Visitation

Staff meeting a couple days ago included a discussion on whether the Church was pregnant or merely constipated.  Women may be more biologically attuned to know the difference.  I don*t think it was women who named this day The Feast of the Visitation.  I like to think we might have been a bit more creative.

It*s all in the words.

It*s all in how we seek

To name it.

There is power

In our words.

Today Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth.

Elizabeth*s baby

Leaps for joy

In her womb.

The Feast of the Visitation

Might be the Feast of Recognition.

It might be The Feast of Shared Holy Pregnancy:

Expectant women reach out,

Hold hands.

Their babies do leaps and backflips and somersaults,

A very early playdate,

A sign of things to come.

The Feast of Recognition?

The Feast of Expectant Women?

A mere visit?

I hardly think so.

There is power

In how we name things.

Sofa cushions

I am surprised at how much we can find buried in the sofa.  One of my clients talked this week about losing her cell phone and finding it after much searching, along with two remotes, under the sofa cushions.  It*s amazing what can be buried and found under the sofa cushions.

Good things

Hide under the sofa cushions.

That is to say

You never know

What you may have lost there

Since you last looked.

Sometimes it*s something

You hadn*t even missed

Then

There it is!

You know it is a puzzle piece,

A part of the sky

You*d lost track of,

A cloud perhaps,

Even a dark one with lightning,

Forking in jagged streaks.

There it is:

The piece of sky which connects

Two other pieces of sky.

It*s been so long

Since you worked on that puzzle

You didn*t even know the piece

Was missing.

Fan mail from some flounder?

It is often curious to me what arrives in my in-box, or in the blog stats, and from whom.  Just as there are people I feel called to pay attention to, it seems there are people who are called to pay attention to me.  It always comes as a surprise.

On occasion something appears

In my in-box

From someone whose name

I do not know.

I am reminded

Of Rocky and Bullwinkle:

Fan mail from some flounder?

While I believe

Beyond any doubt

There are people

I am called to notice

Out loud,

I regularly forget there are people

Who are called

To notice me.

It is always a surprise.

For some reason Rocket J. Squirrel

And Bullwinkle the Moose

Appear from my childhood,

The bottle with a message inside

Pops up

Onto the ocean surface.

One or the other,

Moose or Squirrel,

I forget which one,

(Maybe it*s the announcer)

Says

Fan mail from some flounder?

I see the bottles bob

On the ocean waves,

Cartoon-style,

Waiting to be read.

Purple heart (for Dad)

I drove by the local cemetery this morning.  It was filled with uniforms, both military and boy scout.  There I saw flag upon flag, many women with hats.  Dad died fifteen years ago at the same age that his father died (73).  Grandpa served in WWI, Dad in WWII.  Neither ever said much about their experiences.  Perhaps we didn*t ask enough.  Perhaps I was too young to even comprehend.

He always said his purple heart

Was for

Falling off a truck

In Europe.

Every month the disability check came,

A teeny tiny amount

For an injury

I never saw.

I remember we never made it

To World War II

In American History.

Instead we had endless lessons

On the Industrial Revolution.

Then the end of the school year came.

We almost entirely

Skipped the 20^th Century.

Here it is the 21^st.

All grown up

I learned the purple heart

Was not just awarded

When he fell off a truck

In Europe.

The truck was bombed.

It blew up.
He was the only one who survived.

My father always had a gift

For understatement.

My father always was a gift

In understated ways.

Pentecost surprise

This major day in the church year falls on Memorial Day weekend this year.  The gathering at 9:15 in church this morning was small.  I*m sure 10:30 was bigger, with four baptisms scheduled.  As a priest in so many parishes, I remember the ways we used to make the day stand out...people encouraged to wear red, the famous dove on the end of a long flexible pole leading the procession, red streamers, red and orange helium balloons, reading the Gospel in many languages, sometimes even a birthday cake for the Church.  

Was it all so surprising

When Pentecost fell?

They were told

Not to watch the place

Jesus ascended.

There was nothing particularly notable

About the soles of his feet.

Like Elisha

Who saw Elijah carried off,

The disciples saw Jesus leave

Yet again.

Was it all so surprising to them

When Pentecost fell?

Told to wait

In Jerusalem,

They trudged across the Kedron Valley

And waited.

They prayed

And waited.

Pentecost rained down.

Is it so surprising when Pentecost

Falls?

Falls again

And again

And again?

Every Sunday Christ is born

And dies,

And rises again.

Every Sunday the Spirit falls

Again and again

And again.

Still every day,

We are surprised.

Like the disciples.

Dining table

I find a saving grace in the dining table.

There is something about a dining table,

Even with paper plates,

Walk-about party food.

When you sit down,

There you are.

There is a place to put your drink,

Your plate and fork.

There you are,

A table between you

And the person

Who sits across.

There you are.

It is not too easy to get up,

Move on to the next person,

Balance the plate and fork and drink

For the sake of small or smaller

Talk.

The table calls you

To stay,

To hear it out,

To figure there is more

To this person,

So you stay and talk,

Sit and eat.

You listen;

Maybe even expand

On why you sat down at this dining table

With party food

In the first place.

Undeclared anchovies

Being the mother of a vegetarian, I read a lot of labels.  I remember when I discovered that good ole Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce contained anchovies.  Whoa.  Today an organic farmer sent me a link to the current FDA recall list.  Imagine my surprise to discover a product recalled for undeclared anchovies.  Thank goodness they found them.

Today I perused the FDA recall list.

I found a product under strict recall:

Not for e. coli;

Not for listeria;

Not for salmonella;

Not even

For hidden peanuts or tree nuts.

No

This sauce was recalled

For undeclared anchovies.

Is there an anchovy test?

I remember when we found out

Our favorite sauce

Contained anchovies.

It meant that one of the few truly vegetarian dishes

I knew how to prepare

Was in trouble.

I thought for a brief time

To keep the anchovies

A secret,

But the secret came out

At Grandma*s table

In Florida.

No need for the FDA or secret tests,

It was right there on the bottle, fully disclosed.

On return home

I scoured the aisles

Of Whole Foods

For an alternative.

There will be no undeclared anchovies

Here.

None I tell you.

None.

New carpet

We all sat in the family room last night, having cleared it of all the tchotchkes and movable furniture.  It was beautifully spare.  We all noticed this.  The rug that will be replaced today even looked significantly better last night.

The family room lives in the living room

For today.

New carpet will soon arrive through the door.

We contemplate slipcovers.

The TV proved too heavy

For the two of us

So two others from The Salvation Army,

Two men in recovery,

Hauled it away.

Now

There is a flat screen

On a tilt panel

On the wall.

Today comes new carpet.

It is a lovely spare space

With all its extras

In the living room.

We will see

What we will return

Tomorrow;

We will see

What perhaps

We will give away.

Bank encounter

It*s been a long time since I did something like this.  Still, I met a lovely gentle man and we exchanged phone numbers.  This is the right and good thing when one backs into someone else, even if there is little damage.  On the way out of the lot, a younger man in a convertible called out to me that I was lucky I did not back into him.  Indeed I was.  Yes, indeed I was.

I met a lovely gentle man today.

Age 92.

I backed into his car

At the bank.

We exchanged names and numbers.

He told me his car

Had many dings and dents,

One more did not matter.

When he wakes up in the morning

He smiles at himself and says

Ah another morning.

This

He says

This is just a car.

This

Is just a car.

Both our cars bear the marks

Of the collision.

I see his face

When I close my eyes.

For Lee Mitchell, R.I.P May 23, 2012

Lee was my liturgics professor at Seabury in the early 80*s.  Even though I am doing little in formal liturgy these days, he taught me to see everything with liturgical eyes.  A blessing and gift.  May Lee rest in peace and rise in glory.

You taught us the Eucharist,

Not just bread and wine on the table,

But olives and cheese

As well.

In my toughest assignment,

The one in which I regularly questioned

God*s presence,

One Sunday morning

You suddenly appeared

At early Eucharist,

Sat in the pew

Among the handful of people.

I wondered if my sermon

Made sense,

Stammered through the traditional words

Of the Eucharistic Prayer.

You came forward with open hands.

I did not question

The presence of God

That morning.

Watch the metaphor

This reflection began (of course) with the first line.  I thought I knew where it was going.  I didn*t.  It seemed to want to be something else.  Who knew?

Metaphors go only so far

Before their limits are reached.

Still

There is hope they may take us further

Than simple explanation,

Plain vanilla words,

No pictures involved.

I prefer the kind

With dark vanilla bean specks,

Rich flavor,

The kind which allows my mind

To wander through the categories,

Re-sort  items

Into new Fiestaware dishes,

All different colors,

Apply the perfect hot fudge topping,

Whipped cream,

A sprinkle of chopped nuts (assorted),

And a definitive

Maraschino cherry

On top.

It didn*t break

Another thing that will not win me parenting awards... but I did connect with the five-year-old....

Of course so many bad things

Might happen.

Still, all too often I want to say

Don*t you see how utterly astonishing

This is?

Don*t you see?

Don*t you see?

Today the small child in the store

Pulled over a glass vase

Twice as tall

As he was.

I heard it fall.

It didn*t break.

His mother quickly

Set it upright,

Sat the boy in the shopping cart.

His older brother and I looked at the vase.

It didn*t break

I said

Look at that!  It didn*t break!

Three more times

I ran into the family.

Each time the older brother

Said to me:

It didn*t break.

Each time I said:

Isn*t that amazing?

He nodded

Each time his mother

Wheeled his brother away

Safe in the shopping cart.

I know I will not get the gold seal

Of mother approval

For this one.

I can picture the older brother

At the dinner table,

Tucked in bed tonight,

Saying

It didn*t break.

Elephant ears

There are at least two ways to go with gardens...bigger or smaller.  I*m thinking bigger.

The rhubarb is a patch

Of elephant ears,

African elephant ears,

At one end of

What used to be

The garden bed

Until the boards rotted away.

Now it slides to lawn.

The ears flap

I can hear the elephants

Trumpet a call

For containment.

The boards come twelve feet long

At Home Depot.

I think a garden six by twelve

Might work to contain

The elephant ears,

The elderberry and more.

It might give all of us room

To play.

Instead

Sometimes the things we do instead of the usual things are good.  Sometimes both things are good.  Taking a break from fitness center exercise this week may be a good thing for me... unless, of course, it*s not.  :)

The fitness center

Is closed this week.

They are refinishing

All the floors.

Of course I could go elsewhere

To exercise.

Instead I mark the time

Watch the purple clematis

As it begins its bloom

In front.

The purple has wound its way

Up the post,

Around the chain.

It holds

The welcome butterfly.

Yesterday I worked with a client

She cannot get off the dime

To exercise.

Her goal this week

Is to find someone who will take one walk

With her.

Not a bad goal.

Not a bad goal at all.

She will report to me

Next Wednesday.

There is no box for the Happy Dance

I am a strengths-based therapist, priest, spiritual director, you-name-it.  I would like to translate the forms, if I need to fill them out, into strengths-based forms.  OK, I did see two lines at the bottom of the assessment form which asked for strengths.  Maybe they are referred to at the end of things.  I don*t see a particular spot in the progress notes.

As a volunteer I am required

To fill out mountains of paper

On each and every client.

There are boxes upon boxes to check.

They say:

There is no change

Or

Things are worse.

They say:

You are suicidal,

Homicidal

Or not.

Pick the goal and objective

You worked on.

If not:

Fake it.

There is no box to mark

The Happy Dance.

We don*t count that.

I suppose too regular dancing

Would require dismissal,

The filling out

Of the satisfaction survey,

Placed by the client

In an envelope,

Sealed,

Then signed over the flap

By the client and therapist

For privacy.

Blue flag iris

I am used to working in older buildings.  After all, I have served as a priest in oh so many settings, buildings that are in their second or third or fourth incarnations.  It is probably fitting that a piece of what I do now is volunteer in a clinic which used to be an old motel.  I just noticed the iris in back on my way in this morning.  It continues to amaze me what flourishes even in fluorescent light.

We sit and talk

Under bare fluorescent light.

Still

I want to take each person

For a walk

In the sun,

Stroll by the blue flag iris

I noticed this morning,

It grows In the back lot

Of what used to be

The old motel,

Now

A clinic.

We sit and talk.

I am amazed at what grows

Under even fluorescent light.

This week

I hear friends

After much hurt and loss,

Growing back together

Slowly, slowly, slowly.

I watch the woman

Who got the ultimatum

Last week,

Grab on for dear life

And,

After breathing,

Hear her life

Held dear.

I want to take each person

For a walk down the garden path,

The one that ends on blacktop,

Stop at the blue flag iris

Behind the old motel

The one that is now

A clinic.

I will sit in a different chair

Sometimes it is possible to get stuck in particular roles.   Sometimes maybe trying something as simple as sitting in a different chair may switch things up enough for a change to occur.

I will sit

In a different chair.

I will see

If

I am different there.

Will different words arise,

Different lines comprise

Our ordered speech?

I will sit

In a different chair,

See what comes

With a different view

Of me

Of you.

I abide

Michael*s tattoo is finally underway.  The reminder on his wrist, the vines up his arm, they will be there whenever he looks.  He will not have to be reminded to hang on for dear life, he will know life forever grafted to the Vine.  He abides.  You go, Michael.

It is now tattooed

On the inside of his wrist

In Greek:

μὲνω.

The vines are underway.

They wind up his left arm.

The vines are a work

In progress,

The way all vines are.

He has meditated

His way

Here.

He is a meditation

In progress,

The way

All of us

Are.

Water lilies

It is amazing to me how particular images carry such power.  This is part of my childhood memory.  I can picture the speed boat and the water lilies, the vast expanse of Big Trout when we made it through the channel, even the red cooler with ice which held the small bottles of Coca-Cola, a drink we were only allowed to have Up North at the Cabin on the Lake.  There was beauty in the channel, something I am trying to remember now.

We spent part of every summer

On a chain of lakes,

Paddled the speed boat

Through the water lilies

In the channels

Between the lakes.

Sometimes we even walked the boat

So the motor

Wouldn*t get clogged.

Once through the channel

We hit full throttle

Through deeper water,

Found the white sand beach,

Swam,

Ate white bread sandwiches,

Drank cold Coca-Cola

From small green bottles.

Going home

We reversed the process.

I do not spend summers now

On a chain of lakes.

I still see the channels blocked

With water lilies:

Yellow pond lilies,

White full blossom kind,

Lily pads.

Fish still swim

Underneath.

I still cannot power through them.

Today I walk the boat

Through the lilies,

The lily pads.

Today I would like to come out the other side

Hit deeper water

Make the boat run its paces

Full throttle.

Today I would like to eat white bread sandwiches

Drink ice-cold Coca Cola

In the warm sun.

Apocrypha dream

Apocrypha means hidden things.  The official Apocrypha in my NRSV is stuck between the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament.  Last night I dreamed there were hidden stories in the New Testament that everyone else had read, and somehow I had missed them.  This is akin to all those dreams preachers have of standing in the pulpit having forgotten to prepare a sermon, or the student dreams of forgetting to study for an exam.  In my dream I faked it.  Somehow I wasn*t worried, just curious.  Curious enough to look up the name once I awakened.

Last night I dreamed

I went to a Bible study.

There were questions

About a story contained in a book

I had never heard of,

Much less read.

It seems there were other books

Buried in the New Testament.

Everyone else

Had read them.

I could only nod

And pretend.

It was so real

I looked up the name of the book

When I awoke.

Zin-bul.

Turns out it is on the list of family names

Of those who died

In the Shoah.

Is there an Apocrypha buried

In the New Testament?

Stories and stories and stories

Hidden,

More than we might ever know?

Could we ever bring them up

In Bible study?

Last night I also dreamed I sold scarves

In a booth

On the furthest edge of a fair,

Next to my favorite falafel shop.

I had one customer.

Soft hands

At the clergy gathering I attended on Wednesday, a colleague shared about teaching her small daughter not to hit.  Soft hands, she said.  We are teaching her to use soft hands.  Here*s to you, Amy and Allison, and to your daughter.  Soft hands are a Very Good Thing.

My colleague speaks of teaching

Her child not to hit others.

Soft hands,

She says,

We are teaching her to use

Soft hands.

I am struck in turn

By the image

Of soft hands,

Hands that stroke and caress

Hands that love.

We are teaching her to use

Soft hands,

And if she is not ready

For soft hands,

She can hold her own hands

Together.

I imagine a world of soft hands

Or

If we*re not quite ready yet,

A world of holding our own hands

Together

Until we are ready to use

Soft hands.

Role shift

I am getting better with the shift key, praise God.  Sometimes it doesn*t take more than a pinkie finger.

I have been stuck in the middle

Of a role shift.

Again I practice sitting long enough

To figure where the shift key

Lives.

Yesterday I watched the twisted gnarled tree

Out my office window,

Heard all about the butterfly garden

Planted on the corner

Of the church lot

Where the dead trees

Was removed this year.

I imagine the garden.

It is enough to clear my head.

I was stuck until I realized

My role

Has been in major flux.

Now there are different decisions

To make.

Some only require the pinkie

On either hand

To find the shift key,

Make the capital at the new beginning

Of the line,

Or even a Capital in the middle,

If required.

I don*t expect to live here forever

The last two weeks have been flow-y.  It*s hard to describe.  When something gets cancelled, it somehow is clear what I need to do in its place.  When I am to make a presentation or speak or meet with someone, the words are there.  Often it*s clear that I am not to speak, but instead listen.  I don*t expect to live here forever.  But for now, it*s enough.

I don*t expect to live here forever.

For now

It*s enough.

For the last two weeks

One day has flowed

Into the next

Then

Into the next.

I don*t expect to live here forever.

It*s enough

For now.

Today I have done everything

I need to do

Until the next thing comes.

I don*t expect to live here forever.

I have watched the weeks

Subtract and add,

Divide and multiply.

I know this is

No simple arithmetic

Though I think I knew this

Somehow

Early on.

I don*t expect to live here forever.

I wouldn*t mind

If I did.

Still

For now

It*s enough.

Hummingbird

The columbine bloomed early this year and has already gone to seed.  My husband and I have wondered whether we missed the hummingbirds because of the warmer spring.  He thinks they are primarily light-dependent for migration, so we are still waiting for them to come through, maybe hang out a bit.  I still wonder whether I missed them.

I must have been thinking

Of hummingbirds

Before I went to sleep.

Last night I saw a hummingbird

In the desert.

It drank from a flower

In the shadow of a rock ledge.

When I tried to show you,

It was gone.

Hummingbirds are not

The lingering sort,

Even in dreams.

You will have to believe me:

I saw it.

Yes,

In the desert;

Yes,

In my dream;

Yes,

It counts.

Sixteen

She is sixteen on the sixteenth.  Her golden birthday.  Her father and I now snooze downstairs.  We wait for her to get up for school.  None of us are really morning people.   I am watching the balloons.  I think single digit birthday balloons are a lot clearer, or perhaps double digit same number ones...

Sixteen

or sixty-one?

The gold mylar balloons out front

Can*t make up their numbered minds.

They are tethered

To the only sign we could find

In the party store

That made sense:

It*s a Girl!

That*s a certainty.

If only the gold balloons

Would make up

Their numbered minds

In the morning breeze.

I imagine they will switch back and forth

All day.

Massage

Funny how I get used to adapting to things and the adaptation feels normal.  Now that my shoulders are back in place, I am trying to pay attention to the newer normal.

I almost cancelled this afternoon.

Everything seemed

In good working order.

I did not realize

My shoulders were up

Around my ears.

After all

It feels normal that way.

Now I sit with my shoulders

Lower.

I try to notice the difference

So I will know

For next time.

Despicable aunt

Sometimes there is absolutely nothing we can do to change someone*s perception of us...even when all seems right and good and well.  I am disappointed, of course, but amazed that he knew he was seeing me with a despicable aunt overlay, and further amazed that he told me so.

I am disappointed

But it seems,

Despite a good and productive meeting,

With next steps uncovered, even shining,

I remind him of a despised aunt.

We will most likely not meet again.

I have no way to know

What exactly it is

About me.

It may be

An eyebrow,

A laugh,

A particular turn of phrase,

Even an overall Gestalt.

I am disappointed

But

There it is.

Despite that gem of a meeting,

We will most likely not meet again.

I wish I could meet

The aunt.

More on the water tower

There is always something to watch, here in the western suburbs of Chicago.  This spring the re-painting of the Roselle water tower is part of the show.  

The water tower continues

To offer its slow strip tease

in the center of town.

We live nearby

so we see it

Up close and personal.

Sometimes it seems we must simply

Avert our eyes.

Often

In the morning

The sun shines through

The plastic negligee.

It outlines the bare, stick-straight body

Beneath.

We never know exactly how we will find her

During the day.

The stages of undress are

Unpredictable.

Maybe it depends on the availability of workers,

Maybe the kind of paint.

Perhaps the weather determines

The dress

Just like I have to figure before I leave the house

Every morning.

Rain or no rain.

Warm, warmer

Cold.

Perhaps windy.

I can never tell

In advance.

Sweet William

Spring lore in these parts says that plants are safe from frost if planted after Mother*s Day.  No one told the Sweet William.

It is Mother*s Day,

Finally safe to plant flowering things.

The Sweet William overwintered here.

It is already in fuller blossom

Than it achieved last year.

My husband wanted to know

When I had time to plant.

I didn*t.

The pots are full of Sweet William.

I don*t remember such a range

Of color

Last year.

I must have bought the variety pack,

Or perhaps they thought to try on

Different colors

This year.

No one told the Sweet William

It wasn*t safe yet,

So they flowered anyway.

The Book, continued

As I read this book, it reminds me of things I already know.  There is healing and health to be found.  I pursue it for myself, for my parishioners, for my clients.  I prepare a discussion for adult education tomorrow on how God comes to each of us in our own particular way.  Of course it will not be like other adult forums at church, because it will involve all of us present.  It is completely unpredictable: who will be there, what will be said, even what part of my notes will be presented.  I am glad for this.  And a little scared.  Still... there is a theme.

Now that it has leaped

Off the shelf,

I know the people.

She tells their stories,

And hers,

And mine.

They all walk through my dreams,

Sit in my office,

Invite me for coffee

With cream.

I read snippets to my husband.

I sense a theme,

He says.

Of course he does.

There is a theme:

Healing and health underlies

Everything.

When we lay our expectations

In the sun,

When we find what is actually present,

When we locate that perfect archetypal rose

At the core of our being,

We find health.

Sometimes it takes years.

We have to look.

I sense a theme.

Understanding

Sometimes we all get stuck in our own particular understanding of things.  I know I do.  This is why it may take several different iterations on the part of the one who is hurt to reach a common understanding.  I know this is the way of it.  I still wish it were different.  And I still rejoice when common understanding is the result.

I remember the wrong done to me

from years ago

Like it was yesterday.

I thought what he had done

Was so obviously wrong,

I pitched rocks in the back yard.

He did not see (of course).

I called him.

He did not understand.

I wrote letters and emails.

He did not understand.

Finally I made an appointment.

I told him this was so important

It needed an hour, face to face.

I told him I would sit there,

Explain, perhaps weep,

Until he understood.

Finally

He got it.

Somehow I knew I had it in me

To do this.

Somehow

I knew he had it in him

To understand.

The Book

What makes us read a book we have meant to read for years?  I guess things line up the way they*re meant to.  I am curled up in my blue chair, having just read and been blown away by the introduction.  I*m almost afraid to read the book.

A book I have meant to read

For years now,

Launched into position

Yesterday,

A special tenth anniversary edition.

Things line up

As they are meant to.

I was never a

Close your eyes,

Open the Bible, and find

What God says

To You

Person.

Perhaps I was afraid

Of the begats,

Maybe obtuse bits,

Or even

Jesus wept.

But yesterday that book

Appeared.

It was not the Bible.

It has been on the shelf

For years.

Words written in the introduction

Over six years ago

Are for me to read

To mark

To learn

To inwardly digest.

They are words

To claim.

I swear

It leapt off the shelf.

Don*t we all?

I have begun my work with the free clinic (for free, of course).  This will also be an exercise in more than counseling.  Way more than counseling.

Yes

Of course she has self-esteem issues:

Don*t we all?

She also did a different homework assignment

Than the one I assigned her.

Actually

She did her own version of the one

I had done for her.

We did double-duty,

She and me.

She is feisty,

This one.

She will do as she pleases.

Don*t we all?

I have made the office spare

The week has been overly full.  Sometimes I sit in my office, my blissfully spare office, and simply breathe.  I aim to make it a breathing place for my clients as well.  

I have made the office spare:

Walls of warm beige,

Decoration minimal,

Striped rug for color

On the floor.

There is room here

For many stories

To come and go,

Re-ordered,

Re-written,

Re-captured week by week.

Here hope might be reclaimed

Like so many lost coins

Under the sofa cushions,

From the plaid chair

Opposite,

Or more directly

From Above.

I wish I could meet everyone here

But I am not in charge

Of every space I occupy.

I am barely in charge

Of this one.

My wild things (for Maurice, may he rest in peace)

R.I.P. Maurice Sendak.

My wild things no longer inhabit

An island available only

By boat

At night.

Now they gather for milk and cookies.

Now they share meals in the warmth

Of the house.

My wild things

Play card games and board games

And Scrabble and completely

Made-up games,

When they are not eating,

in air-conditioned coolth

At the sun-bared height

Of summer.

My wild things skip and slide

down the hall,

Leave their shoes in piles,

Or forget and track in mud

On the white tile floor

After the rain.

My wild things

Make life

More interesting.

They are not available only at night

By boat.

Almost audible

Today is Julian*s day.  It seems fitting it would be a morning for quiet.  

This is a morning for quiet;

For the still small voice

To sound almost audible,

In the background sounds of bird

And train,

The movement of the hands

On the clock,

The vines

Growing on the front columns:

Almost audible.

This is the morning for quiet,

For the still small voice.

This is a morning for quiet,

The still small voice,

Almost audible,

Not production

Of new thoughts

Or language,

Not concern for the place

I occupy

In the world.

Not anything

But stillness

Smallness

Knowledge there is always the voice

Underneath

Almost audible.

Fabric

I just saw the picture of the underwater sculpture off the coast of Grenada, West Indies, in Honor of the African Ancestors at the Bottom of the Atlantic.  Stunning.  So much is woven into our world, and we are such a tiny piece of it all.

We are all woven

Into the fabric.

It dresses the world

In tapestry

In damask,

Sky caught in our hair

Earth squished between our toes

Oceans and rivers

Pumped through our veins.

We notice from one tiny dot

At the edge of the universe

From behind,

So many knots and weaves,

A splendid blend of knots and weaves

Sky hair

Earth toes

Oceans and rivers and minnows

Swim in our veins.

Hints of the picture

God sees

A millionth billionth

Of the hint of the picture

God sees.

Re-wind

Yesterday we unwound a ball of yarn and passed it around as the sermon.  We talked about messy vines (indeed it got tangled up), and each person held it differently.  At the end we didn*t have a plan for getting it all back together.  As the Table was being prepared for Communion, one woman began winding it all back up again.  We waited until she was done, and then we continued.  I never would have planned it that way.  Today I am re-winding, so I can continue with the next thing.

Today the clients arrive back to back.

This morning early I gather myself back together,

Like the woman who re-wound the ball of yarn

Before Communion yesterday

She walked among the women

Winding,

Carefully wound it back to wholeness,

Placed it on the altar

With the bread and wine

In full sight of the gathered women.

I never could have planned

Such a metaphor.

This morning I pull it all

Back together.

Vine sermon

The sermon this morning requires unrolling a ball of yarn and everyone grabbing on.  I am glad for this opportunity to preach, and to remember Jesus in this way.

This morning in church

We will pass around a ball of yarn

Until we are all connected

On the string.

More yarn will still remain.

This is the way it is with Jesus.

There is always more possibility left

After everyone takes her part.

Women have knit and crocheted their way

Through the weekend.

Yarn is a fitting way

For such as us

To remember the Vine this morning.

Yarn is a fitting way

To remember

We are all connected.