Universal credit

In the way of all things, I know someone is going to explain to me that the phrase "Universal credit given to all other professionals" makes complete sense.  For now, however, my mind spins with all the possibilities for the accumulation of universal credit, no matter what profession I embrace.

Among the details

Of continuing education

Available to those

In the counseling profession,

I find the following:

Universal credit

Given to all other professionals.

Where does the credit come from?

The Universe?

Who counts as a professional?

And bottom line:

Who really cares?

I wonder if this is attached

To all continuing education events,

If the Universe is indeed in charge

Of the distribution,

Where are the credits registered?

I rather like the idea

Of Universal credits.

God only knows.

Only God knows

Really.

I met people all day in different spaces

Usually I write in the morning, but this morning I barely made it out of bed in time for morning ablutions, breakfast, and making it to my 10:00 AM appointment.  Now it is cold and snowy.   This is one of those significant days, where everything was planned, at least time-wise, yet unrehearsed.  I am now home for the unplanned part of the day.  Soup for dinner sounds like a good idea.

I met people all day

In different spaces.

Here it is 4:44 in the afternoon.

I consider writing the day.

It passed

Before I knew it.

There is more yet to come.

I met people all day

In different spaces.

I will have to figure out

Where to sit in my consultant*s

New office:

I went with the sofa,

But the sofa is now

In a different place.

Maybe next time

A chair

Perhaps the floor.

At noon I lost track of my lunch partner.

We waited for the other

In a different part of the restaurant

For twenty-five minutes.

Both of us

Had full view of the only door

Into the place.

The funeral brought me

To new places yet,

Despite the familiarity of the space,

The liturgy

The people.

Now I know there is a place

For

I Want to Walk as Child of the Light

In the service

When I die.

I imagine when I die

I will meet new and old people

In different spaces,

In unexpected places.

Time left open

Sometimes circumstances help me practice waiting.

Tonight a client does not show.

I write this in the time

He left open:

Clock ticking

People leaving Zumba in the basement.

I think on the life of today

Pray for tomorrow.

I open my journal

Fill two pages

With open time.

I prepare for the next client

To appear.

Yesterday I waited

To leave the clinic.

All the doors were locked.

The last remaining key

Was in someone*s pocket.

That someone

Was in a meeting.

I checked every door.

Each was locked.

I called my daughter,

Settled down,

Settled in.

I waited for the key,

Thought on the day,

Prayed for tomorrow

Time left open

Until it was time

To leave.

Paperwork Queen

Part of my learning these days is to fill in the blanks while standing on my head, to figure out the logic behind the forms so I don*t have to learn each piece by rote.  Of course this assumes there was some logic to begin with.  I admit I hear the Red Queen shouting in the background:  Off with her head!

Yesterday I learned

I will never be a paperwork queen

Or princess,

Or probably even

A paperwork vassal.

Alas.

Alack.

The GAF score is meant to be

The DLA divided by two,

Except

Except

Except

The two do not measure the same things.

And

The highest score in the past year

Must not include today*s score.

That

Of course

Is different.

I will never be the paperwork queen.

Of course

The queen sets the rules,

Is never questioned.

Hers is the new logic.

Off with her head

Shouts the Red Queen

The quintessential ruler of all paperwork.

Off with her head.

Brain exercise

My mailboxes (snail and e-mail and Twitter) are swamped with different ways to exercise my brain, to calm it down, to change it up and switch it out.  Brain exercise seems to be the latest thing to take control of aging, and face it: more of us are living longer and longer.  The baby boomers (including myself) are a large group.  My namesake aunt who died at 92 did the NY Times crossword most days.  She is my anecdotal example of reasonable aging.  She was also an editor for years at the University of Chicago Press and was one of the authors of the Chicago Manual of Style during her time there.  An impressive accomplishment.
The last couple weeks have shown me once again that some of us still die far too young.  Whatever we can do to forestall death in all of its forms seems worthwhile.  The latest thing seems to be brain exercise.

The latest thing

Is brain exercise.

The latest thing

Is that Alzheimers

May be forestalled,

Even prevented,

By exercising one*s brain

With crosswords and Sudoku,

Finding different routes

To take to work,

Different places

To park the car.

The latest thing

Is to find new paths

Through the forest

Of getting older.

More and more of us

Are getting older,

Living longer.

Some of us,

As always,

Die far too young.

The latest thing

Is brain exercise.

If only

If only

We exercise our brains enough

Then everything

Will come out right.

All are safely gathered in

Now it comes:  the ice storm.   One hundred percent here, though I suspect it will not play out the catastrophic proportions in the forecast.  The family has returned home, earlier than I expected.  It seems a sleepover is planned.  Surprise: no school tomorrow.  A teacher institute day.  Nothing to do with the weather.

All are safely gathered in:

My loved ones.

It seems we will now be hosting

A sleepover

In the midst of ice.

I listen to the rain

Upstairs

Against the windows.

Now I wait for a phone call.

It may come

Or not.

I suspect the crisis

Of yesterday morning

May have subsided

By now.

Still I wait.

I listen to the rain.

I practice calm

With the cat,

My loved ones safely

Gathered in,

Honey vanilla chamomile tea

In hand,

Rain on the window.

Waiting for ice

The ice cometh.  The chance is one hundred percent (they say), as if anything is ever one hundred percent.  I am home with the cat.  My beloved has gone out to pick up our daughter from a church gathering in another community.  They are ending early... due to the ice.  The prediction is one hundred percent possibility of ice.  As if anything is ever one hundred percent.  I am home with the cat in my lap.

I wait for ice.

It draws the lines

For the morning decision

To attend the middle service,

Look for salt trucks

All the way home,

Eat breakfast,

Read the paper

With the cat

Changing laps at feline whim.

I wait for ice

Peruse the ailing ash tree

In back,

The downy woodpecker

On the potentially dying branch

Pecking.

I wait for ice

In the warmth of home

And cat,

A kitchen almost done.

I wait for ice.

I pray it will not come

Until all are home and safe again.

Until all are safe indoors

Taking turns

With the warmth and weight,

The sheer cat presence.

Home.

Waiting for ice.

Q

Coming out of today*s Domestic Violence training, I caught the end of NPR*s Day Six program.  Apparently a proposal has been made to change the point values of particular letters.  Except I only heard the end of the report.  I wondered all the way home about the fate of Q.  Thank God for Google.

A proposal has been made

To change the scoring

In Scrabble:

75 years old

And counting.

Z would be demoted

To six points,

X to five.

Only Q

Would stay the same

The prized letter

Among all letters.

Q

The Source letter

For a primary document

Still to be found.

Q

The all-knowing Being

On Star Trek

Next Generation

And beyond.

Q

The prized letter

Among all letters,

Particularly when it lands

On the triple word score.

Remains

I am wired anxious.  It seems to be the way my brain is wired.  A natural predilection which does not make staring at what remains to be done, to be seen, to be heard ... well... it does not make it a comfortable place.      Yes I do believe that God is in charge of that big pile of remains in front of me.  Some of the pile is mine to consider more carefully.  Most has been allocated elsewhere.

It remains to be seen.

It remains to be heard.

It remains to be discerned.

So much  

Simply

Remains.

I gaze at the snow,

Consider what I must do,

Consider what I must leave

On someone else*s plate.

If it is not mine

God has surely decided

To allocate it

Elsewhere,

For whatever reasons

In that unfathomable pile of things

That are not mine

To decide

To do

To wrestle with.

I gaze at the snow.

I offer the remains.

I watch the ducks.

It seems I am doing

Nothing

Ok

Almost nothing

But consider

The remains.

They are not mine.

They remain to be seen

They remain to be heard

They are in the pile

The pile

Remains.

Real snow

It is light snow, yes, but finally the real stuff.  Today is a home day, an inside consider the prospects home day.  My beloved is off interviewing someone for a new position.   My daughter is in school.  It is the cat and the turtle and me.  Yesterday was enveloped in anxiety tinged with sadness.  Today is outlined in snow.  Finally the real stuff.

Here it is finally:

Real snow.

It covers the grass,

Gives dimension to the black branches

Out back.

Snow clings to the tops

Of all things outside.

It asks to be drawn

In words,

In charcoal drawings.

It demands

To be gazed upon,

Run through with abandon

Like the squirrels.

The ducks climb the hill

Across the way,

Gather for the spread corn,

Corn which finally has a reason

For being.

Finally

Real snow.

Finally there is purpose

For winter things,

For winter white,

Finally real snow

To cling to everything

Outside.

Snow?

It seems this gauze of snow hardly counts, over a month into winter.  Still... it*s pretty, such as it is.  Snow will always signify winter to this Minnesota girl.

Finally

A gauze of snow,

A beginning for a season

Which began over a month ago,

By the length of light,

By days and nights,

A gauze of snow to show:

Yes

This is winter.

I wait for the cardinals

The starlings

To show off

Against the white gauze

Backdrop.

I wonder

If it will last.

Red

Hopefully the cardinals and the starlings will learn to live together in the back bushes.  We are all part of the Cosmic series.

Red is the new front door,

The paint on the kitchen walls,

The accent color

For almost

My entire wardrobe.

Now red waits

To be ordered

In double-glazed one-inch ceramic tiles

Named for the planet Mars

In the Cosmic series.

Red are the cardinals,

Now returned to the back bushes,

Despite evacuation by the starlings

Yesterday.

The starlings are also part

Of the wider

Cosmic series,

Bits of starlight

In their feathers.

Perhaps the birds will learn

To live together

Eventually.

Hope for all of us

In the wider and widening

Cosmic series.

Beyond tile.

Starlings

It wasn*t until a couple years ago that I realized starlings were marked with stars in their feathers.  I had lumped them in with grackles and other birds of less interest.  Now they fill the back bushes, having sent the cardinals, red and flashy, packing.  Hmm.  Today the backsplash decision may be made.  I*ll believe it when  the tile is put in place.  Will it match the cardinals?  Will it be closer to the color of sparrows?  There are good reasons for both.

The starlings fill

The back bushes.

They have sent the cardinals

Packing.

I wonder about the pecking order

Among the smaller birds.

Hawks

By size,

If not by appetite

Are obviously

Winners.

But when starlings show up

Their sheer number,

The flecks of starlight

In their feathers,

Send the cardinals

Packing.

Potential cardinal

This morning brings a day off, and new things to pay attention to.  I consider the range of things I might write about.  So much of the morning writing ritual now asks:  Is this my struggle?  Is this mine to write about?  Now the male cardinal is back in place.  It seems he is mine to consider.  His comings and goings.  I think I see the paler female on a branch up and to the right.  She is nowhere near as flashy.  Of course not, I think.

The family sleeps

Except for me.

The splotch of red

In the back bush branches

Must have been a cardinal.

He was so still,

I considered he might be

A piece of red ribbon

Blown there after Christmas.

When I returned

With the cup of coffee

Warm in my hands,

The branches spare and brown,

Showed no potential cardinal.

But

now

He*s back

He*s back

And behind him,

The ducks march in the sun,

The squirrels play their endless game

Of chase

On the lawn.

While I was distracted

The cardinal flew

Again

Or maybe

He was really

A piece of red ribbon

From a Christmas package

After all.

Best for last

This was the first sign that Jesus performed.  He saved the best for last.

The best wine

Came at the end

When all the guests

Were almost spent

With celebration,

The bride and the groom

Collapsed with the joy

Of everyone gathered,

The days of dancing.

Then and only then

Was the best wine delivered,

Effervescent

At the end,

A sign that the celebration

Had only

Just begun.

Branch

I am getting ready for day two of Domestic Violence Training.  I contemplate the creatures who share one particular branch of the ash tree in back.

This morning

The squirrel sits

On the hawk*s favorite branch.

I wonder if he knows.

I wish I were small enough,

Agile enough

To sit on that particular branch,

Fluff my tail,

Like the squirrel,

Eat breakfast,

Like the hawk,

Fifteen feet in the air

Balanced

On a branch.

Clear-eyed day

Enough said.

I wait for days

Such as this.

The electrical currents in my brain

Flow

As they should.

Maybe even better.

I wait for days

Like this.

I see the ducks scrabble for corn

Across the way,

Keep my eyes peeled

For the hawk*s return,

Watch the light travel

Illuminate bird

After bird.

The cardinals

Gather in the back bushes,

Male and female cardinals.

I know they are singing

Even with all the doors

Shut against the cold.

I know they sing

Their unmistakable cardinal song.

I sing indoors

Harmonize with the cardinals,

The quack of the ducks.

I wait for clear-eyed days

Such as this.

The new refrigerator

The new kitchen is not quite done.  The contractor called this morning, wanting to install the backsplash tomorrow.  We have not made the tile choice... the last piece of the kitchen quilt.  It is now scheduled to be installed a week from tomorrow.  It does help to have a deadline. Meanwhile I sat with a client this week who had made one small, though wonderful, decision.  We illuminated it.  We practiced what might come next  Next on the homefront is helping the old refrigerator take the next step out the front door.

The new refrigerator

Has a spot for everything

Necessary;

Two or three spots

For the unnecessary.

Already I imagine

What the wine rack

On the door

Might hold.

Probably not

Wine.

The new refrigerator

Does not offer a magnetic place

For those necessary notes

Or even the unnecessary ones

That covered the front and side

Of the old refrigerator.

The old waits to be cleaned out:

A metaphor for something

I know.

Everything is.

The old refrigerator still stands

In the living room.

It is one step

From the front door.

Weather signs

My tendency is always to push through things.  This is not necessarily bad, except perhaps when the outcome may be a seizure.  Yesterday the sun seemed incredibly bright, even with my sunglasses.  When I got out of the meeting, the sky was completely gray.  Of course, in retrospect, this means a weather front came through, which also means a change in barometric pressure.  Today it is sunny again.  Today there is more to pay attention to, even if I don*t want to do so.  Today I took the morning off.  The afternoon brings two new clients to meet.  

The sun was so bright

Yesterday,

I squinted as I drove

All the way to Geneva;

Gave thanks for sunglasses,

Offered up a small blessing

For a shorter drive

Than it might have been.

When the meeting was over

I found the sky

bianketed

In gray.

I gave thanks for

What would be

A paler drive,

No need to squint.

On the way home

I realized

Again

The internal signals

Matter at least as much

As the external.                          

It seems I still need to learn

To balance attention

Inward

With attention outward.

Halfway home

I bought a bowl of baked potato soup,

Ate it slowly

Until the internal weather cleared.

Everywhere I sat

Thought I*d sleep in this morning.  No.  Funky dream.  Everywhere I sat the sun was in my eyes. Hmm.

I dreamed I had another room

Next to the room

I use

For therapy.

It was furnished

With white furniture.

Everywhere I sat

The sun was in my eyes.

I couldn*t see a thing.

The door to the hall

Had a window

Open to the rest of the church.

No shade.

There were no blinds

On the outside windows.

The sun shone

Through every window.

I wondered if this was the room

I started

Or ended in.

Maybe both.

Death gathers us differently

Went to a memorial service yesterday.  The husband of a colleague had died unexpectedly.  It was interesting to me who showed, even who didn*t show.  It is always a surprise.  Always.  Next time it will be a surprise as well.

Death gathers people

Differently.

No invitations

To speak of,

Word of mouth or newspaper.

These days:

Disparate social media.

Death gathers us

Differently.

It is always a surprise

Even when expected.

The people who gather

Are often a surprise,

The people we had not planned to see

This week

This month

Even                         

This year

In this setting.

Death gathers us differently,

The segments of our lives

Weave

Unweave

Unplanned,

Almost always

Unplanned,

Uninvited,

Until it happens

Again.

Necessary

I am facing some decisions, things I do not wish to approach hastily.  The question of what is necessary looms large.  These are not huge decisions, but I know they carry weight, more than the weight of the looming kitchen backsplash decision.  Thank you to my friend*s reflection on St. Francis (thank you, Matt) http://intotheexpectation.blogspot.com/2011/10/if-necessary-use-words.html
I was given a leaping off place for today.  A blessing.

Preach the Gospel.

If necessary                                                      U

Use words.

You will notice I did not title this:

Preaching

Or

Gospel

Or even

Words.

St. Francis may have said this,

Then again,

Maybe not.

Necessity is the mother

Of invention:

An aphorism

Of unknown origin,

Sometimes ascribed

To Plato,

Then again,

Maybe not.

I hit another crossroads this week.

What is needful,

Remains unclear.

So I wait.

I would like a line-up

Of great saints and philosophers,

Wise sayings.

I am not in a pulpit

These days.

Instead

These are my words.

If necessary

Others may read them

Or not.

These days I have the lady in red

Who feeds the ducks.

These days

I have a sharp shinned hawk

Twenty feet from my window.

He dismembers a small bird,

Maybe a mouse

In full view.

These days the sun

Speaks to me

Necessarily.

St. Francis or Plato or even

Some unknown source

Calls.

I look for the Good News

In it all.

I seek

The necessary.

Reasons I was late to church this morning:

I am good at coming up with reasons.   Very good.  I am also good at naming what was good about arriving late, after the fact.

The cat asleep in the crook of my arm;

The silence of the house;

The rest of the family

Somewhere to the South;

The warm water

Of the shower;

The cup of coffee

Warm in my hands;

The car encased in ice;

The endless freight train

Three blocks north of church;

The parking space I often take

Occupied by someone else.

Probably someone

On time.

I would have been on time

Except I simply wasn*t.

I might have been on time

But simply

No.

The return of the lady in red

The ducks are now waddling up the lawn across the creek in back.  The lady in red has once again laid out the corn.  She seems older this year.  Of course she is.  So am I.  Now I have a kitchen that matches her jacket.

I am back in my old place

At the dining room table.

The lady in red

Just fed the ducks.

She moves older

This year.

White hair

A little bent

She still manages

That bucket of corn.

Her jacket

Matches my kitchen.

I knew there was a reason

For red.

Here she comes again

With her black and white

Spotted dog

A shorthair

By the looks of it.

It feels good to be back

In the morning routine

Even if I am not

Hefting corn

For the ducks.

I am older

My hair whiter

This year.

My kitchen matches

Her jacket.

Whim

The only thing I had scheduled for today was cancelled... so I went grocery shopping and, on a whim, decided to get a flu shot.  I get one every other year or two it seems.  Then I came home and watched a sharp shinned hawk eat a mid-afternoon snack as he sat on a tree branch right outside the dining room window.  I think it was a sharp shinned hawk anyway... couldn*t see his knees much less his shins.  Every day that is graced with a hawk sighting counts as good.

I got the flu shot today

On a whim.

It was available

At the pharmacy

Next to the milk cooler

In the grocery store.

In the little inoculation room

There was a list

Of possible inoculations.

I perused the list just like

I consider all the yogurt

In the yogurt aisle.

I always choose Yoplait Light,

The fruity kind.

My beloved chooses

Dannon Coffee.

I considered my choices but still

I had already paid

For the flu shot.

I chose the flu shot

On a whim but still

I remember the ad

I read yesterday.

It said the pharmacy

Was my best bet

For an unspoiled inoculation.

When it appeared right there

Next to the milk

Two aisles over from the yogurt

I figured

Why not?

Indeed why not?

Even as I make good decisions

I think I finally figured out the coffee thing.  No coffee after noon has finally morphed into one cup of coffee in the morning...one regular sized cup of coffee in the morning.  Not a Venti Starbucks coffee.  Of course it helps when I make one cup at a time.  Thank you, sister Jane, for the reminder.  Two members of my beloved coffee-drinking family are off on a road trip this weekend looking at colleges.  I made one cup of coffee this morning through the plastic drip cone, the kind that sits on top of the coffee cup.   This accomplishment has not stopped me from walking around the kitchen with a magnet to see the possibilities.

Even as I make good decisions

I figure ways

To compromise them.

No caffeine after noon

So I can sleep at night

Becomes

Suck down as much coffee as possible

Before the clock hits twelve.

No magnetic surface

In the kitchen

Is a surprise

But in retrospect

Means less clutter

And

A Very Good Thing.

Then I find myself

Walking around the kitchen

Seeking that one magnetic surface

That Must Be There.

I know there are other ways

I do this

Even as I pat myself on the back

For good decisions,

Even good decisions I never made

But found

Shining on every stainless steel surface;

Surface which,

By the way,

Requires its own special stainless steel cleaner

Along with its most excellent

Non-magnetic properties.

The quilt that is our kitchen

My first client is at 3:00 so I am sitting in my old place at the dining room table, surveying the ducks, and gazing on the new kitchen.  A friend observed (thanks, Rick!) that we were piecing the kitchen together like a quilt.  That seems apt.  We are piecing things together.  With all the stainless steel it comes as a surprise to me that none of the surfaces are magnetic.  This is probably a good thing, but it does take some getting used to.

The quilt that is our kitchen

Has the coffee pot and toaster

Pieced in.

There are school books

On the counter.

Oh yes

I remember this.

The quilt that is our kitchen

Has no magnetic surface.

We have moved

All the necessary notes

To the playroom door,

The one that leads

To the cold room.

It used to be the garage.

Now it stores my old office,

The theological books,

Three old computers.

The door is the only steel surface

We have left

For the important notes

Which used to go

On the side of the refrigerator

Or on the steel front door.

Now we have one door

For the important clutter:

The necessary school notes,

The blood tests three months hence,

Assorted pictures.

The quilt that is our kitchen

Requires order.

No magnetic surface.

None at all.

The more I know the less I know

As I acquire more and more certifications (the next one is Domestic Violence Training), I realize I could list them all on my business card or outside my door, or post them on my office walls.  I do not plan to do this.  I will not leave this world with my letters and certifications connected.  These blog entries and reflections will likewise disappear.  This does not mean I will stop learning or writing.  Both seem necessary parts of my vocation.  Still, it seems I will move on to the next frame of existence with no letters at all.

The more I know

The less I know.

The more training I get,

The more letters listed

After my name

On the door,

On the business card,

The less any of it matters

Really.

I expect to have a completely blank slate

When it comes my time

To die,

Whenever that is listed

On the Master Calendar.

The more I know

The less I know.

This does not mean

I try to learn less.

Quite to the contrary,

My plate is full and fuller.

The letters line up in neat rows

After my name.

Yet still

The more I know

The less I know.

In the end

The letters will all evaporate

Like so much morning mist.

Even these reflections that I write

Every day

Will disappear

Like the dew on the grass

Goes to the sun.

I will die with no letters

At all,

Completely unencumbered.

Slowly the swing returns

I have been away from this place for 2-1/2 weeks.  The space feels good.  It welcomes me back like I*d never left.  I wait for a client who may not show.  All this means is that my beloved and I will go backsplash shopping sooner rather than later.

Slowly the swing returns.

The kitchen makes its way

Into a semblance

Of order.

We will look at more backsplash possibilities

This afternoon

Between clients.

The nursery school

Outside my door

Has left for the day.

The afternoon nursery school

Down the hall

Offers children*s voices

At a distance.

Slowly the swing returns.

I wait for client number one.

I give it fifty/fifty

Whether she will come.

Slowly

Slowly the swing returns.

Rest

Back to my Monday routine.  This time I am writing before I go to the Clinic, so I can post here and list it on Facebook.  The Clinic is a non-Facebook space.  Good discipline, I think.  Today, after a rest, I see the light shining on a snowless landscape, listen to the cat catching his toenails in the rug.

And so

There was time to rest

Amongst snow and sister

And dog.

Now

It is time

To return to the rest      

Of the world.

So I see the light

Through the window

Here.

No snow

No sister

No dog.

I see the light through the window,

Prepare for work.

Listen to my beloved

In the shower.

Here I write

In a different chair.

The Visit

This is the end of a season of visits.  Today, on Epiphany, I go home after visiting my sister in Santa Fe.  I will actually retrace my flight path tonight, arrive home in the dark of night.  Even flying back the way I came, it seems another way.  We are always different after a visit, if we have been paying attention.

A courtyard sits

Outside my window,

A small tree with tiny

Nascent

Buds,

They wait in the snow.

A cup of coffee warms

My hands.

It is Epiphany

The Coming of the Kings

Soon and very soon

They

And I,

Our visit finished,

Will go home

By another way.

Winter Saturday morning, Santa Fe

I wish I could identify the scent, but it seems I can*t.  Once again I am reminded that smell is our only unmediated sense.  It does not go through our brain to be processed.  It just is.  Again this scent smells like what I know heaven smells like.   Not mediated through the brain... I*m not sure heaven ever is.

I woke to the same scent         

I remembered from two summers ago,

Except it is winter

With snow.

It seemed to be

On my pillow

Except it wasn*t.

It was also not

On anything else

I smelled.

I went on a scent hunt

Through the bedroom.

My sister says she smells roses

When Mary arrives.

It was not roses I smelled.

Like last time

Just like last time

It smelled

Like Heaven.

It is winter.

There is snow.

Heaven still makes itself

Known.

Peaceful

Dreamed this morning about distributing creamer instead of consecrated wine.  Seemed appropriate in a breakfast setting.  I awakened as I was getting ready to anoint everyone Virginia Reel style.  Today I understand Jane and  I are taking the High Road toTaos.  Haven*t been there since I was 12 (and Jane was 16).  Peaceful here.  Nice snow covering.

It is peaceful here.

It fits the end

Of the Christmas season.                                                    

My morning dreams had me

Out to breakfast

With my sister.

I asked for extra creamer

And served communion

To the entire restaurant,

Table to table.

When I turned around

Everyone was lined up

In two rows

Like the Virginia Reel.

I knew they waited

For anointing.

Good thing my oil stock

Was in my pocket.

Short adventures

I am sitting in guest room of my sister*s home, writing.  Soon I will take a nap.  This trip promises a series of short adventures.  Talking with the woman on the short flight from Dallas to Santa Fe was the first or perhaps second in the series.  Here*s to you, Charlotte.  May your second adventure, which only you can write about, prove to be wonderful.

It is cold.

There is more snow here

In Santa Fe

Than Chicago.

The woman I met

On the hop

From Dallas

Was of course

Unlike anyone

I have met before.

We are both it seems

On short adventures.

When I think about it

There was so much

We didn*t say.

So much remains.

The leg from Dallas

To Santa Fe

Is short.

It is fitting

For a short adventure

Before the other adventures

(Sure to come)

Find their way

To the surface.