Finally the greening

Spring brings new life to places I suspected were lifeless.  A good thing.

Finally the greening

Has arrived,

Sun in tow.

The cat sleeps upside down,

Ears twitch with birdsong,

Tail offers

The occasional thump.

The house is again open

To the world.

We bring the outside in

And inside out.

Spring is leaven.

Spring is yeast.

It brings forth life

In unexpected places.

It makes new trails,

New tracks in places

Which were heretofore

Uninhabited.

When early enough

Up early to take the daughter and French student to school.  I resist the urge to go back to bed.  I listen to the cardinal.  He matches the kitchen.  Different thoughts arise when I am up with the sun.

When

Early enough

I can

Climb out of bed

With the sun

And the cardinal

Sings me just awake enough

Before the anxious thoughts

Take hold.

Then

Only then

I write those first thoughts down

Sometimes

I even write them up

Lift them skyward

In homage to the sun

Revere all that is already here

Like now

Truly

It is early enough

I am enough awake

The cardinal sings me up

With the sun.

When they ask

I have probably known this all along.  Taking my own advice?  Now that*s another story.

When they ask what you do

For a living

Tell them

This is what I do.

Then smile enigmatically,

Sweep your arm

In front and behind,

Show them the world

Around you,

The world

Around them;

Smile like the cat

Who swallowed the canary,

Or the Cheshire cat

Whose smile

Was the only thing left.

When they ask

What exactly you do

Tell them it is inexact.

Invite them

For a cup of tea,

A cookie perhaps.

Maybe a walk or stroll

Through the park

Which just bloomed full yellow

With forsythia

Yesterday.

Discouragement/Encouragement/Pretty Good

Sometimes it helps to listen to the conversation between the disagreeing factions, figure out they both have good points.  Turns out both Discouragement and Encouragement grew up in Minnesota... cousins who lived next door... in fact.  Pretty good.

This morning

Discouragement

And her cousin

Encouragement

Sit across from one another

At the dining table.

They trade quips.

Both women are eloquent

In their own way.

The table is covered

With a patchwork quilt.

Lilies purchased last week

For the French student*s arrival

Have fully opened,

The dining room perfumed.

Two new clematis:

Nelly Moser,

Comtesse de Bouchard,

Potted on the front porch,

Wait to be planted.

Meanwhile

In the dining room

Discouragement

Encouragement

Argue.

They gesture,

Each with coffee

In her hand.

I listen.

I believe they both

Make good points.

I see how they are related

At the root,

Not just from opposite shores

Of the  gene pool.

Now I hear they share

A particular accent,

Turn of phrase.

Finally they agree

That things

Are really

Pretty good.

Finally forsythia

We have finally had enough consecutive warmish days to encourage the forsythia.  Now the fly is done inspecting the indoor branch and is on to bothering the cat.

Finally forsythia.

Yesterday

I clipped the sprigs I could find

Added them to two green branches

In the cut glass vase

On the front table.

This morning the forsythia ,

Blooms in shadow

Between the front windows,

Provides an exploration branch

For one lone fly.

He (she?) is methodical,

Checks out each blossom

One at a time.

I see the whole

As outside sculpture

Moved inside.

I consider dusting the table

Underneath.

Good news

Counting success where I may.

Good news emerges

From unexpected places.

Today:

From the dentist.

Yes I have a cavity

Yes there is some bone loss

Around one tooth.

But

The root canal I got

Years ago

Is well-settled,

And

My molar roots

Are 25 percent longer

Than most.

This is apparently

Amazing good news.

I am successful at something

I hadn*t considered

Up until now.

Long roots are good.

I never would have known

If I had not gone

To the dentist.

Long roots are good.

Mine are long.

Good news emerges

From places

Unexpected.

Bongo Board

There is so much to learn from everyone I encounter.  It*s all dialogue.  Yesterday I remembered the Bongo Board we stored in the closet off the living room when I was growing up. I remembered I was good at balancing on it.   The board lived in that living room closet.  The closet also stored the dress-up clothes.  One memory unpacks another.  I remember new things I*ve forgotten.

God sends me people.

They struggle with things,

They dance with things,

I need to weave

Into my life.

When they leave I think

Oh that*s why you came.

When they leave

I think

Until I remembered to say

That one thing

Out loud,

Until you named

That one difficulty,

Until you told me

About that particular

Dance partner,

I forgot.

Yesterday was about balance,

Bongo boards,

And God inhabiting

Everything.

God sends me people.

They help me remember

New things

I*ve forgotten.

Support

The Clinic is undergoing a whole lot of change.  Transition is an understatement.  Following the staff support group on Tuesday, we looked at the chairs, arranged in a circle for the group, and thought to put them back the way they had been.  We didn*t.   We put them back in a different way, so people might talk with one another while they wait for services.  I have no idea what happened to the chairs on Wednesday.  I do know there was energy present in the room when we left.  I believe it has something to do with mutual support.

Sometimes support means

Simply

To gather the wherewithal

To switch

The seating arrangement.

Sometimes

All that is required

Is to offer a different seat,

Something as simple

As sitting

In a different place.

I have done this before

Myself.

Now I counsel others

To consider the same thing.

Sometimes the first step

To regain control

Is to determine

Where to sit,

Only then  

May we grant to others

The very same

Possibility.

Filled with people

I am an introvert.  This will come as no surprise to those who know me.  This week is filled with new people.    We host a French exchange student this week and next.  I have four new clients this week, and a new support group to lead.  It is Wednesday morning with nothing scheduled.  The French student is in Springfield with the group.  My daughter returns home at noon.  I hear the birds outside.  I do not have to do anything with the birds except listen to them.  Just listen.

This week is completely filled

With new people.

French people.

American people.

Some are even written down  

On my calendar

For appointments.

All week

New people.

A potluck with exchange students,

Exchange families.

A high school reception

For National Honor Society,

Everyone takes numerous pictures.

We forgot to bring a camera.

We did find our wedding pictures

When we cleaned the room

For the exchange student.

The house holds extra people

When I return home.

I have the blank space,

The blessedly blank space,

Of a nothing-scheduled

Wednesday morning

Before I meet with two new clients

This afternoon.

I hear the birds outside.

I hear the birds

Outside.

I am inside,

In blessedly blank space.

For now.

Volunteer

Today I begin to coordinate a support group for staff at the Clinic where I volunteer.  When I volunteered to do this, the group was thought to address one issue.  Last week one of the two clinic sites completely flooded, destroying all the records.  That site will not re-open, and all the staff and patients have been consolidated to one location.  Yesterday was the first day with everyone together.  When people gather this afternoon, we will see what is needed.

Amazing are the things

Which need

A volunteer.

I count hours as a counselor

Volunteer

For free supervision.

Still it seems

Nothing ever really

Comes free.

Unknown strings,

Untied shoelaces

Trip me up,

No matter how much

Volunteer paperwork

I turn in.

There are always more I-s to be dotted,

T-s to be crossed.

The last jot and tittle

Won*t be discovered

Until after everything we know

Has been said and done.

Still amazing

Those things which require

A volunteer,

No tit for tat

Nothing ventured

Nothing gained

Nothing ever quite

What it seems.

There is more than enough

Volunteer work,

Free supervision

Or not.

There is always more than enough.

Every single bit counts.

We will know where it figures into the big picture

When all is said and done,

When the very last piece

Is set in place.

New life (or old)

This is for you, Rick Stevens.  The poem in it.

The microwave came to life

Yesterday.

We had pushed every possible button,

Except Power Saver,

It seems.

Pushing the Power Saver button

Meant

Everything went blank.

Pushing it again

Brought the microwave

To life.

The power had been saved

Until then.

The clock kept time

Inside.

It was still exactly right,

Time kept

On some microwave chip

Inside,

An internal time-keeping piece.

The time?

Exactly right.

Next

This morning brings

The value in

Not pushing through,

But instead

Relaxing into.

This is not the same thing

As

Giving up

But instead

Noticing what is indeed

The next right thing,

The thing

That clamors to be next,

Hints at its next-ness,

If I only let it be

Next.

Sans microwave

No matter how much we prepare for a guest*s arrival, no matter how much we prepare for everything to be perfect, unplanned things happen.  Actually I am grateful it*s just the microwave so far.  I well remember counseling couples before they got married.  The things that go wrong, I used to say, are where memories are made.  I used to be so wise.  Of course some things are more funny, more memorable, in retrospect.

And now

Every surface has been cleared

And cleaned;

The cat box emptied,

Filled with new litter;

The room is ready

For occupancy.

The car is cleared

For luggage from the airport.

The snow has melted.

The sun shines.

But now

The microwave is dead,

I tell you,

Dead.

Under warranty, yes,

But still

Dead.

The cat sleeps anyway.

I plan dinner for our guest

From Paris.

We will live sans microwave.

People did it for years.

The snow has melted.

The sun shines.

Our guest will arrive

Microwave

Or not.

Snow shovel

I bet I*m not alone in this.

We have cleaned up

For the arrival from Paris.

The daughter

Put the snow shovel

In the garage.

I am not superstitious

(much)

But there is now snow

On the ground.

April 20 with snow

On the ground,

Not much, mind you,

But snow.

I do not believe

(really)

It has anything to do

With snow shovels,

Where they live.

It does remind me of umbrellas

And rain.

I wonder how many people it takes

To put away their snow shovels,

To cause it to snow.

I wonder if certain people,

Like my daughter

Have the power

To make it snow.

I wonder if it takes

Only one.

Tree blight

As I write this, the tree guys feed branches into wood shredders.  It is incredibly loud.  The ash tree in our backyard has been deemed treatable.  We will see. 

As I write this, Boston and the surrounding area is on lockdown for the Marathon bombers.  The bombers, maybe two, maybe three, are mostly marked with orange Xs.

We live on a street

With ash trees.

They are mostly marked

With orange Xs

Their fate is clear.

The emerald ash borer

Must be stopped

In its tracks.

They came from Asia.

Nothing bad ever begins

In this country

In this county

In this town

On this street

In our yard.

Growing up in Minneapolis

It was Dutch elm.

It is always easier

To blame something bad,

On some thing

On some one

From overseas
even
Over some border.

Mark them with orange Xs

Stop the blight

Nothing ever seems to start

Here.

Sign from God

I often wonder what I*m doing somewhere, even those things which seemed so clear when I signed up for them in the first place.  This was one of them.  I learned a lot but I have no idea how I will put the information to use.  Sometimes it seems we*re mostly somewhere for someone else.

My tablemate

At DUI training

Said I was

A sign from God.

Her grandmother shared my name.

She always called her grandmother

Before a test,

Asked her to pray

Pray me through this, Grammy,

She*d say.

I wondered why I was there.

This must be part of it.

Sometimes we*re someone else*s

Sign from God.

Nothing more,

Nothing less.

I wondered

Why I was there.

Drainage ditch

When is a ditch not a ditch?  When it claims its exotic Amazon roots.  If it flows long and hard enough, it may even reach the ocean.

The drainage ditch rages

Out back,

Splits its edges.

 It holds aspirations

Of exotic proportions.

It claims kinship

With the Amazon

The Nile.

It flows with so many new

River thoughts.

What can it be thinking?

It is a drainage ditch

After all,

Not some river in South America;

Not a tributary

In Africa

Flowing fully

To the ocean.

The sky splits with thunder

In response.

The ditch

No longer a mere ditch

Rages.

Making order

Yep, the rumble is thunder.  Day two of DUI training.  Guess I*ll be driving in the rain.

We have been cleaning

For two weeks now.

The cat seeks familiar

Mess.

He currently sleeps

In the newspaper bin.

It fits him just right,

His cheek balances on the edge.

The newspapers,

gone,

Are being recycled

As I write,

A rumble in the distance

might be truck,

train on the tracks

Or sky.

The cat sleeps.

My beloved

Sleeps.

We count down to Saturday

When our student flies in

From Paris.

Turns out the rumble

Is sky.

I can always count

On the sky

And the cat.

Anxiety in the rocking chair

This is one of those times I wonder what defines me, what the future holds.  My fear, of course, is that it holds nothing.   In these moments Anxiety sits across from me, stares me in the eye.  I have given her my father*s sweater jacket, the one he used to wear on his farm in Wisconsin, and my blue and white sweater socks.  She and I will go for a massage next week, get our shoulders back into place.  Right now we*re drinking tea.

Tonight I sit with Anxiety

Across from me

In the rocking chair.

She rocks

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

She wears three mismatched sweaters,

Red and purple,

Moss green knit

Fake fleece inside,

Moth hole chewed into the left sleeve,

Her father used to wear it

On the farm.

Blue and white sweater socks

Hold her feet.

Anxiety*s shoulders

Hunch up around her ears.

I promise to call tomorrow,

Make her an appointment

For a massage

Early next week.

She wonders out loud

If tea would be a good idea.

What a good idea

I say

Let me put the kettle on.

Wearing of the green

Green seems appropriate for the season of spring.  The church wears white or gold for Easter (white even before Memorial Day!).  Actually I favor something leaning toward teal.  Today begins a three day DUI training.  Yes, more training.  I will attend in green.  It is spring, I tell you, spring. Stuck inside a hotel, we will need all the reminders we can get.

I had another church dream

Many nights ago.

I was dressed for the church parade.

Everyone else was in red and white

And gold.

I had unearthed a green stole.

I know

Green is not the color

Yet.

Yet green

Was all I could find.

I had no part in the play

Except walking in

Walking out

And it seems

Wearing green.

Today I wear four permutations

Of green.

No stole.

No church.

Today I have no part in the play

Except to listen

Take notes

Wear green.

Three things at once

When I am awakened suddenly, before the requisite dream state, I roll out of bed and do one thing at a time.  I have finished the oatmeal.  As I sip coffee, I realize I have not had a Starbucks latte since before Lent. I will post this next, the coffee warm in my hands before I consider the plan for the day, a Monday which will line out on the page, line out in the office, client by client by client.

In early morning

I never know what

Lines out on the page.

The next thing appears

As if by miracle.

Ideas come one by one

By one.

It may be a function

Of waking up

Suddenly

To drive the daughter

To school.

I do not plan the day

As much as move

From one thing

To the next.

I find Starbucks

On the way home.

I think

Oatmeal

Might be good.

I determine not

To return to bed

But instead

To write

Eat my oatmeal

Drink the non-fat latte

Another thought that arrived

After the oatmeal.

I determine to do

Three things at once

A miracle in itself,

Three things at once,

So early in the morning.

The room upstairs

In this house we do cleaning sprints.  We host a French exchange student beginning next Saturday. His room upstairs is now ready.  We have made three trips to Goodwill, and piled the curb on trash day last week.  We clean to deadline.  All three of us clean to deadline.  One room down.  More to go.  Lots more to go.

The room upstairs

Is ready to host.

The theme is teal and gray

With white jersey sheets,

A picture on the wall

My grandmother painted:

Flowers with teal leaves.

It is masculine enough.

Over the dresser hangs the line drawing

Of a hippo

With a fork,

A Thanksgiving turkey

Ready to eat.

A whimsical touch.

Do the French

Appreciate whimsy?

We have made baby steps

On the rest of the house.

We have begun the countdown

To ready enough.

The door is shut

To the host-able room,

Upstairs.

The cat waits outside

The door,

Ready to make a break

For clean sheets

New pillows

A hiding place

Under the bed.

Morning conversation with Humility and Perspicacity

I am still not sure how to pronounce perspicacity.  She was a surprise breakfast guest this morning.  Humility has a regular chair at the table these days.

I sit with Humility and Perspicacity

This morning.

Humility drinks herbal tea.

Perspicacity likes coffee black.

Me?

Black coffee with a generous dollop

Of cream.

Humility and Perspicacity both

Are dressed for breakfast

And beyond.

Me?

I made it out of bed

Accomplishment in itself.

I sit in pajamas,

Notice the lawn care people

Already at work

In the neighborhood.

I consider rejuvenating

My high school knowledge of Spanish.

Humility suggests I consider

The room upstairs,

The room that will host

Our exchange student

Next Saturday.

Perspicacity  offers the possibility

Of one step at a time.

She attends AA meetings,

Likes to consider

The next right thing.

I wonder

Do these women always

Live into their names?

When Perspicacity appeared

I had to look up the meaning of her name.

Humility was an easy one.

She shows up regularly.

The next right thing is breakfast.

Humility eats oatmeal.

With Perspicacity

It depends on the day.

Me?

I eat a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats

With Almonds,

Pour myself another cup of coffee

With a dollop of cream.

More hot water, another tea bag

For Humility;

For Perspicacity

A warmer of black coffee.

Is it spring yet?

There are more signs of spring around.  Unlike last year, with an unseasonably early spring, this one feels unseasonably late.  I complained last year too, sure that the earliness meant unknown repercussions for the rest of the year.  Today there are a few buds.  The rhubarb has poked its head through the soil.  The clematis has not yet dared to consider vining.  I wonder if the lateness will bring unknown repercussions for the rest of the year.

Today the sky

Is still gray

But more leaf buds

Emerge.

Soon enough

Ok maybe not soon enough

It will be full on

Spring.

This is the way

It always goes

Even when I forget,

Reminders come full force

Every year

Long about this time

Though of course

I would prefer those reminders

Still earlier.

Disappointment for breakfast

This morning I am skipping the Thursday work-out and sitting with disappointment for breakfast.  She may have a thing or two to teach me.  What exactly, I have no idea.  That*s why I need to pay attention.

I vowed to make friends

With Disappointment,

Pour her a cup of coffee

At the breakfast table,

Exchange sections of the morning paper,

Sit and make morning chit-chat,

Watch the back lawn

Grow greener.

Her face looks like a prune.

She needs more than a laugh

Or two.

I wonder

Which comic strip

Appeals to her sense of humor?

Does she even have

A sense of humor?

Is it dark or silly?

Does she see the oddness

In my asking?

Which cereal would she like

Topped with strawberries?

One or two servings of fruit

Is a good way

To start the day.

Even for someone

Named Disappointment.

Does her name

Cause her distress?

What were her parents thinking?

Whatever were they thinking?

She sits across from me

In her mismatched PJs

Uncombed hair.

Let me warm up your cup of coffee

I say.

Let me give you a warmer.

Open doors and windows

Almost three weeks since a wonderful job interview but no news.  So I called to find out.  I had pretty much figured the answer was no.  My interviewer answered the phone... herself.  Even though HR was supposed to contact me... they didn*t.  This is not a new experience.  I could have let the door stay closed.  I have done that before.   I counseled a client this week to open the door of the literal room he needs to paint, so he could see it when he passes by, and not pretend it wasn*t there.  
We all have such closed doors.  Sometimes we have closed windows. 

Never know what you*ll see

When you open those doors

Or windows:

Literal doors and windows

Or even

The figurative ones.

Never know what will

Blow through:

Soft spring breezes

Gale force winds.

It is much neater

To keep them closed.

The furniture stays upright.

Rain doesn*t blow in.

Things stay dry.

It is so much neater

To keep the doors and windows closed.

Never know what you*ll see

With open windows,

Open doors.

Is it me?

I attended a ministry and mental health conference yesterday.  It was wonderful in so many ways.  Most all the materials were available in English and Spanish.  The speaker I was dreading was bright, accessible and funny.  The workshop leader was very good.  I talked with a classmate from Wheaton I have not seen since graduation.  We compared notes and shared experiences.  I suspect both of us have grown leaps and bounds since graduation.  Who knew?  I saw change all around me with a capital C.

I see Change

With a capital C.

All I can say is

Wow.

The Christian conference

I attended yesterday

Was amazing.

As often happens

I was probably

The lone Episcopalian.

Often I feel like

An anthropologist.

I try to learn the customs

From outside in,

Inside out.

I strive to place my preconceived notions

Of the main speaker,

The particular workshops

On hold.

So I can hear.

So I can see.

So I can perhaps learn

Something different.

I claim not to ride in

On a white or black horse.

Certainly

No Tonto.

Last year I sat with

The other Episcopalian.

This year I see change

With a capital C.

Beyond anthropology

I see kinfolk.

Wow.

Is it me or them

Or was there never any real difference

In the first place?

If not forsythia, what?

Always we wait.  Most often we seem to miss what is already here.

We still wait for forsythia,

The rhubarb barely present

At the end of the garden bed.

Last year it was half grown by now.

This year is nothing

Like last year.

Still we always wait

For something

Just around the corner.

There is always something

To wait for

Even while something

Is always here,

Waiting to be discovered.

If not forsythia

What?

Warmer spring rain

When my daughter wants to go early to school, I drive her there and am enough awake to stay up when I return home.  The house is quiet.  This is my favorite time to write.  Today spring is more than a possibility.  The rain softens things.  It invites new growth.  It amplifies the sound of trains.  It brings out hope in birdsong.      Me too.

Today may well be a day

To bask

In warmer spring rain.

When I drove my girl

To school

It was 45 degrees.

Newly awake

I tried to change the outside temperature

On the car dashboard.

If all goes as promised

The weather will achieve

The 60*s by afternoon.

Quite an accomplishment

I say out loud

To no one in particular,

My beloved and the cat

Sound asleep upstairs.

What do they know now

Except a warm bed?

I listen to the train.

It is always louder

When it runs on wet tracks.

Today is a day

To bask in warm spring rain

Graduation

Finally.  Finally.  I have graduated to the pew.  It took a full six years... but here I am.  Finally.  I do not need to do a thing to justify my pew-sitting.  No excuses necessary or called for.  Amazing, really.  Stunning.

I have graduated

To the pew.

It took me long enough.

Today at coffee hour

I straight-pinned green paper wads

As leaves

To brown styrofoam trees

For summer Vacation Bible School.

My beloved and I

Sat in the library

During the third service,

Waved to the people

Who slipped through the side door

Late.

We noted the man who filched the cream

From the kitcheonette refrigerator;

Perused the Sunday paper.

I have graduated to the pew,

The library,

To the edges

Of coffee hour.

I am no longer incognito clergy.

I am a regular.

I have graduated

Fully

Simply

To the pew.

The next right thing

My beloved and I sit at the dining table, name the things which must be tossed or given away.  This weekend we will completely clear the room for our exchange student.  Next weekend is for redecoration.  

I think about the person I sat with years ago who had a dirty white chair in her living room.  It loomed every time she walked in the house.  We made a plan together to get that white chair cleaned by the next time we met..  That one simple act got her unstuck.  It seemed magical to me. AA often talks about doing the next right thing.  I found myself offering the same counsel this week to another client.  Today we sit at the dining table and identify the next right thing for this weekend.

The room which will hold

Our French exchange student

Beckons.

Now the door,

cracked open,

Allows the possibility

Of emptying,

Then cleaning.

The Halloween decorations scream:

Light-up eyeballs,

Shivering ghosts,

The spider we put

In the front hallway

Many years ago.

Mr Green,

The talking miniature Christmas tree:

He cackles.

Endless partial rolls

Of red and green wrapping paper

We never could find every Christmas.

So each year

We added more.

The candle lights

For every window

Are there.

One fell

Burned a hole in my carpet

In Boston.

The room beckons

With holiday trappings,

Its door cracked open.

The deadline looms.

Two weeks from now

France arrives to stay with us

For two weeks.

All three of us

Most always

Work to deadline.

Cost

Holy stories are not limited to the ones told in church or between office walls.  There is holiness in the listening and in the telling.  Sometimes it*s hard to tell who should be paying whom.  There is always cost involved, somehow.  Sometimes money changes hands.  

Yesterday brought

Eight countable hours.

Three I was paid for.

Two cost me money:

The trainer

The hairdresser.

Both had deep stories.

The hairdresser even cleaned my glasses

So I could see my new haircut

More clearly.

I re-met a woman from church

On the street corner.

She has learned to pass

With adequate social skills.

This comes

With clear cost

To her.

We shook hands when we met,

Shook hands

When I left.

When I turned around,

She had disappeared

Entirely.

Everything costs something.

Sometimes we pay.

Sometimes we are paid.

Sometimes the exchange

Is simply, purely, free.