago)

Really?

Cloud cover

Today I am glad to be able to see the spring changes.  Clouds help.  Somehow I am able to think more clearly, see more clearly.  I find more clarity when the light is not full in my eyes.

The sun is covered by clouds today.

I am thankful for the clouds

In the upper atmosphere.

They feel somehow more accurate,

More apropos

To this time of year.

I can see more clearly

What needs to be seen,

What needs to be heard,

Perhaps what needs to be done,

Without the static of blinding sunlight.

There is a chipmunk on the front porch.

He runs

From bush to bush.

I imagine hawks also see better

In this light.

Today the forsythia is bright

In the back yard.

Today I am grateful

For the clouds.

Gold made real

This morning there was enough contrast to see the forsythia on the way to church.  No gray skies, but still enough contrast to notice gold in the lower light.  Goldfinches have arrived too, but they have not changed color yet.  They swoop disguised as common birds.  Soon enough they will change and join the golden multitude.

The light was low

This morning.

We finally saw the bushes and sprays

Of forsythia,

Golden in the lower light.

Tree buds flashed

Spring green.

Goldfinches have returned

Not gold yet

But soon.

Soon they promise gold,

Swoop and dip

Tree to tree.

They are early too,

Like everything else.

Soon enough  all the gold will be realized

In the low light

In the twilight

In the half light

In sunlight through leaves:

Dappled realized gold.

Gold will be there for the spending

The saving

The reflection when the sun

Shines through leaves:

Realized dappled gold.

Contrast

Last year I wrote a lot about the forsythia.  It seemed I had never seen so much of it.  It was gorgeous.  Particularly the way it stood out against the gray spring sky.  Now, all of a sudden it is almost summer, warm and almost too bright to see.  Even when I wear my sunglasses, it feels overly bright.  I realize I miss the contrast of last year.  Not the cold, really, but the contrast.

I woke up this morning,

Realized I had not seen

The forsythia.

If the weather has turned so

Suddenly,

The forsythia

Must be blooming

Somewhere.

This morning I realized

With the sun so bright,

I missed seeing it.

This morning I see

It has bloomed already.

With the sun in my eyes

I couldn*t see it

Flower.

Last year it was a study

In contrast:

Gold against the gray,

Sprays of gold.

The forsythia punctuated

cold and rain

And gray.

Last year it stood out,

Bright yellow spots on the way to church.

This year

It went missing

In the sun.

Not enough contrast.

I wonder what else

I won*t see.

Watch and see

I learned a new word yesterday:  phenology.  Thank you,  NPR.  I usually listen in the car on the way home from work.  Now that I am driving again, it*s just me, and I can choose the station!  It seems there are people who make their living paying attention to such things as the timing of spring, the budding and hatching of things, when the birds migrate, and any number of natural things, not just when the sun and moon rise and set.  Of course there are so many different kinds of natural things to pay attention to, and we really know so little, in the bigger scheme of things.  Still... it was stunning to me that there are scientific folk who pay attention to such things, and try to make a bigger picture.  Phenologists.  Here*s to them.

There are buds on the clematis.

I wonder how long it will take

To climb the porch pillar,

Bloom purple?

It is early for clematis.

The woolly bears were wrong

Last fall.

The weather line

To the groundhog

Got clogged,

His vision plugged

With those spring allergies

Early.

With all the predictors

Wrong,

We will have to watch and see:

Which birds return when;

Watch and see:

Whether there will be enough worms

For the robins;

Watch and see:

Whether the snowy owls

Now go home

To their tundra to the North;

Watch and see,

Test the earth,

Figure out anew

When to plant the tomatoes

This year.

Watch and see

Test the earth

Reconsider the cycles

Maybe even rewrite

The Farmers Almanac

For next year,

The year after,

And

The year after that.

When we plant blueberry bushes or asparagus

With this very early spring, and little winter, I wonder whether the we had a complete-enough cycle this year, particularly a complete-enough Northern Illinois cycle.  I wonder how it will manifest itself in the longer scheme of things.  Meanwhile I*m keeping an eye on the asparagus patch at church.

When we plant blueberry bushes

Or asparagus,

We speak

Permanence,

Or at least

Green hope and promise

For the future.

We say we will be here

For a long long time

To watch and wait.

We say

We expect a harvest

In years to come.

When we plant the over-winter plants,

The growth that needs one hard frost

Or two

Or three,

We will to wait.

We speak the possibility

Of harvest

In years to come.

But first we pray

For that first hard frost.

We dance at new signs of life

In spring.

We look under leaves

For the signs

All is well.

We wait for the cycle

To go around

Once again.

Dish garden

March 14 and it feels like summer.  It is so early for so warm: I*m not quite sure how to take it.  While I hold thoughts that it is too good to be true, I look at my window well, watch a barefoot child, and dream of dish gardens blooming outside my window.

It is oddly spring.

Already it feels summer.

People lay bets on how it will all

Play out.

Is this really it?

It is not too late for a final snow.

The insects have barely begun.

I wonder about who or what pollinates

The crocus,

Whether the space

In my window well

Will hold a dish garden

Or perhaps an amaryllis.

A small blonde girl

Walks barefoot through the grass.

She giggles.

Already it feels

Like summer.

I think a dish garden

Will do the trick.

Perhaps next week

A dish garden.

One thing I forget every year

I*m sure there are other things I forget, but I forget now what they are.

Every year I forget that daffodils

Can only live with other daffodils.

There is a reason they are not sold

With other flowers.

If I were a florist

This would be as obvious

As worms on the sidewalk

After a rain.

Every year I forget

Because they are only sold

With other daffodils.

My house is filled with yellow

In every vase.

Every florist knows

Daffodils poison the water

For other flowers.

If I were a florist

This would be as obvious

As the fact

Salt shrivels garden slugs.

Every year I forget

Yellow in every vase

Daffodils in every vase

All by themselves

Daffodils fill

Every vase.

Office at the mall

For this dream, in part, I blame Daylight Savings Time.  I*m sure I know the fruit lady receptionist from somewhere.  Beyond DST, however, I have always been called to serve on the edges of things.   It*s a life theme.  What better place to serve than at the mall, with the mass of humanity shopping for who knows what?   And rent for $100/month?  Who could resist?  Of course the office was near one of the entrances, right next to a nail salon.

In my dreams I opened a therapy office

At the mall.

Only $100 rent per month.

It came complete with a receptionist

Who had always worked there.

I believe the previous professional occupant

Offered massage.

The good kind.

I know where your mind was going.

The receptionist kept bowls of fruit

In the office refrigerator.

A guy from auto sales down the way

Stopped in before I could get anything

Set up.

He took a piece of fruit,

Made an appointment

For tomorrow.

I thought

Oh this will work then.

Before that,

I had my doubts.

Counting redwings

It is surprising to me what captures the attention of others, even those, like family, who are close.  It is particularly gratifying when we notice similar things and see fit to note it out loud.  

Little sleep but still

She counted redwing blackbirds

On the way to church.

Sandhills return and return

There is something eerily odd about the call of the sandhill.  Distinctive.  It seems they are a little early this year, but then everything seems early this year.

The sandhills circle over the house,

Continue to circle

Over the house

Cold spring air,

Washed out blue sky,

Sun.

An odd migration,

They announce themselves

Like no other,

Fly around and around

And around.

They announce themselves.

We run outside in our pajamas

No matter the neighbors,

Stare into the sun

Watch them circle

Washed out blue back

To the picture.

No matter the neighbors,

We do not know

Where they are going

In spring the words rise different

I drove my daughter to school this morning.  It was just as cold as many winter mornings.  But... not cold and crisp.  Cold, yes, but brisk.  It surprises me, amazes me, when the words that come as I sit to write, the words are so different from just two months ago.

Amazing to me how,

In winter

Snow or not,

The days are cold and crisp.

In spring,

Snow or not,

The words rise different,

Cold, perhaps,

But brisk now,

Wind or not,

Still brisk,

Cold perhaps

But cold and brisk.

We could get a spring snow.

The briskness would tell us

The melt is on the way.

In spring the words rise different,

Like sap.

They beg to be tapped.

They beg

To be made

Into something simply

Achingly

Sweet.

Daffodils

I love it when it*s time for the dry-pack daffodils at the grocery.  I love cutting the ends, putting them in vases of water all over the house, then watching them open.  When I looked in Elburn (during internship), the grocery lady told they didn*t carry them because they don*t sell well there.  So sad.  I thought about being a daffodil evangelist in Elburn.  

The dry-pack daffodils opened over a day.

They have stayed four days

Full and yellow.

They trumpet spring

In the house

Whenever I walk through the door,

Sit in the chair,

Read or write or simply

Do nothing.

The cat chitters

In accompaniment,

Catching sight of robins

On the lawn.

I celebrate spring

In full wait and watch.

It comes without my knowing

What exactly

Comes next.

Nest

It feels like one of those Ecclesiastes times.  I do not find this in the list from Ecclesiastes chapter three, exactly, but it seems this is a time not to add things, but to weave everything that is already there together:  into a nest, an open air nest.  This is both appealing and scary.  Usually that*s the way of true things.  Appealing and scary.  That about sums it up.

I wake up and know

I do not need to add one more thing.

Now is the time to weave the pieces

Together.

The orange piece of yarn:

I found it hung on a bush;

The stray piece of twine

From the driveway;

The memory of my friend*s father

Swinging me around

How*s my girl?;

The phone call from the acquaintance

I barely know,

It asks something of me,

I would never come up with

Myself,

Something I never knew

Was needed.

Now is the time of collection.

Now is the time to weave the pieces

Together:

A nest open to the elements,

Sun and wind and rain,

Snow and sleet.

A nest tagged with the orange yarn

From the bush,

Everyone will know

It*s me.

Orange yarn, of course,

Not to mention the twine

From the driveway.

No need to be showy

All the time.

No need for weather reports

Yes, I am driving again.  I have also discovered that several of the things I linked to seizures were in actuality migrainous activity.  I have even learned a new adjective: migrainous.  Of course spell-check does not recognize the word.  I do not get the headache part, just the bells and whistles of blurry vision and dizziness and the occasional slurred word.  It does pass.  And it does seem connected to the weather.  I ask you: Who needs weather forecasters?

I have joined the group

Connected in body

With the weather.

I used to dismiss the ones

Who knew it was going to rain.

They felt the weather change in their knees,

Their hips.

Now my vision and stability rise and fall

With the barometer

The humidity

The sunny or cloudy day.

Now I find the many who wait

For migraines

On days like this.

Now I find we only need Grandma*s knees

To predict rain.

Now my vision and stability rise and fall

With the barometer

The humidity.

I realize we never needed weathermen

At all.

Full bright as Jesus

We make sense of the world, our reality, in many ways.  This is part of the way it makes sense to me.  There is a concept in Judaism:   tikkun olam.  It literally  means the repairing of the world.  It has come to mean many things: accomplishing all the things that need to be done to allow the Messiah to come, or even the Kabbalah legend of God creating the world with parts of God*s self, then shattering it (which is where the shiny bits come from).  I encourage you to google it... there*s lots more.  

I follow Jesus.  I, of course, believe the Messiah has already come, and will come again.  In the meantime, there is work to do.

In the beginning,

After the Garden gates were crashed

From the inside out,

Life spilled out into the world.

It could not be contained.

Everything else escaped as well,

Pandora*s box opened and shut,

Hope still glued to the bottom.

There are many stories to explain

The beginning

The end

Everything in between.

So many stories for what we know

Is true.

In the beginning

Light and darkness spilled out

Multiplied and filled

The whole earth:

Evil yes but all the sparkly bits

As well.

Now

We collect the bits.

They shine

Like the sun.

They shine

Like Jesus.

We share our collections with each other,

Together they are so much more

Than the sum

Of their parts.

In the end

All will be collected

Together again

Together again.

The River will flow.

The Tree will span the river.

The Fruit of knowledge,

The Fruit of life,

Will both be One.

The leaves of the Tree

All the leaves

Every single leaf

Will heal the nations.

We will shine brighter

Than any sun.

We will shine

Full bright as Jesus.

Requirements

There*s nothing like a day which started with a list of necessary things to do (which I indeed would have done, gladly), a day which now requires that I stay home with a soft blanket and herbal tea, watching the cat have cat fits.

Some days require

A soft blanket

A cup of herbal tea.

No need to focus

On anything difficult.

Some days it is enough

To watch the dry-pak daffodils

Begin to open,

The cat as he frenzies

From the living room to the kitchen

And back again,

The cat who takes away

Any need on our part

To frenzy,

Only watch the action

From the sidelines

Under the soft blanket

A cup of hot herbal tea,

It warms the hands.

No need to emulate the cat

With

The almost-emergent daffodils

On the living room table.

Loss happens

Wow.  What a week.  

Naomi Shibab Nye, a poet I love, speaks of teaching young children to write poetry.  One of the exercises she uses is to ask them to write a list of what they have lost.  The lists go on and on.  Small things, large things.  Young children, mind you.  When we get older, we tend to categorize things into big and small losses.  Of course it depends on who you are and how you categorize big and small.  Still.  Loss is loss.  It is personal, intensely personal.  Sometimes we make casseroles for others, and sometimes we receive them.

Loss happens.

Inevitably

Loss happens.

If it doesn*t happen to us today,

This week,

Our mortality still sits

On our shoulders,

On the shoulders of those

We love.

It whispers in our ear.

It reminds us that this is what we get.

Pay attention.

This is what you get.

Some weeks, like this week,

It piles on.

The only thing we can do

Really do

Is hold someone*s hand.

Perhaps,

Bring a casserole,

The time-honored casserole,

Somehow macaroni and cheese

In times like these,

Maybe even a spiral-cut ham

Offers something.

Sometimes it is our turn

To answer the doorbell,

Receive the ham.

I went to Wheaton

I went to Wheaton College for my masters degree in Clinical Psychology.  I could have gone somewhere else.   I didn*t.  I got a good education there.  I had fine teachers, a fine cohort.  I went there in part because I did not understand it, yet I knew there was something there I needed to learn, precisely because I did not understand it.  Now here I am... an Episcopal priest who attended a Quaker college and an evangelical graduate school.  Out the other side I appreciate silence and Paul.  Out the other side, further up and further in, I am still Gospel girl.

I went to Wheaton

In part

Because I did not understand it.

It took almost two years

To get a glimmer,

A peripheral vision

Of an understanding.

I eked out that A

In theological anthropology

Mostly because of the final paper,

Not because

I agreed in the centrality

Of Paul.

I went to Wheaton to find

The good there.

I found it in the glimmer,

The peripheral vision

Of an understanding.

I found a place for Paul,

A hallowed place for Paul.

I went to Wheaton

To begin

To understand.

On this other side I am still

Gospel girl.

On this other side

I dance with Jesus

Further up and

Further in.

Driving again

I may not have to learn to drive, but I do need to learn to drive again.  It takes more concentration, particularly in weather like the rain and sleet at dusk last night.  Of course I thought it would be an easy run with my daughter to Panera for supper.  I already knew I would need my own driving chops again, until I will be able to supervise her driving.  I was not prepared for the difficulty driving at dusk in sleet last night.  Now is my time learning again to concentrate, to focus on different things from the driver*s side.  Alone.  Me and the car.  Learning each other again.

Like my daughter learning to drive

For time number one,

I search for my driving mind

Again.

I figure at least a week

In sun and rain and snow,

In various stages of dark and light,

Sun in my eyes,

Sun at my back.

It will take at least a week

Driving by myself.

I remember it takes time

Oh yes time

I remember it takes time

To get up to speed.

I have my license

And

It still takes time.