Surprise bouquet

I love grocery store flower bouquets.  They come with interesting names like Celebration, or  Surprise.  The last bouquet came with a green butterfly on a wire.  Now it is the only thing in the flower vase.  A reminder.

The only thing left

Of the surprise bouquet

Is the butterfly.

The roses, deep yellow,

The gerbera daisies, splinted straight,

The eucalyptus,

They have all made their way to mulch.

The butterfly

(It came with the surprise)

Stays wired, still sways in the vase.

It reminds me

Of the bouquet,

A placeholder,

Unlikely green butterfly,

Reminiscent of nothing identifiable

To those with butterfly knowledge.

But still

A reminder of all

That surprises

Over and over again.

Stray understanding

My husband and I spent last night sitting with the parents of a daughter*s friend, helping to oversee a teenage birthday party.  We had never met them before.  They invited us to join them. Interesting people.  They were not what we expected.  But then, I suspect, we were not what they expected, either.

None of us fit

Into our respective categories.

I rather like that.

No matter who we meet,

He is different,

She is different

Than we originally thought.

We have to start somewhere

Of course

But

The thought changes from the original

With every different thing.

The thought is fuelled

By new possibilities.

The thought is almost ambushed

By stray understanding.

It hides around the corner,

Then jumps in front of us,

Adds action to the picture

We thought

Was a still.

I say

Thank God none of us fit

Into those single categories.

I rather like that.

Some evidence is anchored there

My training tells me to use the best evidence-based practices.  Of course the way we gather evidence varies. I sat with other substance-abuse counselors yesterday.  The session was on reality therapy.  I remembered how I feel more real in the presence of fellow addictions folk, perhaps because I am more real with them.  Probably evidence varies.  Sitting in the mis-matched chairs in the treatment center there is concrete evidence we are all human and everything is not perfect.  No one pretends it is different.

All the research presented

Is from years ago.

She is quick to point out

Some research has been done

On this,

Some evidence gathered

Years ago now.

People will choose to do

What they want to do.

Find out what floats

Their boat.

Call it

Their Quality World.

Seek out the positive thoughts

Like sails

On the horizon.

Anchor them in the harbor

Of the ocean

Of their Quality World.

As an afterthought,

A piece of flotsam, perhaps,

Remember to take your time

Slow down

Breathe in

Breathe out.

Remember your office

Offers

Safe harbor.

Some evidence

Is anchored there.

Reality Therapy

Today I will attend a workshop on Reality Therapy for Addicts.  It reminds me of the group meeting at the halfway house when one member said he was feeling existent.  Another member laughed and mentioned the acronym S.O.B.E.R. (Son Of a B****, Everything*s Real).  Yep.  Reality therapy.  Probably helpful for all of us.

Today*s topic :

Reality Therapy.

I have no idea what it involves,

But reality seems

Like a good idea

Most of the time.

When my ears were being cleaned out

Yesterday,

Hydrogen peroxide masked

Any sound from the outside,

Bubbled and spit,

Champagne popped in my ears.

Today*s topic

Is Reality Therapy

For addicts.

My ears are clean,

Ready for reality.

I will see

How it applies

To therapy with the addict.

I*m sure somehow

It will be helpful

To me.

Breathing

I had one of those afternoons.  I thought I could work in getting my plugged ears taken care of at the doctor.  I was sure I gave it plenty of time before I had to drive my daughter to caddie training.  No.  I found myself lying flat, head turned, hydrogen peroxide bubbling loudly in ear number two, oh, about the time I was supposed to leave to pick her up.  Not a good picture.  It would be easy to blame it on the doctor seeing me way past the time I was scheduled.  No, again.  She got another ride.  All is not lost, but I still screwed up.  I am sitting in my chair breathing in and out, and getting my brain and heart back into working order.

Sometimes we screw up,

Pure and simple,

Make a mess.

When we forget

To take that deep breath,

Look at the chaos

We created ,

Or at the very least,

The chaos

We helped create,

The lack of oxygen

Makes it worse.

When we forget to breathe,

Our brain doesn*t think straight;

Our heart has to work

So much harder

To do

What it naturally does

When we simply

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out.

Sometimes we mess up

Pure and simple.

And

Most of that time

It*s not life and death

At stake.

Most of the time

We have the time

To breathe in

Breathe out

When we remember.

Poem in Your Pocket Day

Of course everyone knows April is Poetry Month, and today is Poem in Your Pocket Day.  I*m sure this is tops on everyone*s list, even if their favorite poem is a bit of doggerel.  I haven*t used the word doggerel in years.  Certain words need to be aired from time to time or they will go out of use and be dropped even from the OED.  Words like doggerel.  There.  Three times in one paragraph.

Today is

Poem in Your Pocket Day.

The thought of carrying poetry

Instead of business cards

Appeals to me.

Still

I*m not sure it would build up

My clientele.

The choice of which poem to carry

Is tricky.

Poetry

Is not everyone*s

Cup of tea,

Earl Grey or herbal.

Some prefer hot water

With lemon.

For some

Poetry

Should be metric,

Rhyme

Exactly

At the end of every line.

Internal rhyme

Does not count.

I knew someone once

Who believed all poetry

Should have its lines numbered

To be comprehensible.

Like the Psalms.

Then of course

There is the question

Of which pocket

To use,

And what is the proper poetry container.

I suppose it depends

On the poem.

Or the effect

One Is going for:

Earl Grey or herbal,

Hot water with lemon.

Of course it all depends.

No win

Years ago I worked for an insurance agency. One of my jobs was taking pictures for renewal farm policies.  Often the farm buildings were not in the best shape.  I was instructed by my boss to take the best picture possible.  Sometimes that meant getting down in the mud and muck to get the best angle on a farm building in poor repair.  When my family and I drive through Wisconsin to Minnesota, we look for the best angle on all the farm buildings we pass.  I find I am always looking for the best angle on most things I encounter.  It seems a good place to start building.

I had a client who called to cancel

Her appointment.

She used the broken car excuse,

Not unlike

The dog ate my homework.

When I offered to my supervisor

That at least she called,

My supervisor said

Oh yeah

That*s right

You*re strengths-based.

We both laughed.

It is too easy

To write the script

So no one wins,

Everyone loses.

On cold grey days

When it is all too easy

To focus on the negative,

I have to remind myself to find

The one wall standing

And build from there.

Introvert hell

Today I attend a workshop for mental health and ministry.  There will be two groups of people present.  I, of course, am both.  This is supposed to be right up my alley.  I will carry my business cards.  I will wander.  I will not stand in a corner.  I will wander.  Swim or fly.  Fly or swim. 

Today brings

Another mostly new

Group of people.

Again I will be

Neither fish nor fowl.

If I were an extrovert

I would see this as an exciting opportunity

To claim my fish-ness

And fowl-ness

Together,

Swim through the water,

Join a school;

Fly through the air

Join one wing

Of the vee,

Perhaps even take my turn

As lead goose.

Today I carry my business cards

And do reconnaissance,

Swim or fly

Alternately.

It all depends,

Of course,

It all depends.

Getting what we pray for

OK.  I probably should have used the first person singular here... but I wanted some company, so I included all you people who may have had this experience too.  How did I know they needed volunteers now?  Especially now?  Well.  I didn*t. And it seemed a reasonable way to use my seemingly endless hours, and I figured I might be dead by the time I got the final counseling license.  Oh surprise.  Once more it becomes clear it*s not all about me.

With all the focus

On getting

What we pray for,

Sometimes we forget

We may be the answer

To someone else*s prayers.

Sometimes we find out

In odd circuitous ways,

We were meant to be here

Or perhaps

We were meant to be there.

Sometimes we simply show up

Unaware.

We are greeted with

How did you know?

How could you possibly know?

We shrug our shoulders

Perhaps we smile a tiny smile,

All the while

Thinking

This is an unlikely

Response

To the question we wanted

God to answer.

We continue to wait

For the right answer

To come,

When it already has.

Sometimes we forget to look

The other way.

Wealth

Wow.  Today I officially began volunteering at DCC.  I have five clients transferred from the interns who just left.  I saw one today.  There*s a possibility I*ll see all five next week.  When I think about it, I am not surprised at the wealth of opportunity available to me, and yet, still, that wealth amazes me.

  

I am overwhelmed and

It is only Monday afternoon.

A wealth of opportunity sits

In the chairs

At the DuPage Community Clinic.

I have already forgotten the names

Of every volunteer

I met there this morning.

I drive home and

A wealth of opportunity

Stands on every street corner.

 A wealth wanders the fruit and vegetable aisles

Of Valli Produce,

Speaks in languages I can scarcely identify

About food I have no idea

How to cook.

I am glad no one is home yet

But me and the cat

And the turtle asleep

In his water dish.

Soon wealth will arrive home from school.

She will bring even more opportunity

Through the door.

Open kind of asking

I never know where God will turn up next.

When I learned

I might be able to have some say

In my dreams,

I might be able to wish for God

To come to me at night,

Show me what I needed to know

If I asked.

I asked once.

Yes, o.k.,

It was an open-ended kind of asking,

And He came.

I stopped asking.

He started to come

Anyway,

Slipped in around the edges,

Came in through the open window.

He didn*t stick to dreams at night.

He didn*t honor the contract

I thought we had

Of sleep,

Only the hours

Of sleep.

He came and comes

Through the neighbor

Walking the dog,

The woman on the train.

He grew up

Through the clematis vine

On the front pillar.

Then he found the vine

In the back yard.

I thought it had died.

No.

A hundred thousand times

No.

Now I never know

Where He will turn up next.

Life on the water

It has been a full week.  Lots of people, lots on new encounters, lots of energy required.  This morning we all slept in.  I am the first one awake.  I sit here with my coffee, warm in my hands.  I am thinking about water and porches, listening to the birds, considering life on the water.

Last night there was water

In all my dreams.

Last night I flew

To Peru.

We lived on a cruise ship,

My family and I,

In the harbor.

Last night we toured a house

In the Midwest.

It overlooked Main Street

On one side,

A river

On the other,

A contemporary house.

The doors off the hall on the second floor

Matched.

Each had a door knob

In the middle of the door.

All the rooms on the river

Had tall wide windows.

There were porches outside,

Porches that would hold

The porch furniture of my dreams.

I knew there

We would sit and drink iced tea with lemon,

Watch the river flow.

Perhaps a bird.

I woke up

Calmer than I have been

In weeks.

Last night I dreamed

Life on the water.

I can still see it.

Senior discounts

Today involves meeting with my supervisor so I can get the required number of supervisory hours toward the final license for counseling.  Today also involves the adventure of Senior Gold Checking, and finding out exactly what it means to obtain those free checks which have to be printed specially (we think) on newsprint, or perhaps toilet paper, and begged for on one knee, only in person, at the bank.

Today the adventure involves

Cashing in on

The promised free checks.

We are in the early stages

Of senior discounts.

Of course it requires my presence

At the bank.

The bankers are busy.

They are not available

By phone.

I am thankful today

I am mobile

I can see

I can hear

I can drive.

My brain today

Is even

Somewhat supple

For the conversation around

The promised free checks.

We are only in the early stages

Of promised senior discounts.

We have not yet begun

To prove to waitresses

We are eligible

For the senior breakfast:

An egg,

Half a piece of whole wheat toast,

A tiny glass of orange juice.

We are in the early stages

Of promised senior discounts.

We have only

Just begun.

Inch by inch

My husband and I work out twice a week.  We often see the same people at the fitness center. It is often easier to note someone else*s progress than notice our own.  Sometimes I want to stand in the middle of the fitness center and cheer on particular people, like this man who is progressing by inches. Inspiration comes from so many places.

The man inches out the elevator door,

His walker creeps in front of him.

This morning

He wears a red baseball cap

On his head.

On Tuesday he set a goal

To keep his feet straight.

This morning his left foot

Is considerably straighter.

He is proud and walks his pride

In inches,

Straight inches.

This morning he walks

The circumference

Of the gym,

The other men play basketball

In the middle.

This morning he celebrates

His left foot.

He encourages the right

to move straighter

Inch by inch.

Rumors of life

Why look for the living among the dead?  The words echo.  No matter how hard I try, there is no way to prove what I know is true.  Still I try to find convincing words.  I am not alone in this.  At the deanery meeting today, one colleague observed that resurrection is particularly hard to preach.  Yep.

We still look in the tomb

To secure the body

For safekeeping.

Two weeks hence

The body is still gone.

We hear rumors of life

On the road

On the beach

In the bread

In the wine warm on the lips

Down the throat.

We still look

To secure what we think

Is true.

Two weeks hence,

It is still

Gone missing.

There are rumors

Upon rumors

Upon rumors

Of life.

Whole small worlds

Sometimes the various things I am doing or reading or listening to, all converge on each other.  I wonder how anyone can determine that a piece of information is not useful.  With all the discoveries in the world, I become more aware of all my knowledge being piecemeal, scattered, just like everyone elses.  Like this, for instance.  If there are different colonies of microbes living on different sides of the same tooth, holding that tooth together somehow... what of the rest?  

The colony of microbes,

Alive on one side

Of one of my teeth,

Is different

From the other side.

The environment

Is different,

One side

To the other.

We are host to several

Millions

Billions

Of whole small worlds.

It*s not just our teeth.

This is nothing like

The time I found out

The host of dust mites

Alive in my bedclothes

In need of my cast-off skin cells.

After all,

I don*t need those cells

Anymore.

There are whole small worlds alive

Bed to bed.

Colonies thrive on my teeth.

Everything lives together

On a microscopic level,

In teeny tiny co-operation

I cannot see,

Co-operation

I can barely imagine

Until perhaps there are border skirmishes

The dentist identifies.

Colonies maintain the balance

I cannot see.

Balance that has been there

From the beginning.

Whole small worlds

I can barely imagine.

Co-operation,
for the most part,

From the very beginning.

A poem at 4:51 in the afternoon

Usually I write in the morning.  I was too busy today... way too busy to write.  When I finally sat down about twenty minutes ago, this is where I ended up.  Hmmm.

Is nothing like

Morning poetry.

By 4:51

So many decisions

Have been made,

So many people encountered,

The air now so full of pollen,

My ears irrevocably

Plugged.

By 4:51

The redbud has now dropped its purple.

I can no longer make heads or tails

Of the day.

No

A poem at 4:51

Is nowhere near

As fresh

As one written

In the morning,

Even though the sun

Has just emerged.

I can tell

This is nothing

Like the morning.

Simultaneity

Sometimes I am surprised at what I stay awake to hear.  I didn*t realize last night that I was waiting to really go to sleep until the lightning and thunder happened together.

All night they come and go,

The lightning flashes.

I count all night

To at least ten

Maybe eleven,

Before the distant crumble,

Occasional patter

Of spring rain

In between.

Nothing really serious

At all.

Only once

Is it simultaneous:

The flashbulb crash,

Light and sound together

Echo,

Bounce from house to house

Down the street

Until they are 

Finally

Gone.

I wait all night for that one

Simultaneity.

All night I count

The flashes.

I wait

For simultaneity.

Hopes

This morning I read a blog post by Dr. Kelly Flanagan on Cheap, Crappy Hope (Part 1 of 3).   It is here: drkellyflanagan.com.  The story he tells of his son*s hearing is particularly lovely.  I like his writing and his reflections.  There is truth in them.  Our hopes are indeed framed by our experiences and what we have named as normal or expected.  When we find our hopes and expectations are only the bottom limit: what a revelation!

Emily said it well

In three stanzas.

Hope is the thing with feathers.

It never stops singing.

Pretty much our hopes are small,

Always too small,

Even when we*ve glimpsed

Bigger things:

Bald eagles

Soaring in circles

High over Lake Superior;

Those same majestic birds

Roosting in trees

Along the Mississippi,

The river everyone knows and names,

Except perhaps the Nile

Or the Amazon.

We think these

May be the biggest hopes possible.

They are visible

Known

Heard

Soaring

Roosting in trees.

These are the hopes

We have seen.

These are the hopes

We have heard

Those things with feathers

Singing

Soaring

Roosting in trees.

Even these feathered hopes

Thank you, Emily,

Are just

The bare beginning.

It is entirely possible

Ministers used to paid in chickens and whatever people had.  While I work to build a therapy practice I consider what it means to see God in everything and be a therapist available to a wide range of people.  I begin volunteering next week with the DuPage Community Clinic.  I am excited at the prospect.  I have good training and good perspective.  I have an abundance of experience in an abundance of things.  I am well worth those chickens, that bushel of zucchini, and the heirloom tomatoes, just picked.

It is entirely possible

I will be paid in chickens

Or perhaps zucchini

When that time comes

In August

And gardens overflow

With summer squash.

It is entirely possible

I will never make a living

The way others consider

A living

But still

I will be more alive

Than I have ever been before.

I will live on zucchini bread

And vegetables fresh

From the garden.

I may even be paid

In heirloom tomatoes.

The sessions will be ripe

And ripening,

Tied to more

Than I ever could have imagined.

It is entirely possible.

Voice

Some days, some weeks, it is more difficult to hear my own voice underneath the others.  It seems not to matter if I speak.  I know this is not true.  It is always a matter of listening and speaking.  Both.

Some days

Like this one

I have to stay away

From other voices

So I can hear my own,

Find the part that connects,

The rhizome underground

Like the lily of the valley

Behind the garage.

It still finds its way

Through the dirt

Behind the last remaining peony.

I forget there are flowers

Back there

Unless I remember

Unless I take the time

To look.

The lily of the valley has now moved

Underground

Behind the last remaining peony.

It has moved, yes,

But remains true.

Soon it will sing its particular fragrance,

No matter who is listening.

Considering the ordering of things

Sometimes it is important to consider all that is already in front of us, instead of adding things to the pile.  It is important to have good staging for this exercise.

This morning

I will unearth the vases

From the sideboard.

I will bring greening branches

Indoors

As reminder

That everything still goes on.

Everything grows.

Green branches will provide

The backdrop

The staging

For things to come.

This morning it*s time

To sit with the data

In front of me,

Not worry about

New stuff,

Simply consider

The old,

The way it all fits together.

For now it is enough.

After all is considered,

There is nothing new

Anyway.

All of it

Has been here

Forever.

This morning

I will clean and sort things

Into new piles.

I will make new order.

Green branches will provide

The backdrop.

The columbine by the window

Has one purple beginning.

I saw the hummingbird there

Last year.

All is not risen

Perhaps it is because I am ever hopeful, but it seems to me that Easter might show itself stronger three or four days into the Easter season.  I forget that hardly anyone was there at the Resurrection, hardly anyone noticed.  Jesus had to tap folk on the shoulder, break bread, barbecue fish.  He was hardly a savior who came to be with the folk who got it.  

We are well into Easter now

Still

It*s not as if

All is risen.

Lent hangs on

Around the edges.

Jesus does not explode

Out of the tomb,

Take out the naysayers,

A neutron bomb

Of a Savior

Who leaves church buildings

Intact

To be inhabited

Only by Easter people

Full Easter people

Impervious

To the neutron bomb.

I would like for everything,

Everyone

To rise at once.

Still

All is not risen.

It seems Easter

Needs to work its way through

Bit by bit.

I would like everything,

Everyone,

To rise at once.

It seems it needs to be

In pieces,

One small piece

At a time.
I would like
Everything
Everyone to rise
At once.

Easter people

I woke up this morning remembering certain people I had forgotten about.  These were people who made a difficult situation a whole lot easier, just be being there.  They lightened the load.  They understood how tough this particular situation was.  These were people who let me keep Easter in my mind.  Really, I had forgotten about these particular people.  In their light, I even see a glow around the people who made things so difficult.  I am grateful for Easter people.

Certain people have come to mind

Since Jesus rose again.

Perhaps they are my Easter people.

They come

With their own background music,

Perhaps a signature song.

They come

With Easter background colors,

Slight wash of gold

Illuminated memories.

They even brighten

Their neighbor remembrances,

Not so bright

Not so illumined.

They cast light

On the Lenten people

The ones who weighed me down.

Even they are lightened

By the company

Of the Easter people,

The ones who come

With the their own background music

Easter egg colors

Shining

Since Jesus rose again.

Under every rock

He is Risen!  Alleluia!

When my son was three or four

We took this day,

After the big celebration,

Just the two of us.

We went to the park.

We went to the river.

We went to the zoo.

We went for ice cream.

We looked for new life

Everywhere

And found it.

This was the day

We simply knew

There was new life

Under every rock.

There still is.

Only

Mary, as she stood in front of the empty tomb, saw a man and thought he was only a gardener.  Last night, at the Easter Vigil, we rang bells when Easter came.  Tintinnabulation is the fancy word for it.  If only we heard bells such as these when we were in danger of dismissing the Holy.  Of course then, we might be deaf!  It is Easter.  It is always Easter.  We are human.  We forget.  My friend Sam Portaro wrote a wonderful piece  on Missing Easter.  It is here: http://credoveni.wordpress.com/2012/04/08/missing-easter/   I recommend it.

Alleluia!  Christ is Risen. Indeed.

Whenever we hear the word

Only,

Bells should sound,

Tintinnabulation

Unlike any other,

Startle us,

Clear the space

Between our ears,

Clean the haze

From our eyes.

Tintinnabulation.

Bells should sound

At

Only a gardener

In front of the stone

Rolled away,

The empty tomb.

Only a stranger on the road,

Only a man on the shore.

Bells should sound:

A cacophony of bells,

A mellifluence of bells,

Rung on a regular basis

At only:

Only a child

Only a woman

Even

Only just this once

I*ll only do it one time,

It shouldn*t matter

Just this once.

Bells should sound,

Tintinnabulation

Unlike any other,

Bells to wake us up so there*s no way

To miss it.

Even  only

Just this once.

This is the story we get

There are stories regarding what Jesus must have been doing on this Holy Saturday, while he waited.  I rather like the one about harrowing hell, if only for the wonderful word harrowing.  We like always to imagine Jesus busy about his Father*s work, in this case, emptying hell.  There*s work to be done after all.  There are a couple verses in the Bible which speak to this.  We have the line in the Apostles* Creed (He descended into Hell).  If nothing else, we can keep our imaginations busy while we color Easter eggs and wait.  Wherever Jesus is, we wait in our houses, in our gardens, with the trees, for tonight.  This is the story we get.

Sure Elijah or Moses or even

God could have come

To take Jesus down,

Alive and kicking,

From the cross

Before he died.

God could have even

Sent him Home,

Brought him Home,

By a different way

Like the wise men.

Sure

God could have done it

Differently,

Really all of it,

Differently.

Instead

This is the story we get.

Blood and gore and pain,

Curtain torn,

Ground heaved up to meet

The heavens rent.

Friends to carry the body.

Stones to set in place.

This is the story we get.

We wait in the garden,

The same garden that echoes

The first one,

Even the trees wait there

For his return.

Knowledge and Life wait,

Rooted in holy ground

For his return.

This is the story we get.

It all connects underground,

Above the ground,

Ground heaved up to meet

The heavens rent.

This is the story we get.

Good Friday

Perhaps this Good Friday calls for listening to the echo of no words.  This year I have numerous opportunities to listen to what people say about the Passion: The Seven Last Words, reflections on each step along the Way to the cross, a sermon after Jesus dies.  Perhaps this year silence is called for.

I may sit silent.

Maybe even write a check

For the quiet hour.

Possibility everywhere

I realize I have been trained to more fully experience Holy Week.  28 years walking through Holy Week as a priest has affected me long-term, whether I am in charge of Holy Week liturgies, or not.  

This is the week

My senses

Kick it up a notch.

If there are any connections

To be made,

I make them.

I know the redbuds are connected

Underground

With all redbuds

Everywhere.

Perhaps it is dangerous for me to begin

Something new now.

It will naturally connect

With everything else.

Soon I will be overwhelmed

With possibility.

This is the week

Of possibility.

Everything is connected

Underground,

Even above ground,

In the air.

I smell the lilacs on the breeze.

I feel the ground beneath my sneakers.

It moves in connection

With all things.

Everything matters.

There is possibility everywhere.

Even before death,

Resurrection

Is immanent.

Jesus on the elevator

Jesus appears in the oddest places.  Or perhaps, not so odd.  This is maybe more of an Easter story. Or perhaps a woman at the well story (He told me everything I have ever done).  Every once in a while someone tells me I was Jesus for them.  I usually don*t remember the conversation or the action.  I doubt the man I met on the elevator knows he was Jesus for me on the elevator, on the sidewalk, even halfway home.  When I was at Wheaton I saw him all the time, echoing Jesus as he walked.

Not so many years ago

I met Jesus on the elevator

At Wheaton,

Going down.

I had dropped off my application

To graduate school.

The woman at the admissions desk

Took the envelope,

Said thank you.

Is that it?

I asked.

Really?

Yes, she said,

Thank you.

What did I expect?

A song and dance?

Fireworks?

I met Jesus on the elevator

Going down.

He asked me what program

I had applied to.

I told him and he nodded.

You will like it, he said.

On the sidewalk out front

I discovered he worked

With my therapist.

I met Jesus on the elevator,

Talked with him all the way down.

I did not know he was Jesus

Until I was halfway home.

Redbud No. 2

There is a small redbud outside my office window.  My window is level with the sidewalk.  If it were an apartment, it would be a garden apartment.   I have decided it is a garden office.  There is no need for a container garden in my window well.  No.  I have a redbud!  It is better than any container garden I might plant.

I was welcomed home

By the redbud on Sunday.

When I got to the office today

I noticed a small redbud

Out my window.

Better than any container garden,

I have a redbud here as well.

Better than any garden apartment,

I have a garden office:

A window that opens and shuts,

Child voices in the hall,

A redbud in full bloom.

It is better

Than anything I could plant

Myself.

Redbud

I go into a different mode in Holy Week.  No matter whether I lead or attend or miss worship services.  There is no need to write a separate Lenten blog during Holy Week.  It is its own time and permeates everything.  I will probably publish this same paragraph there (or here, depending on where you are reading it).  We missed the donkey yesterday, the palms, the Passion.  It does not matter. Today is Monday in Holy Week, no matter where I am, no matter how many errands I run. No matter even if I go to church, or not.  It is still Holy Week.

We were gone three days.

The cat has forgiven us

This morning.

The potted daffodils

Are six inches taller

In miniature bloom,

The clematis fully anchored

On the porch column.

The redbud in front has blossomed

In full celebration

Of our return.

Unlike the cat,

There is no spite on the tree*s part.

The redbud full purple

Hails Jesus* entry

Into the week.

No spite.

It is simply, fully,

A tree in spring bloom.

It has even figured how to bud

On its trunk.

The redbud redefines

Full bloom.

It does nothing

Halfway.

No donkey today

I missed the Palm/Passion Sunday liturgy today.  While other church-types were playing swordfights with the palms, and singing All Glory, Laud and Honor in strung-out processions and even pro-cessing with a donkey, we were driving home through Wisconsin, with my daughter accruing several behind-the-wheel hours on her drivers* permit.  She is already a very good driver.  I figure there is more than one way to pro-cess.  Holy Week has begun.

No donkey today.

Only the journey

On Wisconsin roads.