Dribble

As I sit here I feel the numbness under my right ear.  I*m told it should all wear off in the early afternoon.  I am sort of drinking coffee from a mug I rarely use.  I am dribbling.  The mug says Thank you for not being perky.  Thank you, I tell the mug, thank you... it is great to be honored in my non-perkiness.

Back from the dentist

My upper jaw is numb

Through my right nostril

And slightly

Under my right eye.

You will be able to eat

The dentist said.

Sitting here I think

You didn*t tell me

Drinking coffee

Would be such a challenge.

Sitting here

I dribble.

And I write

Numb of jaw.

I push my husband

To reschedule

His dental appointment.

My honorable aim

Is to promote his self-care.

Secretly,

Or maybe not

So secretly,

As I dribble,

I really seek

Company.

Counting chickens

Clergy used to be paid in chickens and eggs (and other such things).  I*m back to figuring out what I will be when I arrive, much less where I will be when I arrive. God knows.  Of course God knows.  And pay?  Cups of coffee and an occasional chicken.  My friend says God holds up placards for me.  Yep.  It*s been a multi-placarded week.  I*m not sure how many placards I will need.  Probably a few more.  Almost certainly a few more.

I*m not much for labels.

I do believe Child of God

Is plenty good enough.

Yet

Yet

I still wonder

When I will ever arrive.

If

I will ever arrive.

And

If I do,

Where will I be?

I wonder

How to market myself.

After all

I*m not much for labels.

I wonder

If anyone will ever find me

Other than

By word of mouth.

I wonder if the practice

Of offering something

Hot to drink

A discerning heart

Will net anything more

Than the occasional chicken.

I wonder if anyone

Will know me

As God does.

I wonder if God is the only one

Who needs no explanation

And I can simply rest here

Awhile,

Count the occasional chicken

And

Wait.

Simply wait.

DSM-5 (a haiku)

The Diagnostic Statistical Manual, Fifth Edition, arrived in the mail yesterday.  I am assured the editors see it as a work in progress.  I am skeptical.  Can a book progress as people do?  This is a reminder haiku.  It*s short; easily committed to memory.

They say it*s a work

In progress.  The book*s like us.

Exactly like us.

Flood

It was one of those days... a series of encounters meaningful to me, and, I realize now, to others.  A figurative flood of encounters.  This probably happens all the time.  It*s just sometimes... I notice.

Yesterday was a figurative

Flood.

People washed over

My hull

In public places

And private.

I had lunch

With unplanned people,

Met them coming

And going.

I realized

I was part of the figurative flood

Washing over

The hulls

Of others.

I figure I know

Some of them anyway.

There is rarely any good way

To figure them all.

Yesterday I was flooded

And flood

Both.

Robin

We live here too.  You*ll just have to share.

The robin in the tree

Across the street

Has claimed our front lawn

And driveway

For his own.

He hops the blacktop

For worms

Or perhaps to mark

His boundaries.

This morning he thought

To stand down

The car,

Puffed up,

His chest more orange

Than usual.

We live here too

I said to him

You*ll just have to share.

Cloud of Information

I have to laugh.  Even as I write this, I know this blog is adding to the massive Cloud of Information.  Somehow this does not bother me.  So...what does it matter that someone might find out how many steps I take in a day, or whether my sleep was light or heavy?  Still... I am the child of the father who always overpaid his taxes, in part so he would be left alone.  I am the child of the father who sought to protect anything and everything.  This Memorial Day I am the child of the father who fought in World War II, who was injured in France, the only one left alive when his truck was bombed.  I am the child of the father who never talked about such things.

So many things

To pay attention to.

We have devices

Which almost mean

We do not

Have to pay attention to anything

Ourselves.

The devices will do it

For us

Just as long as there is Wi-Fi.

The devices will chronicle

Every atom of sleep

Deep or catnap;

Every step we take

Running

Or walking;

And oh so many

Other things.

There is an application

For everything, almost.

The apps will register it all

In the Cloud of Information.

I am the child of my father.

I just purchased

A pedometer.

It will count my daily steps

As I work up

To ten thousand.

It will not be registered

Anywhere

But in my head.

I leave my sleep

To fend for itself.

I am the child of my father.

The Cloud of Information

Knows enough about me

Already.

Trinity

I woke up this morning thinking about writing that owl reflection.  It is such a cool picture: three barn owls peering out of a rounded cross shaped window.  So I began.  The owls have yet to make their appearance.  Instead I remembered that breakfast with Possibility and Disappointment, and the later meeting I had with my therapist/supervisor/consultant.  Perhaps you could all hold hands, he said. Maybe you could close the circle.  

I am not on the roster

To preach

Yet every time

Trinity Sunday rolls around

I think what I might say

To clear things up

This time.

A few weeks ago now

I had breakfast with

Disappointment

And Possibility,

Just the three of us.

We all walked under the crabapple.

Possibility and I

Held Disappointment*s hands.

What if all three of you

Held hands,

Closed the circle

In the backyard

And danced?

He asked.

What if?

This morning I think

Why that would be

Perichoresis.

If we danced fast enough

No one

Could tell us apart.

I was glad

Sometimes I wake up with a thought about what I will write... and then other things take precedence.  Like this.  Time to make a hot pot of coffee.

I was glad

To sleep

This morning.

It is cloudy,

Somewhat chill.

Bed held daylight dreams

Of my children

When they were small.

I was glad to sleep in.

Now

The flat of flowers

Just outside the window

Beckons to be planted

In the empty plastic planters

In front.

I have not yet opened

The front door.

Not yet.

The cold cup of coffee,

The last one from yesterday*s pot

Says

Oh come on

What is it to make

A fresh hot carafe?

I was going to write about owls.

This came out

First.

Risk tolerance

Strange to say, or perhaps it*s comforting, or risky or...  I am back to the place of I can*t tell.  I know the risk tolerance quiz which arrived this morning has to do with financial risk... still I wonder how to measure any kind of risk, much less arrive at any kind of real answer.  Then to have a new client quote Julian to me.  

The morning sends

A quiz

For risk tolerance

As if there are answers

To such a thing.

I wonder about

The answer key

To the quiz.

I wonder if it measures

What it is necessary

To measure

But then

My eyes are focused

On different things.

I figure I could live in the middle

Of someone else*s back yard

Be perfectly

Ok.

Pretty good, in fact,

In the Minnesota way

Of things.

Last night a client quoted

Julian of Norwich to me.

I keep seeing it

She said

I keep hearing it:

All shall be well

And all manner of things

Shall be well.

I reply

I*ve heard that

Yes

I*ve heard that too.

Mirrors

It*s like mirrors, I think, when I read this morning*s inbox offering of yesterday*s blog.  Really I only subscribe myself so I make sure other subscribers are receiving it.  This morning I read it.  Usually I just note it*s there, and delete it.  This morning I read it.  I feel a bit like Alice.

I look in the inbox.

There is yesterday*s blog entry

Which itself reflected

The day before.

It*s a mirror

Reflecting a mirror

Behind me.

It begins a seeming endless looking

Backward

Or maybe it*s forward

I can*t quite tell.

I write this today.

I know it will arrive tomorrow

In the inbox.

I will say

Oh there you were

Now

Where are you today?

Tendrils

Tendrils, the clematis, and me.  A reflection.  Thanks, Jen... for lunch and conversation and tying some more twine.

I left the clematis

On the front pillar

To grow by itself

A little too long.

It twined on itself

In a green twin-y mass

Of vine.

Now I spend time every day

Carefully separating vines,

Untwining leaf tendrils

Attached to each other.

Sometimes I have to call it quits,

Tear a tendril or two or three,

Trust that the vine

Will grow new ones,

Anchor itself

In better places.

Today I will tie more garden twine

Higher up the pillar,

Train another vine or two

Upward.

Maybe the clematis wants to live closer

To the sun.

I demonstrated clematis tendrils

At lunch yesterday,

Hooked my fingers

Under the table

And tugged.

Today I will unhook a few more tendrils

Tie some new twine

Allow myself to be trained

Upward.

Metronome redux

I got a letter yesterday from a credentialing organization.  One more thing, it said, one more thing, and we will give you more letters after your name.  Maybe it will allow me to come at the official letters from another angle, I thought.  Maybe.  Get thee behind me.  Get thee behind me.  Then I saw the NPR metronome post. Oh yeah, I thought.  Oh yeah.  I am thinking of going back to that bookstore and setting all the metronomes at different speeds.

Before I started grad school

The last time around

I found the metronome display

In the bookstore.

I had no idea

There was such a wealth

Of metronomes.

I thought about starting them all

At different speeds

Stealthily,

Quietly,

Then leaving.

I didn*t do it

But still

I smiled all day

At the thought.

http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2013/05/17/184815141/the-little-metronome-that-wouldnt

The Beyond

Today was a funk day.  When I got in the car, the gas gauge said now, get gas now, or you will surely be sorry.  So I listened.  I was not late.  In retrospect, many positive things happened... conversations, mostly.  When I got home I opened the doors and windows... and heard the children playing out of the corner of my eye.  

After days of encouraging others

To look beyond themselves,

I was ambushed tonight

By the Beyond

Myself.

It stood in my peripheral vision

Waited to pounce

Until I slightly turned my head.

The day did not begin well.

Mondays rarely do.

There was little magic.

Still the Beyond

Had tricks up its sleeve.

Sometimes it even wears a cloak

Of invisibility.

I cannot identify

Anything particular

Except now it is the end

Of the day

And with all the windows open,

I hear the children

Playing.

Pools of petals

A week or two ago I pointed out the flowering trees to the Spanish teacher at church.  It had rained and the dropping petals were beginning to form  fairy circles under the trees.  Isn*t it pretty?  I said.  

It*s so sad, she said, so very sad.

The mulberry peonies

Only in bud on Mother*s Day

Are full out now.

The petals drop

One or two or three an hour.

We just came home from church.

The table holds

A purple-red pool

Of petals.

We must have been gone

Longer than I thought.

It is a week

Of dropping petals.

The woman who teaches Spanish

At church,

When petals began to drop

From the trees:

The pear

The apple

The dogwood,

The woman said

Isn*t it sad?

Isn*t it so sad?

At the exact same time

I notice pink and white pools

Of petals.

I notice we see

Different things.

More

The redbud is an amazing tree.  In spring the blossoms even pop out of the tree trunk, almost like nothing can contain them, there are so many.  It was fitting to arrive home yesterday from an amazing workshop, home from unpredicted encounters with unexpected people who told me what I needed to hear.  And then... and then... to find the sidewalk seams filled with fallen purple buds,   And then... to realize there are more buds yet to fall.

I drove home

Through flowering trees.

I walked up the front walk.

The concrete sidewalk seams

Were filled

With purple buds

Yet the redbud

Remains full.

There are more to come,

More to fill

More cracks,

More to stay on the tree

For right now,

And then

More to fill the cracks,

Even more

To line the way,

To light the way

To the front door.

Crabapple

Enjoyed the rain of pink crabapple petals the last couple days.  

The petals made

A pink pool

Under the crabapple.

Today the tree itself

Barely pink

Is instead

Dusk with a hint

Of rose

Like the sky after the sun

has set.

Black bones

Show through

The green  more of a promise

Than realization.

The fruit

Is still

a long way off.

Pedicure

In my tradition, footwashing is part of the Maundy Thursday ritual.  I*m sure the number of pedicures rises during Holy Week.  With the warmer weather and in celebration of her upcoming birthday, my daughter and I got pedicures.  I usually choose pale pink nail polish.  On a whim, I chose red this year.  A day later I remember it is Pentecost this Sunday.

I didn*t get the standard pedicure

For Maundy Thursday.

Instead I met with a client

Under the footwashing space.

Today is my daughter*s birthday

We each got a pedicure

Yesterday,

Complete with salt scrub.

I chose red nail polish.

I*m sure it has a fancy dancy name.

I didn*t look.

Sitting with a client today

I told him

God is always speaking,

Sometimes we hear.

After he left I noticed my toes

Painted red

For Pentecost.

Sometimes realization

Takes its own sweet time.

Rays

The Shedd Aquarium now has a Stingray Touch exhibit.  Yeah!  Find a small child and visit.  Even if you don*t have access to a small child, visit and remember the small child in you.  There*s nothing like it.  My son is now living in Minneapolis.  God willing he will visit this summer.

Over twenty years ago

I stood with a small boy

In his orange ball cap.

We carefully placed our hands

In the large kiddie pool of rays

Swimming

Swooping

Gliding

At the New England Aquarium.

We visited the rays

Regularly,

Felt their slippery sandpaper skin

Sliding by.

We even talked about bringing one home

As a saltwater pet.

I remember the faded orange ball cap

The wonder in a five almost six year old*s eyes

The cool sandpaper feel

Of the rays

Gliding

Simply gliding

under our hands.

One a day

When I think about it, everything comes one at a time: clients, flower petals, even me.  

Sometimes clients

Come

One a day.

This is a one-a-day week.

Hardly a way

To make a living,

A life,

Or maybe it is:

My life,

Anyway.

Today I watch the crabapple

Shower petals.

I prepare for my own

One-a-day conversation

At ten o’clock.

I focus on the rain

Of petals

Perhaps

The reign of petals

Falling,

My own singular

Once a month

Conversation.

Sometimes things come

Once a day

Once a month

Like clockwork.

Sometimes they pour.

Nuts

I like that Julian meditated on the hazelnut.  It helps in days like these, when I wait for something to happen.  It helps on days like these, when I wait.

It*s hard to explain,

A conundrum,

So I*ll leave it lay

For now.

This

Is a hard nut to crack,

A pistachio

With no easy way

In.

Still I know

It is green in the middle.

Simply for just now

I will let it be

What it already is.

In time I may find

The potential.

Perhaps it is a hazelnut

Hard

Round

Brown

I shall call it filbert

Maybe Fil for short.

I will hold it in my hand,

Roll it between my fingers

Know there is some kind

Of a future there,

Hard to explain,

A conundrum.

Better

It is good to have friends who notice.

It is better

She says

To have breakfast

With the likes of Disappointment,

In the spring,

When the weather is warmer,

The light is clearer,

The trees full-blossomed.

How was breakfast

This weekend?

She asked.

I replied

I think we*re getting somewhere,

Wherever somewhere is.

Conventional

When I returned home last weekend I marveled this outside-the-box family, even the members I had never met before.  I caught myself thinking I am conventional, in comparison.  No.  Really... no.

I met extended family

Last week.                    

We walked through

The bird sanctuary

In the snow,

Had a close encounter

With a ruby-crowned kinglet,

The female version,

Minus the distinctive

Ruby crown.

My toes were frozen

By the end.

We are a motley crew.

Still

I thought

I am the most conventional

Of the lot.

A ruby-crowned kinglet, perhaps,

In female disguise.

It seems I may have failed

Conventionality.

I was a parish priest

But it was early

In the game.

Now I stand

With half a license

In mental health.

Here

I have arrived late

In the game,

Whatever game it is.

It seems I barely know

Conventional.

I would not recognize it

If it hopped onto a branch

Six feet from my head

Like the ruby-crowned kinglet,

Female,

Without the ruby crown.

It seems I need

Yet another

Conventional guide

To birds.

Mother*s Day

I hope for my children the blessing of children... small, then grown.

Two amazing children

Not children

Anymore

But now

Amazing young adults.

No mother

Could ask for more.

Very simply

No mother

Could ask for

Any more.

Blessings pour.

Possibility as the guest of honor

When I went to bed last night I realized that my vision for the morning had Possibility and me holding Disappointment*s hands.  I hadn*t realized Disappointment was a little girl.  She is.  I wonder what she will look like... all grown up.  I imagine she will still be late for breakfast, and prefer cocoa in her bunny mug,  Maybe I can teach her how to weed.  Then again, maybe not.

As I lay in bed

Last night

I went over the guest list

And plans

For the morning.

I realized I had invited

Possibility

As the guest of honor.

She wears her silver hair

In a practical bob.

Sure enough

She arrived wearing blue jeans,

Hiking boots,

A workshirt.

She brought her garden tools

With her,

Ready to do some weeding with me

After breakfast.

When Disappointment arrives

As she surely will

(Truly

She is most always

Late)

We will feed her eggs and toast

Find her special bunny mug

With two handles,

One on either side,

Pour her

Steaming hot cocoa.

Disappointment looks

Like she always has:

Very young.

Pigtails.

A pinafore.

She has never

Gotten any older.

She does not know how to distinguish

A weed

From anything.

After breakfast

Possibility and I

Will take Disappointment for a walk

Under the flowering trees.

We will each

Take a hand.

We may point out an occasional weed

But most of all

We will help Disappointment look up,

Notice the blossom-laden trees.

Possibility and I

Will predict the fruit.

Possibility for breakfast

I am getting settled into the idea that I will probably not get that final license.  Of course, when I really think about it, I am already doing what I feel called to do, half-licensed though I am.  So I will sit at breakfast with Disappointment and Possibility tomorrow and we will take a walk under the flowering trees after we eat.

I think I will invite Possibility

For breakfast

In the morning

While the others sleep in.

I will make scrambled eggs,

Rye toast

And a pot of strong coffee

For us to share.

Disappointment may join us

For a time,

Share a bite or two.

I will even set her a place

At the table.

Maybe she will feel better

After a walk in the backyard

Under the deep pink

Crabapple tree.

The petals may be falling

By then.

Maybe the redbud in front

Will make

A similar offering.

Maybe Possibility and I

Will each hold a hand,

Walk Disappointment

Under the falling

pink/purple blossoms.

Save the poetry

It matters what we read. It matters what we place before our eyes.  I do like what I am already doing.  It fits with my soul.  Today I got notice that the Holy Spirit is following me on Twitter.  This is so much better than  random job listings.  I also receive poetry in my inbox every morning.  I will keep poetry and God reminders in front of me.

I survey what arrives

Every morning.

It*s time

To clear out

The job listings,

Look at

What I am already doing,

Hold it up

To the light.

I cancelled the first listing

Today.

Then I read

Three of the daily poems.

I saw

The Holy Spirit now follows me

On Twitter.

I kept that one.

Everyone should keep reminders

Of God

In his inbox,

Reminders of God

In her inbox.

Now I make sure

To save

The poetry.

Job lists

Thank God for the crabapple and redbud.  Their spring beauty will most likely be fleeting, with rain predicted over the next couple days.  I know from past years when the redbud lets loose, the sidewalk will be covered in purple buds, and I will process to the car, like a bride walking through rose petals.  It is good to know hope will be fulfilled.  Soon I may even cancel all those job listings.

Most mornings

Jobs arrive

In my inbox.

I have subscribed

To various lists.

Why I still hope for jobs

In the inbox

I don*t know.

I barely look at them

Anymore.

Still it is strangely comforting

To know there are positions

Waiting.

I wonder whether

They will be filled

By a blonde

Or perhaps by someone

With the right assortment of letters

After their name

Or maybe someone

Who has counted their hours

Exactly right.

The jobs arrive                               

In my inbox.

I barely see them anymore.

This morning the crabapple flowers

In back,

The redbud

In front.

It seems there are different things

To hope for,

Different things

To find.

What a Dame!

Today is the feast day of Dame Julian of Norwich.  Dame Julian, of course, is the source of the title of this blog, now over two years in the making.  I added the .Period. at the end.  No, in fact, I spelled it out mostly because I forget sometimes that All Will Be Well.  I know this.  I proclaim this.  I believe this.  And I forget this, more often than I would like.  Today is Julian*s Day.  What a dame!

Today is Julian*s Day

What a dame!

She of anchoress fame:

What a dame!

Today I may sift through

Her Showings:

What a dame!

Today

I hold a hazelnut

In the palm of my hand,

A hazelnut in both palms,

Maybe grasp one or two

With my toes

For good measure.

What a dame,

I tell you,

What a dame!

That hazelnut

Holds the whole world

Simply

Purely

The whole world

Beginning and end

All shall be well

And all manner of things

Shall be well

What a dame!

Open the door

Sometimes we don*t do things until the conditions are right.  Sometimes we don*t do things until the first step has been taken.  Open the door.

Not quite warm enough today

To open the front door,

Leave it open.

Maybe it will be

Later on.

Four weeks in

My client has left the door open

To his room to be painted.

He has cleared out the dirty laundry,

Fixed the closet door.

He has purchased the paint.

The room

Will be robin*s egg blue.

He waits until he can open

The windows.

Maybe this week

He says,

Maybe this week.

My beloved mentions

Meeting a former student

In an elevator.

The student told my beloved

How helpful he had been

With his advice.

What advice?

Asked the man to whom

I am married,

What advice?

Oh

Said the student,

The time you said:

Sometimes we don*t do things

Until we*re ready.

Open the door

I say

Open the door

Leave it open

Someday that room

Will be robin*s egg blue

The birds will sing

Through the open door,

Through windows

Flung open.

Gendarme

Another early morning dream.  I woke up puzzling about who this might be.  I think I*ve placed him.  I didn*t know he*d moved to France, much less that he*d joined the police force there.

Often people

From my past

Show up in my dreams.

Often they wear

Unfamiliar costumes,

Show up in

Unlikely places.

Last night a gendarme

Showed up

In the church office.

His face lit up

When he saw me.

He looked oh so familiar

But the hat

Threw me off.

May 10 (for Sue)

We stood in the parking lot of the bird sanctuary on Friday.  The we included Sue Leaf, the author of the biography about my great-grandfather, Thomas Sadler Roberts.  The we included four great-grandchildren.  We had just returned from a bird walk in the snow, during which we had seen eighteen of twenty hoped-for birds.  Sue told us she had to make sure her hummingbird feeder was ready.  No matter the weather, no matter the temperature, the hummingbirds always arrive May 10 to her backyard.  They know the food will be there.  

She says the hummingbirds arrive

On May 10

Every year.

Rain

Shine

Wind

Snow

The hummingbirds arrive

May 10.

They do not care

Whether the climate has changed.

They do not care

If it is an unusually warm spring

Or if snow still covers

The ground.

They arrive May 10.

They do not wait

For perfect weather.

They know

They will be fed.

Let it be

The way it is

Already.

May it be

The way it is

Already.

May we simply know

Like hummingbirds.

They simply know

They will be cared for

When they arrive

May 10.

Surprise: an answer

Drove back home today to Illinois from Minnesota.  I didn*t get any writing done this morning, so perhaps an evening haiku is called for.  Seventeen syllables.  5-7-5.  Yep.  More 
in the morning.  For now, here goes:

Finally at home
I learned what I hoped to find.
Surprise!  An answer.