Trading off

When I can sit by myself in early morning, there is something about a cup of warm coffee in my hands, and the vista out back, which invites contemplation.  

We trade off

Taking the young woman

Early

To school.

If I am awake enough

On my mornings,

When I return

I sit with coffee

Warm in my hands,

Watch the day lighten.

I think through

What must be done.

I consider

What really

Isn*t necessary.

The snow palette lies before me:

Shades of white.

The branches on the bushes

Next to the garage

Hold clumps

Of white wet snow

So many cotton bolls.

I consider the silence,

Watch the day grow lighter.

I think through

What must be done,

What might be done

Come spring.          

My hands,

Warm on the coffee cup,

Consider what may be dropped

When the earth goes green

Again.

Meteorological winter

Maybe I wasn*t paying attention in past years, but the term meteorological winter had never appeared on my radar screen.  Of course I knew the winter months (December, January, February), and of course tomorrow is the last day of February, but somehow putting the term meteorological in front of winter makes it sound, well, a bit more scientific, not so folksy.  Here we are, snow full on the ground, waiting for the light to even out.  The snow is perfect for snowballs.

I understand we*re at the end

Of meteorological winter.

It figures the weather folk

Would come up with

Their own reckoning.

Forget the earth*s rotation,

The sun,

The moon,

The stars,

The evenness of dark

And light.

This is the end

Of meteorological winter

Here in Chicago.

Everything is covered in new snow:

A celebration

Of the occasion.

Parts is parts

For Lent I determined to take better care of myself.  No fast food.  Catch-up on such things as a physical.  The physical means three appointments (family practice doctor, OB-Gyne, mammogram).   I am one-third done.  So far I know my heart is beating, my pulse is ok, my blood pressure is in normal range.  Why they take the blood AFTER the physical is beyond me.  I used to be married to a med student, who went on to specialize in head and neck surgery. I remember him practicing tying his knots one-handed at the dining room table.   He*s at NIH now.  I am a generalist in the western suburbs, a priest/counselor/poet who prefers to tie everything together as best she can.  I am one-third of the way through my physical.  

It is still Lent.

They have lopped off

More of me.

They send the parts

To the specialists.

Does someone really go to med school

To listen to lungs,

To check reflexes,

To say:  You have the flu,

Rest,

Drink water,

Stay home so you won*t infect

Anyone else?

There must be more information

Inside those heads.

There has to be

So much unused information.

My woman parts are divided off

To special woman doctors.

A yearly physical does not mean

One doctor visit

But really three.

My parts have been auctioned off

To the highest bidder.

Today I am one-third done.

I have phone numbers in my pocket

To schedule the rest.

Supervision

Just when I think I know who is supervising me, I uncover someone new.

My supervisor must know

I am well ahead

On supervision hours.

All my clients showed today

With bells on.

The supervisor,

With apologies,

Didn*t.

This meant I could go home

In daylight.

This meant

I could arrive home

Before dinner,

Feed the cat,

Pour fresh water

In his big stainless steel bowl.

I am ahead

On supervision hours.

The cat knew this

Before I even left for the day.

He called me home

Just in time

To pour crunchies

In his bowl.

Hospitable (not)

At 8 in the morning I expect to see things the way I left them the night before.  Morning is not my most flexible time.  There are temptations at 8 in the morning, and the scripture Jesus quoted to Satan in the wilderness does not come readily to mind.  It is the Second Sunday in Lent.  I am getting ready to go to church.

I wake up early

To write.

There is an extra body

Asleep on the sofa

In the family room.

I walk down to get my laundry

From last night.

My laundry basket is filled

With my daughter*s clothes.

I am not at my most hospitable

At 8 in the morning,

Faced

With thwarted plans.

This house brings its own temptations

At 8 in the morning.

Scripture verses

Do not come readily

To mind.

At least this morning

There is cream

For my coffee.

Plain black coffee

Lent continues...

No milk or cream

In the fridge.

Plain black coffee.

Does this justify a stop

Through Starbucks?

Does Starbucks count as fast food

When the refrigerator

Does not produce the proper

Whitening agent?

Lent complicates things.

I rationalize

With the best of them.

Plain black coffee.

Really?

Is this necessary?

Really?

Back story redux

Of course there*s more to the story.  There always is.

There*s more to yesterday*s

Back story.

Of course there is.

There are layers upon layers

Of back story.

Of course there are.

Today reveals

Yet another layer.

Sometimes I need to be reminded

To keep looking,

To continue listening.

Tomorrow I will remember,

Even if I don*t remember

Today.

There*s always tomorrow.

I will look up at the stars tonight,

Find the bunny tracks

In the new snow.

I will discover the next layer

Of back story

Already packed down with boot prints

Under the snow

On the sidewalk

When I shovel.

Locked doors

I am in my office listening to the compressor on the drinking fountain.  Everyone has gone home for the day, except me.  It*s the later afternoon window before the evening activities begin... choir practice, Zumba, ESL, and AA.  I have a client tonight.  Actually, I enjoy the quiet.  It allows me to consider what I might do outside these walls.  This has been a week in which nothing has gone as planned.  Still... things have happened... some rather dramatic... if I can only sit still long enough to wrap my mind around them...

Different days I sit

In different places.

I consider service

Outside the church walls

Even as I sit within,

Sit in the office,

Half underground

Half above.

My consciousness slides up and down

With the barometer.

Snow is surely on its way.

I am the only one

In this big church building.

The doors are locked.

Nothing I planned this week

Has emerged the way

I thought it would.

All the doors are locked

For safety*s sake.

I know Jesus passes through

Locked doors

And out again.

I consider service

Outside the church walls.

Back story

I truly figured that I had come up with the perfect convincing reason.  I figure this is where pride comes in.  My perfect convincing reason won her over.  I am so good.   The backstory arrived this morning.  I know I 

am not alone in this.  I figure there is most always a backstory of some sort.

Compliance came easily

Yesterday.

I figured my argument

Was really good,

Supremely convincing.

No.

The back story arrived by email

This morning.

I forgot

There is often a back story.

It arrives

After the fact.

It arrives

After easy compliance.

It comes

After the other shoe

Drops.

Perfect name

Drat and bother.  The name that came to me on 355, one of my favorite places for inspiration, was perfect.  Except... it seems it is someone else*s perfect too.  And he or she has laid claim to the name.  Actually it*s a he and a she... they have laid claim to the name.  I wonder if they were driving on 355 and got there first.

I found the perfect name

For a private practice.

It arrived on the way

To domestic violence training

On 355.

Some of my best ideas

Have come

On 355

In the automatic toll lane.

Perhaps

There is a story there,

Perhaps a reason

This might be.

When I was safely off the road

I wrote down

All the particulars.

The next day I googled the name.

There is a newer private practice

With the same name

A mile away.

I told you it was good.

I found the perfect name.

It is not mine.

Red scarf

With the Pope retiring for the first time in 600 years, I watch the lady in blue and red across the way, feeding the ducks with corn and bread.  The two events connect in my mind.  The lady and the Pope cast bread to the crowd assembled.

The woman across the way

Wears a blue jacket

With a red scarf,

A dark blue hat.

It is icy cold this morning.

I am glad

For the spot of red.

Now she stands at the top

Of the steps,

Surveys the ducks

Like the Pope

From his balcony

In the Vatican.

My lady in blue

With red accompaniment

Rivals the Pope.

Look

She appeared again

With bread for the ducks.

That seals it.

I never saw the Pope

Cast bread

From his balcony

To the crowd assembled below

On a particularly frigid day.

Hat display

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie...at least that*s what this reminds me of...  On the way to do paperwork I was thwarted be a locked drawer, and a new computer system which would not allow me access.  When I found the key, I also found something else which ended up being very good.  I am grateful for locked drawers and new computer systems.

Paperwork was on the docket

This morning.

I arrived to find the drawer locked.

This meant I had to find the key.

In the process of finding the key,

I found the program director

Who only knows me

As the mental health volunteer.

She had no idea

I wear other hats.

I showed her

My hat collection.

She had no idea.

Simply no idea.

Absolutely no idea

I wear so many hats.

Paperwork was on the docket

Except

The entire computer network

Was reconfigured over the weekend.

I.T. guys were stationed everywhere.

The drawer was locked.

In the process of finding the key,

I displayed my hats.

Very little paperwork

Got done.

The woman, now in blue

I watch the woman, now in blue, across the way.  She is kin to me.
Thank you, May, for the invitation to join the KNOW group at church.

The woman

Now in blue

Has massed the ducks.

Her offering of corn

Is stored in the garage.

She moves more slowly

This year.

I was invited to join

The senior women*s group at church

Yesterday.

It is a supreme compliment.

Maybe soon

I will mass the ducks

Like the woman

Now in blue

Across the way.

Maybe soon

I will gather up the cardinals,

The squirrels

Like maybe St. Francis did

When he got older,

Beckoned the animals

To come to him.

I*m sure his garage was full of corn

Like the woman

Now in blue.

Ducks at night

It is Lent and I am reminded there is more than one way to exhibit faith.  I have the lady in red to inspire me, even at night when the ducks have all gone home, wherever home is.

The ducks have all

Gone home,

Wherever that is.

It is dusk.

The lady across the way

Just turned on the basement

Light.

It caught my eye

Through the bushes.

Sometimes I see her lights on

When I wake up

In the middle of the night.

I have never quite seen

When the ducks arrive,

Wherever it is

They arrive from.

I imagine my neighbor across the way

Flicking her lights on and off

In duck Morse Code.

I know she lives

For the ducks.

Maybe it is something even simpler:

Telepathy perhaps.

She is one with the ducks.

Those ducks are there

Every morning when I wake up,

Better than clockwork even.

My Lenten plan

My beloved tells me the cookies don*t count because they*re not fast food.  Technically... no.  Still.

My Lenten plan

Is still in process.

No fast food between meals

Sounded like a no-brainer

Until the car took

Its own route home

From Domestic ViolenceTraining.

I drove by the McDonald*s

With the six piece Chicken McNuggets

In mind.

With confidence and care

I drove on by,

Returned home to

Girl Scout cookies

Just arrived,

One sleeve opened already,

Six cookies remained.

My Lenten plan

Is still in process.

I did not drive by

The Girl Scout cookies.

They leapt on me

From the kitchen counter.

I swear

I was ambushed.

Clipping back

In addition to clipping back the clematis, I am clearing out the closet of clothes someone else may be able to wear.  I have a big box almost filled.  Often things must be cleared out before the new can even be considered.  This applies to a whole range of things, houses and gardens, even lives.  

Today I clip back

The old clematis vine

Next to the front porch.

It will be ready for new growth

When the time comes,

Enough days of warm and light

It will grow green and eventual purple.

Sometimes the old must be clipped

To make way for the new,

Even me (I admit)

If I consider it

From the angle where the sun shines

Just right,

The warm hits the top

Of my head.

I hold the garden clippers.

I consider

Even I

Even I deserve some trimming back

So the new growth

May find its way.

So many things count as love

For my sweetie, my beloved, Jeff.  

So many things count as love:

The double bunch of tulips

Crammed in the vase;

The invitation to dinner

Tomorrow night

So we can wait home tonight

For our daughter,

Now 16,

Out to dinner;

The endless series

Of cards with small children

Holding hands,

So we can remember our childhood

Together

Even though we met

In our mid-thirties;

Together

Noticing the squirrels in the backyard

As they fluff their tails;

Seeing the way the cat

Matches the new floor tile

In the kitchen.

So many things count as love:

The fist bump

Over the top of the shower stall

When leaving;

The call before coming home

Once again.

So many things

Count as love.

Whiff of spring

It seems fitting that on this, the first day of Lent, spring would be in the air.

I open the front door:

New

Red

(Of course it is red)

The scent of possible spring

Drifts by.

I watch a sparrow fly,

Take refuge

Under the yew bush

Next to the driveway.

The sun is bright

Already it turns

To new life.

I remember Lent

Means spring.

Of course it does.

As much as the front door

Is red,

There are birds under the bushes,

Even in the cold air

The whiff of spring

Is present.

Lent begins.

Ash Wednesday at the clinic

It is different being in a non-church setting and listening in on the secular/church world.  This is a good thing for me... the priest without a collar... the one who does not see the highlight of Lent as endless Friday fish fries.  I sit at lunch and offer an occasional opinion, ask a question now and then.

On Monday

The women around the lunch table

Discussed fasting,

How they love the fish fries

Put on by the Knights of Columbus:

All you can eat

Every Friday.

On Monday

The women around the lunch table

Talked about Lent

Being only forty days.

They listed

The best places

To get ashes.

Today is the Wednesday meal

At the clinic:

All

You care to eat.

Specialist

I am somehow grateful to have this odd seizure disorder that manifests itself generally every nine months on the equinox (autumnal) and solstice (summer and winter).  We will see what happens this spring.  I have an appointment with someone who will listen to me on March 20, not just mark down the physical symptoms on the medical chart.  Today is the annual appointment with the neurologist.  Yes, I have the referral in hand.  Yes, I have the co-payment ready.

Today I meet with the specialist,

The yearly meeting

With the specialist.

He cares

That I have managed

To stay upright

Since I last saw him.

My generalist cares

To check the right boxes:

Take my temperature,

Blood pressure;

Weigh me like a fish

For sale by the pound,

Ensure that I still have

Reflexes.

Yes I am still

Breathing.

My heart still beats

As it will

Until it no longer does.

Today is the specialist.

I will tell him things.

He will nod and smile

And most probably write down

Only

When I last seized.

I will then return to the generalist

For another year.

Weather prediction

Some people have arthritic joints that predict rain.  Me?  I have a brain subject to barometric pressure.  I am beginning to see it as an adventure.  I continue grateful for prisms in my glasses.

It seems my brain

Registers barometric pressure.

The electrical currents

Are dismantled

Dismembered

Unplugged

Sometimes even

Reconnected

In unexpected ways.

I watch the colors

Of fluorescent light,       

Feel the buzz.

I think we might get snow

Perhaps rain

Maybe there will be dancing

In the puddles

In the streets

Or everything will freeze;

Ice skating will be the option

Of choice.

Exact same red

I look forward to silent meeting this morning.  It has been years since I have attended such a meeting. This is a morning for unprescribed words, and perhaps, contemplating things that are not usually contemplated on a Sunday morning.

The backsplash

Is the exact same red

As the pomegranate seeds

I use as a garnish

On my breakfast cereal

This morning.

Now I will go to silent meeting,

Contemplate the meaning

Of this

And oh so much more.

So much more.

Kindred spirit

I never know where I will find a kindred spirit.  I love surprises.

The woman I met today

Never followed the playbook

In real estate.

Now she sits in the front row

Of domestic violence class,

Collects hours toward her final

Social work license

In ways that sound

Very familiar.

I have never done things

In the usual way

She says.

Who knew I*d be doing this?

The woman I met today

Is 57

Like me.

We share creative ways

To count the hours

With each other.

She sits in the front row.

I sit in the back corner.

We have different styles

She and I.

Still

I recognize a kindred spirit

When I see one.

New behaviors

We are not best friends with our next door neighbors.  I admit it... we barely speak.  There are several reasons.  I will not go into it here.  There*s probably a lot to be said on both sides.  The last snowfall my beloved got going with the snowblower and proceeded to clear not just our own front walk, but also four other front walks down the street.  Like chain saws with undergrowth, it seems once one gets started with a snowblower, one would like to clear the world of snow.  Every action has a ripple effect.  I am inside the house considering the endless possibilities.

As we wait to shovel the walk

The next door neighbor

Goes by,

Clears our walk of snow,

Proceeds down the block

To the next house.

This is new behavior.

It seems he caught it

From the last snowfall,

When my beloved

Got going with the snowblower,

Proceeded five houses

Down the block.         

It is amazing what behaviors

Catch on.

The possibilities

Are endless.

Still Still Still

I thought to visit another church this Sunday.  The one I had chosen has its annual meeting.  No.  Then I considered a church I could walk to from my home.  I started thinking about the conversations we could have, and wanted to make sure I had my business cards.  Again... no.  Then I remembered silent Quaker meeting.  I will go there.  No one may say a word, but at the very least we will all listen together.

This Sunday I will go

To Quaker meeting.

No one will know me there.

Still

Still

Still

We will all listen

For the same thing

Illumined by the same Light.

Still

Still

Still

I know God will be there

In the midst of us.

No matter

If anything is spoken

At all.

Still

Still

Still.

We don*t eat the guests

In my counseling internship at Heartland, a small town/rural agency, I remember one of my first staff discussions involved the pleasures of hunting doves.  Here is a shout-out to Michael, my professor and founder of Heartland and hunter of doves... I am glad to hear you are entertaining grouse as guests in Montana.

The squirrels have worn a path

In the snow

In the backyard.

The path loops toward the back gate.

The ducks waddle

Across the way.

I wait for the cardinals to show

In the hedge.

Far away in Montana

My professor entertains grouse

In his snowy yard.

He calls them guests.

Four years ago I remember

Extensive conversation

Around hunting doves,

The pleasures,

The flavor.

I am glad his yard

Entertains grouse  

As guests.

It is hunting season but still:

Guests are guests.

We don*t eat the guests.

We simply enjoy

Their presence.

Animal

I remember any number of retreats which had me name which animal I was most like.  I was usually at a loss as everyone else got into the activity, claiming their dog-ness, or cat-ness, or bear-ness.  Somehow, standing in our almost finished kitchen, the question made more sense this morning.
I have no difficulty claiming peregrine.  My beloved seems to be leaning toward crow.  Perhaps if we move to the Latin corvus brachyrhynchos it will sound less commonplace, more elite.

If you were an animal,

What animal would you like to be?

The question comes

In the middle of the

Almost complete kitchen.

We await the installation

Of the ceramic tile

Cosmic Mars backsplash.

The cat is sound asleep

On the boxes of tile.

Some kind of a hawk

I say.

Not a red-tail,

Says my beloved,

Not a merlin either.

They*re too small.

Perhaps a peregrine?

We settle on peregrine

For me.

For my beloved?

He loves crows.

They are social birds

Still

He says

No one sees crows as special.

You do

I say

Because you do,

I do.

Perhaps raven sounds better?

It does

He says,

But ravens are solitary birds.

Ah this may take awhile.

Still we have narrowed it

To a bird,

Definitely

A bird.

From here to Peoria and back

Sometimes I think I should always be able to come up with something profound to say.  Nope.  Yesterday nothing came.  Oh sure, there were things spinning through my head.  Still... nothing that wanted to be said out loud.  This morning I remembered that time, eight, maybe nine years ago now, when I knew I was supposed to visit the Bishop of the Diocese of Quincy, but was not given anything to say.  On my drive to see him I kept asking for words.  None ever came.  I found myself meeting with him saying:  I know I am supposed to meet with you, but I have no idea what to say. Awkward?  Indeed.  So we started from scratch.  I took a different route home. I guess I am still taking different routes.

The last time I remember

No words

No matter how hard I tried

To connect with God,

Find a well-tuned speech,

Even a nicely turned phrase,

I drove to Peoria,

Met with the Bishop there.

I told him I knew

We needed to meet

But I had found no words

To speak.

So

We spoke from scratch.

I drove home another way.

Nine years later

I have found           

The no word place again.

Now that place rests

Closer to home.

I wonder if

In the end

There will be no words

And we will all need to start

From scratch.

No words

No words came this morning, this afternoon, this evening.  There*s always tomorrow.

The snow falls light

Pre-church observations.  Post-church thoughts will come later.

The snow falls light…

Look…

Movement across the way:

Ducks waddle up the hill,

A squirrel

Furred and gray

Skirts the mob.

Then

Look…

He bounds toward me

An entire slice of frozen bread

In his mouth,

Leaps like a Labrador retriever

Through the snow,

Wrestles his prize

To the top of the fence.

Safe from the ducks.

I thought in the lady in red

Only spread corn.

Twilight

What do I write about after a day of Domestic Violence training?  Today we covered Oppression, HIV, and Under-served Populations.  Another day I may explore some of that.  For now, I look at a world turning to night before my very eyes.

The snow in the yard

Is twilight blue.

The backyard lights

Illumine the feeding ground

For ducks

Across the way.

Already my yard turns

To purple and dark,

The trees to black.

Soon they will blend

Into the night sky,

Be gone

Til morning.

This is the way

Of twilight.

It asks for things to disappear

Before they reappear.

With morning

The lady in red

Comes with the light

Spreads corn over the snow.

The ducks will arrive

From wherever they have slept,

Invisible in the night.

Misogyny

It does not matter who this pertains to.  I do not have to wear a fake mustache and glasses.  Today I was given the gift of the knowledge that it*s not me.  I would have to change my gender, bind my chest, wear a codpiece (heaven forbid) to be seen in a different way.  No, thank you. Today I give thanks for knowledge particular and non-specific.  I hadn*t realized I was so worried about this.  In an odd way, finding out it is misogyny, pure and simple, is a relief.  Still wrong, of course, but a relief nonetheless.

Today I am alive

On the edges.

The news that a colleague

Pretty much hates

All women

Comes as

Amazing relief.

It is not just me.

It is not that specific kind

Of dislike

But hatred that

Even well-disguised

With a jolly manner

A smile plastered

Fake nose and glasses

Is still hatred of women

In general.

There is nothing I can do

About that.

There is nothing

I care to do

About that.

I am alive

On the edges.

I do not live in the orbit

My colleague

Circles in.

Fake nose and glasses.

There is enough to do

In other places

Outside the orbit.

Tracks

Sometimes I wonder about the idea of the collective unconscious.  Today I arrived home from breakfast   to find the New Yorker cover for February 4... a downhill skier making more than tracks, but instead an uncovering of words in his wake.  I had written the following reflection before breakfast but had not had time to post it.  The skier on the cover faces forward (of course).  In his wake, his tracks, are words uncovered, a partial glimpse of what looks to be a New Yorker article.  It seems to me it will take more skiers to uncover more.  But this skier has begun the process.  

I wake this morning

With dreams of tracks

I have yet to make

In front of me.

The final dream of the morning

Showed me a snow-covered road

Into town.

I am the first to drive it.

The road has three inches of new snow

Beautiful white in the morning sun

Completely

Drivable.

In the distance comes

An emergency vehicle

Lights flashing

No sound.

It makes tracks

The other way.