Easter Sunday, not yet two

I left parish ministry in 2007.  Now, six years later, I have finally landed in a different place.  Finally I worship  during Holy Week not thinking about how I might do things, but rather how the liturgies speak to where I  stand this year.  A different  place entirely.  Even with an office directly underneath the crossing in front of the sanctuary.

It is Easter Sunday

Not yet two.

We have celebrated,

Eaten,

Even shopped

For the week.

Our daughter Easters

South of Paris

This year.

I have let go

Of Holy Week.

Indeed it seems

I have let go

Of things being done

In particular ways:

All the special services

Tweaked and twirled,

Even danced to different music.

Today we stood

In the church,

Second pew from the back

Stage right,

Listened to the hum of children

Underneath the liturgy.

Easter Sunday

Not yet two.

On this Holy Saturday

Yep.  We settled it.  Worms burrow.  As sure as Jesus harrows Hell today, He will rise tomorrow.  This has been a Holy Week like no other.

On this

The Holy Saturday

Before Jesus is slated

To rise,

The backyard is filled with animals.

Ducks scout out

Good nest areas.

Robins stake out

Worm possibilities

With their feet.

Breakfast conversation

Considers the proper verb

For earthworm movement.

What is it

Robins cock their heads

To hear

Underground?

We settle on it:

Worms burrow.

On this

The Holy Saturday

Before Jesus is slated

To rise,

He is busy underground,

Busy somewhere,

They say.

He empties Hell,

They say,

Next to burrowing worms.

The robins listen from above.

We watch and listen from afar.

Jesus is slated to rise

Tomorrow.

Good Friday

This is not the first time my birthday has fallen during Holy Week or Easter.  It is the fate of all of us with late March or early April birthdays.  My office is at the church.  The nave is overhead.  Last night I heard the altar stripping from below, in the company of my client.  Tonight I have been told of the pouring out of wine after the Good Friday service, under the full moon.  This night will not be like other nights.

Today is Good Friday.

Today is my birthday.

Today is absolutely blue and gorgeous.

I slept in late.

Last night

After the Agape meal,

I met with a client

During the footwashing,

Eucharist,

Altar stripping.

I missed the leaving in silence.

On the way out of the building

I waved to Jesus

In the Garden of Gethsemane

Set up in the chapel.

Tonight I am told

After the service

The women of the altar guild

Pour the remaining wine

On the ground

In the outside columbarium

Under the full moon.

I do not know

If the women dance,

Good Friday quiet of course.

I wonder if they dance.

Last night the moon rose perfect

Last night the moon rose perfect and the sky was crystal clear, cloudless.  The Triduum begins tonight, with the footwashing and Last Supper and stripping of the altar.   We will watch and wait in the Garden.  I was hoping for forsythia or forsythia buds.  But the perfect moon may have to suffice.

Last night

The moon rose perfect:

Full, round, bright.

If spring would only

Come with it.

Still no forsythia.

The rhubarb hints promise.

The birds gather,

Sing these final days in.

The duck lady now wears white

To her neighbor*s turquoise.

The ducks have convened

Elsewhere.

Still

Last night the moon rose perfect.

It must be a sign

Of something.

Safety

I know someone who attended the funeral of a friend*s parent and was confronted with the presence of unconditional love.  So much love she had to leave the church early.  She has never gone back.  She will drive distances to sit with people behind bars for life,  but love set completely free?  No.  I hope to sit with her and face the love... head on.

They fled the tomb

When it was empty.

They knew

It was something so large

So incomprehensible

They had to run away

To safer places.

To upper rooms.

To Emmaus.

To Timbuktoo.

To the moon

Or beyond.

Safer places.

As if.

As if.

It is not Easter yet.

It comes.

It comes so soon.

It is here already.

He comes and nothing

Will ever be safe

Again.

Nothing really.

Sit with me.

We will face it together.

In or out or in-between

I attended a clergy quiet day today.  Somehow it fit me.  I am not in the group, nor am I out of it.  Of course, as always, some might disagree.  It is Holy Week and I am not preaching, exactly, except here.  My congregation is in the world, at DCC or in my office.  I am hopeful of the job possibility which I will find out about soon.  It seems as though I am kin to the duck lady across the way.  We spread corn or words or possibilities with the sunrise.  Both of us stand on the edges.

While I am no longer

Part of the in-crowd,

I am not exactly out

Either.

I continue to stand on the edges

Yet still

Connect to the whole.

My feet are firmly planted

Somewhere recognizable.

When I speak

My voice is heard as one

From a neighboring land.

I am the duck lady

Of the Diocese.

Daily

I spread corn

From my backyard

Across the way.

Some people know my name.

Most don*t anymore.

Still I stand

On the edges.

I throw out corn

Every morning.

Admiration

I met a woman last week who had no vested interest in admiring me.  She did anyway.  And for the things of which I am most proud:  Care and compassion and priorities.  For my focus on peoples* strengths.  There was not a drop of skepticism about her.  Not a drop I tell you.  Not a drop.  Today I am once more reminded of the power in admiration.

There was admiration

In her eyes,

In her words.

None of the same ole

Same ole

Of course you figured out

How it could work

Nothing special there,

None of the same ole

Same ole

Nothing special there

No

Admiration: pure and simple.

Today I walk

With the knowledge

I have been seen.

Spring is in my step.

I met Admiration last week.

She is a quality

God inhabits.

Cue the nap

I remember Holy Weeks past... most always being the solo priest in charge of liturgies.  This is not my role now.  My beloved reminds me of the time we were dating and I fell sound asleep at Easter brunch in a restaurant.  I still have Sunday afternoon nap triggers, even when I sit in the pew and have nothing to do with liturgy except show up and worship.  Today we didn*t even gather outside to process with the donkey.  I did pet the donkey on the way back from brunch.  I*m not sure that counts.

Palm Sunday inspired

The traditional Sunday afternoon

Nap.

Donkey?

Check.

Good liturgy including

A sermon with a map

Of Jerusalem?

Check.

Impromptu lunch

With friends?

Check.            

Home to a hot cup of tea?

Check.

Silent house?

Check.

Cat?

Check.

Favorite blue recliner clear

And ready for occupation?

Check.

Wind outside the windows

Signaling the weather change?

Check.

Cue the nap.

The perfect time to wait

I go into a different space during Holy Week.  This year I also wait for news of a job that would fit into my life in a way which would still allow me to honor the people and commitments I have made.  I sense this job is a part of the mosaic.  Oddly, if it does not come through, I am warmed by the possibility of such a job.  This week I have good company with Jesus.

Holy Week

Is the perfect time

To wait.

It couldn*t be

More perfect,

Ringed around

As it is

With Jesus:

The walk to certain death,

Then finally

Life again.

Always life again

No matter how deep

Death goes.

The perfect time

To wait.

Umbrella revisited

The wonders of wi-fi which allow a young woman to text from Latin class in Paris.  With an umbrella from Roselle in tow.  May the Force be with them.

Apparently the umbrella

Arrived in France.

It flew across the ocean.

Now it sits with an exhausted girl

In an hour and a half

Latin class,

Taught in French.

I hope it slept some

On the plane over.

I hope it opens

In the rain.

Covered in prayer

This happens sometimes.  I have a job interview today, one that seems to fit a piece of what I feel called to offer the world.  Facebook is for me a way to keep tabs on the ones I care about, so I can pray for them.  It is also a way I can ask for prayer.  This happens sometimes.  I awaken with a sense that God has it completely covered.

I awaken

Covered in prayer,

Flannel, quilted prayer.

The warm guy next to me,

The cup of coffee now held

Warm in my hands.

The birds

Have begun

To build nests of prayer

In my backyard.

The ducks waddle prayer

Across the way.

They make significant steps

Toward the corn spread

For them to eat.

For her part

The woman,

Today in blue,

Spreads prayer

Like so much corn

In her wake.

I watch,

Surrounded on all sides

By prayer,

An abundance

A simple abundance,

Like corn,

Spread for the ducks.

Umbrella update

You can send a sixteen-year-old to Paris, but you can not make her take an umbrella.

April in Paris

Is prone to wetness.

Our daughter will return home

April 1.

She may bring the umbrella

Or leave it in her locker.

It seems

Though we may bring an umbrella

To school,

Darned if

It will be brought

To Paris.

Paris in spring

Is most likely wet.

Rain softens the landscape.

The streets are bright

With umbrellas.

My daughter will offer

Different color

To the scenery.

Best parent award

I remember that it*s all about teamwork.  I also remember that everything is not a competition.  I seem to need regular reminders.  I am prone to forget.

Will I be the parent

Who wins

The best parent contest?

The thought crosses my mind

As I drive my daughter to school

Her luggage in the back.

She leaves for France

After school           

On a bus

To the airport.

Parents may follow the bus

To the airport

If they so choose.

Oh yes a friend needs to be picked up

On the way to school.

Standing in the driveway

The friend*s father promises

To drop an umbrella off

At 1:30

Before said friend

Leaves

On the bus.

Did she bring an umbrella?

My beloved asks.

She will need an umbrella.

As I write this a text arrives

For allergy medication.

My beloved unearths

An umbrella

To accompany the antihistamine.

As a team

We may win

The best parent award.

Vernal equinox

I have not had good luck with season change.  Today may be a turning point.  I am hopeful that with awareness and the right medication comes the possibility of remaining upright and conscious.  Even as I watch my head, consider my breath, and elevate my feet.

Light and dark are equal

Today.

Spring may even eventually

Arrive.

Really.

The weather in my head

Has again

Proven problematic.

It seems I will continue

To watch my head

Consider my breath

Put my feet up

As the seasons turn.

Things could be

Lots worse.

The season has almost turned.

I sit comfortable in the chair.

I write this.

Crap shoot

My beloved bought a spring bouquet over the weekend with three iris.  The bouquet was mostly yellow, gerbera daisies and mums.  He loves yellow, didn*t notice the promise of iris.  I watched the purple begin to show on Sunday.  Today they are fully shown.  Glorious iris.  I know buds are always a crap shoot.  

We never quite know

What will come.

Buds closed tight

Are a crap shoot.

The daffodil

The iris

May decide the water

Is not good enough,

The atmosphere

Not pleasant.

We play music

Conducive to full blossom,

Wait with anticipation

Eyes open to see

The daffodil

The iris

Sprung full in the vase.

We wait

For spring

Unfurled.

Prelude to the day

I drove my daughter to school early this morning.  Instead of crawling back into bed, I am sitting and contemplating the day.  It is a clinic day today.  I have a new client.  Much is planned.  I consider how I will fly today.

When much is planned

I dig up more unplanned time

To mulch around it.

I hold the early morning,

A cup of coffee

Warm in my hands.

Light snow

Now heavier

Signals more time

For travel.

I missed the sandhills return

This year

But the Canada geese,

The ones who left in autumn

Now return In perfect vees.

They show the ones left behind

What it means

To fly as God*s intent.

Not the ragged practice vees

They muster

All winter.

When much is planned

There must be

Unplanned time

To hold a warm cup of coffee,

Consider the day.

Love leaps forward

Usually if I keep talking, eventually love leaps forward.

I know

When the first words

Out of my mouth are

I shouldn*t have to…

My best self

Is not the one

Speaking.

Usually the word that follows

Is

Apologize.

After all it*s not my fault

As fault goes

I shouldn*t have to…

Mostly waits

For someone else

To go first.

Even when

I shouldn*t have to…

Jumps out of my mouth

I know my best self

Is not the one

Speaking.

Then I hope and pray

For other words.

I know if I keep speaking

Eventually

Love leaps forward.

Hours not worth counting

Sometimes it comes home to me that something I thought was a good idea at the time... isn*t.  Amazing what it takes to bring it home.  This time it became clear halfway through.

Yesterday I went to hotline training.

I was not worried

About answering calls.

I was introduced

To a complicated

Phone system.

It is slated to become more complicated

Next month.

The paperwork is spread

From drawer to drawer.

The fluorescent lighting

Dimmed and flickered.

I heard about the most recent

Bedbug infestation.

I decided

These are not hours

Worth counting.

Halfway through I knew

These are not hours

Worth counting.

New Guy

Watch and wait and pray, my friends.  Change comes in dribs and drabs, bird by bird by bird.  Even in very large institutions, centuries in the building...

Lo and behold

The New Guy

Is not perfect.

Instead

He is the

New Guy

With Definite Possibilities.

Rome was not built

In a day.

Lo and behold

The New Guy

On the throne

Throws bread

To the birds.

Purposeful

Watching the ducks every morning has a way of anchoring me.  They remind me of things I need to pay attention to.  I am grateful when the trainer gives me a choice: squats or lunges?  Are you up to lunges today?  She asks.  Sometimes I am.  I have learned to assess myself.  Perhaps I should say I am still learning to assess myself.  There is always the temptation to say: Of course I am up to lunges.  Of course I am.  Sometimes, truth be told, I*m not.  I can always choose, however, to be purposeful.

The ducks waddle single-file

Up the hill,

Heads held high

Orange feet firmly planted

Every step of the way.

I will move like this today.

I don*t quite waddle

But I am getting older.

When I do lunges at the gym

Grace is not my descriptor.

I aim for

Purposeful.

I am grateful

When the day does not call

For lunges.

When it does

However,

I aim for

Purposeful.

I wait for forsythia

There are signs of spring: snow melt, robin return.  The mallard orange feet across the way are brighter.  I wonder if the females are attracted to brighter feet.  I wait for the first yellow spray of forsythia in the back bushes.  Soon.

I peruse the possibility of forsythia

In the back bushes,

Wait for that first trace of yellow.

The scarlet cardinal

Flits through.

The male ducks across the way

Are spring bright:

Heads more green,

Feet more orange.

I wait for forsythia

To show itself bright,

Yellow in the sun.

I will clip enough branches

To blossom
In the new red kitchen.

Over the count

It is Lent.  What are you counting these days?  And why?  

I have been carefully counting hours

For almost three years now.

Surely you must be done by now

They say

Aren*t you at least close?

They ask.

When I arrive

At the magic number,

Take and pass the exam

For the final letters

After my name

I know I will be no more successful

Than right now.

Then

I will be eligible

To apply for jobs

I may not want anyway.

I had a client

His assignment was to say No

To two people.

He returned the next week having said No

Three times.

His smile went

From ear to ear.

He went over the count.

I felt like the cheerleader

I never was

In high school

Pom poms in the air.

Three times?  Really?

Now that really counts.

Handful of nuts

I am taking my fish oil every day.  I am figuring out the handful of nuts on occasion.  I can still rationalize with the best of them.

I watch my cholesterol. 

I will see where fish oil gets me

In four months.

The powers that be

Recommend a handful of nuts

On occasion.

I look at my hands,

Then at my watch.

I consider if my hands

Were bigger

Or smaller,

My watch faster or slower.

After all

What does occasional mean?

Occasionally the nuts

Call out to me

From the cupboard.

Occasionally

They don*t.

Sometimes my hands hold more

Than others.

Change comes hard

Yep.  The arrival of Daylight Savings Time.  A little more sun on this end of things would be helpful.  Very helpful.

Going to bed last night

Was easier than leaving

The bed this morning. 

Mass

I never know who I will end up with... people or ducks.  Yesterday I attended a gathering divided into English speakers and Spanish speakers.  I did not want or need to hear what was being said in the English session.  I found the back way to the Spanish session, but alas, my high school Spanish wasn*t good enough for me to comprehend more than a few words.  Still there was comfort sitting in that place, even not speaking the language.  I am amazed at the mass of humanity.  I am amazed at the mallard ducks across the way.  Somehow we are all connected, whether we understand each other*s language or not.  There is comfort there.

I awake amazed

At the mass of humanity

And ducks.

In pews

On the lawn

Across the way.

I never know

Who will show up

In unfamiliar

Even in familiar

Places.

I never know who will mass

With me

In streets

In pews

At the dining table

Even on the lawn

Across the way.

Come Saturday morning

The old refrigerator is gone.  Yeah!  The room still echoes with the laughter of the refrigerator removal guys.  It feels like it should be noon.

We awakened obscenely early

For a Saturday morning.

The refrigerator removal guys

Arrived at 8 AM

Breezy and cheerful

They must have gotten up

At 4.

We struggled out of bed

At 6:15.

It is 9:30 now and it feels like noon.

It seems we are in training

For the hour we will lose

This evening.

We are always in training

For something.

The living room lies strangely empty

Without that extra refrigerator.

The walls echo

With the laughter

From the refrigerator removal guys.

Collectors

Truth be told I am jealous of those who strive to collect people for their own gain, and are good at it. I have a difficult time selling my wares.  It has nothing to do with feeling I have little to offer.  No.  I have much to offer.  I have just never figured out how to be the first in line for corn across the way, like the ducks.  As I scorned the collector across the table at this week*s meeting, I watched the other man being collected, and was given a glimpse of the Kingdom, a real glimpse of the Kingdom.  The man simply shone with kindness and grace, not an ounce of postural privilege.  I saw Jesus.  I want to be like Jesus.

I watch the world

Jockeying for position

Aiming for the highest place.

Even the ducks across the way

Struggle

To beat one another out

For corn.

The woman in Domestic Violence training

Collected me at lunch

When I was noticed

By the teacher.

I saw her collect others

As the weeks moved on.

Her wallet was filled

With business cards

By the end.

Across the table

At this week*s meeting

A collector I*ve known for years

Strove to collect the man

Next to him.

I looked on in admiration

For the man next to him

Was gracious and kind,

Kind and gracious,

Not an ounce of postural privilege.

I want to be like him:

Gracious and kind

Kind and gracious.

I want to be like him.

Pockets

Emptying out my pockets today.  Considering what must be kept, what I can file away for the time being.  Still don*t know what needs to be trashed.

I like clothes

With enough pockets

For everything.

There must always be a place

To stuff the keys

The cell phone.

I avail myself

Of pockets of information,

Ways to use it,

File it,

Even determine

These are not my pockets

Right now

Anyway.

They are not deep enough

Not useful enough.

They do not add a thing

To the clothesline

Of letters

Which already follow

My name.

I collect information

In pockets.

Sometimes the pockets

Must be cleared

Lined up on the counter

The insides hung out

To dry.

Loaded for bear

No.  I don*t really want to talk about it.  Writing about it is enough.

The last couple weeks

I*ve been loaded for bear,

A quaint expression really.

It describes a state of being.

The bear has made his den

Behind the garage

Just out of sight.

Next to the bushes

Filled with snowy cotton bolls.

The robins have returned

Thinking it is spring.

They are cold and wet and,

Well,

Miserable in their robin-ness.

I wait for that one small slight:

The appearance of the bear

From his lair

Behind the garage.

This is hardly Minnesota

Of me

Doncha know

Barely Minnesota.

Personality Disorder, NOS

I am a mental health professional and a priest and a mother and a wife and.... well, a lot of things.  All of us are.  A lot of things.  I am a Person with a capital P.  So are you... and you... and you.  So is every person I sit with in my office, every person I sit next to on the train, every person I pass in the street, simply:  Every Person, Everywhere.  I am a Child of God, as is everyone I encounter, everyone I work with.  I question the helpfulness of Axis 2, most of the time.  Truth be told, we all could be charted on Axis 2, somewhere.  Not Otherwise Specified.

Most of the time

I question Axis 2.

Before learning the DSM structure

In grad school

I had different categories

For people

(Sure I had categories)

But mostly

They were still People

With a capital P.

Walking

Breathing

Children of God.

They still are.

This is a rant.

I know.

Not very poetic

Or even

Reflective.

Most of the time I question

Axis 2.

Truth be told

We all have a number

On Axis 2.

We are all in the book.

These are behavior quirks

Which make us

Not like other people.

Still

We are People

With a capital P,

Walking

Breathing

Children of God.

N  ot

O  therwise

S  pecified.

Thank God.

Praise God.

Creative reasoning

I have competition.  I think I will have share the crown.

I have heard

Three inches

Six inches

Eight inches

May as well make it

A foot of snow

Expected to arrive

From midnight on.

Someone

Did not drive to the clinic today

Because snow is expected

Tomorrow.

It seems I share the crown

For creative reasoning.

It is good to know

I have company.

Real movement

 Moving slow, but still, moving.

I wait for real movement

Upstairs.

It seems I move more easily

In the morning

Than the rest of the household.

I am still not one

For early conversation,

For filling my head with new things

Or old.

It is enough to shower

Dress

Brew the coffee

Pour the cereal

With the right amount of milk.

Oh yes

And write this

In quiet words

As I watch the ducks

Search for breakfast

Across the way,

As I wait for real movement

Upstairs.

Reasons I left the manual behind

Some accomplishments come with an aftermath.  My creative reasoning is still at work... on a caffeine high.

This was the last day

Of Domestic Violence training.

I left the big green manual

On the table

At the shelter.

I see it in my mind*s eye:

Big and green

Filled with notes.

On the table.

I was giddy

With final day accomplishment.

Perhaps it was the diet coke at lunch,

Maybe the massive

Double espresso

Chocolate chip cookie I consumed

As I listened

To what I should and shouldn*t do

As a volunteer,

Ethics guidelines

On a caffeine high

Following a Mexican lunch.

Dangerous combinations.

It is still Lent

I remain the mistress

Of creative reasoning.

The way of the panda

I*m glad I listen to NPR.  News from the BBC often reminds me of Monty Python.  Pandas all over the world are being observed this month.

Panda research finds the panda

Only interested in reproduction

Once a year.

Now is the time.

This timely report on panda reproduction

is delivered

In the Queen*s English.

It sounds rather like

A Monty Python sketch.

Underneath it all

I hear

Time to bury the cat.

The report offers the fact

Male pandas do handstands

In mating season

To wee on trees

As high up on the tree

As possible.

This fact and others

Are offered

In the finest British accent.

I am glad I am not a panda female

Rating acrobatic males,

Ranking who has nailed the tree

The highest.

Time to bury the cat

I hear

Time to bury the cat.