Plans

If it weren*t for my girl scout preparedness which adheres to the schedule I thought we had (get that?) I would not have an extra hour to write this.  Selah.

Once again my timing

Is off

And off again.

The plans made last night

For this morning

Were changed

With the power outage

At 1 AM.

No one told me.

It is assumed

I would know

The laundry which had to be done

Before camp

Means we will attend

The 10:30 service

Instead of the 9:00.

Of course we will.

The best laid plans

Before I go to bed

Will always change

Come morning.

Unless of course

They don*t.

List: Take two

Even as I was making list number one in my head, list number two came to mind.  Perhaps this is because I am positively inclined.  This reflection is about the list of what I have to offer right now.  Of course it may change as things arise.  Things seem to have a way of arising.  

I make another list.

This is the list of things

I can offer

Given who I am

At this time

In my life.

I write the bishop

With two offers.

I offer pastoral care

For anyone

In the world.

I offer alcohol and drug assessment

For those who fall through the cracks

Of the system

Such as it is.

I offer to sit with anyone

To listen for

What God

May be saying.

This is list number two.

List three

has yet

to be determined.

Stay tuned.

List: Take one

I used to be able to do most anything.  OK, not anything.  I will never be a mountain climber, for example.  The list I write about has to do with what I used to be able to do, comfortably.  Now I am forced to pare down the list.  I am 58.  Somehow I had it in my mind that such paring-down came at age 70.  Why 70?  Well, it seemed somehow... older.  I found myself sitting with a client last week who has had to pare things down in his early fifties.  Several health/life things happened to him in the last three years.  Right.

The list

Of what I can no longer do

Has grown longer and faster

In the last three years.

Every item is check-marked

By the life I live,

By those I love.

There are things

I can no longer do,

Paths I can

No longer take.

Items on the list

Are highlighted

In fluorescent yellow

As opportunities

Present themselves

For viewing.

Perhaps prayer

Perhaps

Perhaps prayer
Is the only thing
That makes sense
While we wait.

No predicting

Digging expectations into the soil with the mushroom compost, planting what I can, waiting for the rest.

Sometimes God

Is very quiet.

He waits to speak

She waits to speak

For a very long time.

He waits

She waits

It seems

Until I stop begging

For a word of clarification;

Until I dig all expectation

Into the soil

With the mushroom compost.

Watch the dirt

To see what grows:

Perhaps a seed I have planted

Or a wayward volunteer vine

From the pumpkin

We fed to the squirrels

Last fall.

Sometimes even then

God is mum:

Until,of course

He isn*t,

Until,

Of course

She isn*t.

Stopped

Really, Catharine.  You*re still writing about counting?  Yep.  It never did sit right with me, but I did it nonetheless.  Somehow it seems to be the common language.  Even the Church wanted to know my ASA (average Sunday attendance)... as if how many mattered.  I guess some counting will always be necessary. Obviously I will continue writing about this, because I don*t have it figured out yet... 

I have pretty much stopped

Counting people.

This seems a real exercise

In faith:

In the therapy office.

In church.

On the street.

Everyone simply matters

Together

And alone.

I have pretty much

Stopped

Counting

People

And hours spent.

Everything simply matters

Together

And alone.

Everything and everyone

Counts.

CSA

It seemed time for another go-round for Community Supported Agriculture.  This is the third CSA for the Phillips/Hill household.  I*m not sure there is a CSA without beets on the menu.

On a whim

I ordered weekly vegetables 

Again

I have done this

In the past

But we ended up

With a refrigerator full

Of beets.

This week we are promised

Sugar snap peas

Garlic scapes

Spinach

An unusual turnip

And yes

Of course

Beets.

On a whim I ordered a summer

Of weekly vegetables.

This year I aim to get a handle

On the beets

Eat them or give them away

To beet people.

Line-up

More weather.  Maybe this year I am paying attention in a different way.  Could be.  Still... it seems that I have seen more ominous weather this summer.  It feels like way more than simple rain, a normal summer thunderstorm.

The rain and winds arrive suddenly,

Then suddenly

Again.

I watch the weather

Line up in the west

The clouds like football players

Roiling in patterns

Fancy footwork

Only determined by some coach

Somewhere.

This happens every summer

He says

But me

I do not remember a summer

Like this one.

This is not the usual line-up

Of clouds

To the west.

If it happens every summer

Like this

I must have been asleep

Before.

June

I am grateful for June... all the graduations, new beginnings.  June is the month of my husband*s birth, our wedding anniversary (today)(18 this year), my ordination to diaconate.  Not to mention all those graduation times, even the ones that happened in May (I conveniently move them to June in my mind, so they won*t be forgotten, in the welter of May*s endings).  Sometimes I imagine June as a time to re-color what has become pale during the year.  Sometimes occasions even become a different color in time.

June is a month of celebration,

A warm, often wet, occasion

Of graduations,

Beginnings,

And times begging

Lifelong remembrance.

It is second only

To May

Come to think of it.

In June I remember again

Pieces of who I am

Pieces which pale

Over the year

Only to gain color again

In June

Like the fully purpled clematis

If I only

But pay attention.

Transformers

This morning we worshiped in our church which has been transformed into an art exhibit (Icons in Transformation).  As a family we arrived late and sat in three separate pews, one in front of the other, in the back of the church, because there was a sculpture filling the middle section of the three pews.  I am 58.  Transformation at 58 has so many more pieces to work with.  I am still not sure how the component parts   will be put together.  I may have to wait a long while for the final gold leaf.  All icons have a wash of gold.

Years ago

Transformers were

The go-to toy.

They only morphed

Into particular set forms.

For a long while

Transformers

Were the toy of the year.

No longer.

Now it seems transformation

Goes well beyond

Anything we can ask

Or imagine

Even anything that bears resemblance

To a toy

Of any description.

Transformers at age 58

Take every possible component part

Twist and turn it

So it lines up

Yet also forms

A completely different creature

Unimagined until now

Yet still somehow

The same.

Then

Only then

It is touched up

With gold leaf

So it catches the Light

Just so

Lots and lots

This is not really about forgiveness, unless you need it to be about forgiveness.  Once again, it is about counting... or more specifically, not needing to count.  I had a wonderful meeting yesterday with a therapist colleague who has been a therapist for years.  While he talked about wanting to teach what he can about the therapist craft to new therapists or therapists-to-be, and cited the 10,000 hours of practice principle, I left him remembering how he taught a class I took in grad school, and his openness, and how I could call him for lunch and have conversations like this one.  

Forgiveness takes lots and lots

Of practice.

Jesus said it:

Seventy seven times

Or perhaps

Seventy times seven.

Anyway,

Or any-hoo,

As my father used to say,

Lots and lots,

No matter how

We translate the number

From the Greek:

Lots and lots.

We must forgive

Until we simply lose track

Of the count

And it becomes

As natural

As breathing.

Longest day

I have a weather-brain.  In the most recent issue of Neurology Today there was an article about weather-triggered migraines.  It seems scientific research has shown some migraines in some people are triggered by particular weather.  Doy.  My personal finding is that I need to take better care during barometric shifts.  I do not get migraines.  I only get seizure activity.  Only.  My only three generalized seizures were on the winter solstice, autumnal equinox, and summer solstice.  Today is the one year anniversary of my last seizure.  I plan to enjoy every minute of daylight that I can.

The longest day

Of the year: 

I am determined to enjoy

Every minute of daylight.

Today marks the anniversary

Of seizure number three.

Now I know how to determine

What SPF I need to wear

On which day

And when to simply

Stay indoors.

Today I am determined to notice

Every minute

Of daylight,

Not lay waste

To a single second.

I plan the day

Accordingly.

Though

Even now

I realize best laid plans

May change

With the weather.

Cicada emergence

Entomologists (bug people) put a fine point on bug relations.  Cicadas are the focus this year.  Much has been written about the seventeen year emergence due, oh, long about now.  I wondered where they were.  It  seems the great Illinois emergence won*t happen until 2024.  The cicadas emerging this year are the East Coast variety.  Who knew?  Not me.  For more info (by IL entomologists), go here:  http://web.extension.illinois.edu/cicadas/13or17year.html

Entomologists question

Which brood of cicadas

Is related to which.

It seems cicadas emerge

In different parts of the country

At different times.

They wait underground

To emerge

Periodically.

I have been waiting

Here in Illinois

For the seventeen year emergence

Which now it seems

Will occur

In 2024.

Meanwhile

On the East Coast

Cicadas climb out of the ground

In clusters,

Acres of cicadas.

Here

We wait

Until the giant emergence

Slated for 2024.

Entomologists question

Who is related to who,

What is related to what,

Which is related to which.

We have always questioned

Such things.

Cicadas

Or not.

Waiting again

I could have written more this morning, but I am off to begin finishing the current task... that isn*t it either.  Of course, it used to be part of it.  Now it isn*t.  Off to get my volunteer paperwork in order.

Sometimes what I think

Is the next thing, isn*t it.

So I simply wait.

Green miles

This morning I heard that I did not get the volunteer job for which I interviewed last week.  The interview went well, but I figured I wouldn*t get it.  I find myself a little more free.  A little disappointed, sure, but free. I have no idea what August will bring, but it seems to hold more green miles of open space.

The trip

Through the terminal moraine

Was worth

Every green mile.

The conversation

Nee interview

Allowed me to say certain things

Out loud.

I also figured

I would not get an offer.

Still

The trip was worth

Every green mile.

Here I sit

Clematis in full purple bloom

On the front pillar.

August holds

Wonderful open space.

Green miles

Of wonderful

Open space.

Volunteer

This experience was 36 years ago, almost to the month.  I have learned some things in the intervening years.  Some things, however, seem to be a part of a life pattern.  36 years out I wake up and think:  Oh... here I am again!

I began my work life

As a volunteer

In Ohio.

I had a desk in the corner

Of the community room

In a housing project

In South Toledo.

The desk held

A lockable dial phone.

With two days

Of paperwork training

Under my belt,

Age 22,

With a Classics major,

I was told to counsel troubled teenagers

And their parents.

It was a recipe,

It was a set-up,

For failure.

I was not alone.

There were seventeen other 22 year olds

Scattered throughout the city.

When I resigned,

Two months in,

Ten others resigned

Right after me.

Now at least

I am the only volunteer.

When I resign this time

There will not be a queue

Behind me.

Bird ID

We are not power birders, my beloved and I.  We know just enough to impress people who know only the robin by sight.  Still, we know enough bird calls to know when something is new, and we know enough to listen to the Cornell Ornithology Lab*s bird recordings to figure things out.  We knew this bird sounded small and sparrow-like, even when we could not see it.  Now that we have identified the chipping sparrow, we won*t have to bother the cat for awhile.

The bird

In the maple tree

Across the street

Calls every morning.

We have never caught him

Out in the open.

Evenings we sat and listened

To the Cornell Ornithology Lab,

Bird call

After bird call,

Every possible sparrow.

The cat became tipsy

On bird calls.

Every possible sparrow.

Two weeks on

We figured it out:

A chipping sparrow.

Now we wait for his appearance.

Now the cat

Can finally relax.

Footprints

I told this story at least twice this week, possibly more.  I have always admired the clarity of my son*s response.  That piece of newsprint was taped to the side of the refrigerator for years.  I don*t want to do this anymore.  This week I let go of two or three things, one of them was large.  Or at least it felt large.  Next week I need to clean off my feet, find fresh socks and shoes, and wait for the next thing to come along.  

The preschool exercise

Was to dip feet

In black paint,

Then walk across

A long strip of newsprint.

The teacher wrote

What the child said

Afterward

In a thought balloon

Next to the footprints.

It*s wet

This is fun

My feet felt squishy

The teacher was faithful

To their words.

My son

Age three

Arrived home

With his long strip of newsprint,

Footprints black and even.

The thought balloon read:

I don*t want to do this anymore.

Hints of rain

Saturday morning.  I arise later than usual but everyone else is still asleep.  I love such times: quiet, unplanned, uncluttered.  I love the fact that after we cleaned out the guest room, the cat has claimed it for his own, head on the pillows, snoring.  I love being able to reflect on the week, in quiet.  Next week will bring what it will.  For now it is quiet inside, with potential for rain outside.

The house is silent.

All are sound asleep.

Even the cat is snoring

On the bed he has claimed

In the guest room.

The weather?

Overcast

With hints of rain,

Certainly past,

But rain possibly

Yet to come.

I welcome such days

Unfilled with brightness,

Noise;

Unplanned

For the time being.

Plans will come

Soon enough.

I pull together the pieces

From last week:

The trip to the terminal moraine

And back;

Clearing the house

For the cleaning lady

To come

On Friday.

The house is silent

With clean bathrooms and kitchen

Dusted and vacuumed

Silent and clean

For now.

Outside?

Hints of rain past

And yet to come.

Terminal moraine

Most often I think I know why I am going somewhere.  If it*s a job interview, the thought is to get the job, paid or unpaid.  Sometimes I am captured by other things, like the fact that the drive to and from the interview is through seemingly endless forest preserve, the site of a terminal moraine, the end of a glacier.  I have no clear idea whether I will get this volunteer position.  The drive was gift in itself.  

Yesterday I drove south

To interview.

The sun dappled through leaves,

Acres and acres and acres

Of leaves and trees.

I drove north again

With no clear ideas

Except to think

The glacier ended here,

Dropped its load of rock,

Formed hills and valleys.

Trees upon trees grew,

Provided filters for the sun.

I arrived home

North of the terminal moraine,

Grateful for the drive

The interview

The trees

The dappled sunlight

and home.

Aftermath

The storm promised big, potentially harmful, things, and, at least here, delivered rain and now, blue skies.  Today I can see and think straight.  Yay!  In a little while I will drive south to interview for a volunteer job which would use the training and gifts I have to offer.  There are more ways to be paid than money.

The storm

Promised big things

And left:

Well-watered ground,

Blue skies,

Cleared thoughts,

A world set

For green and growth.

The storm

Promised big things

And left us

With today.

Other explanations

Does it matter, does it make a difference?  Of course it does.  Then the good head of steam, the righteous indignation, needs to find a hole to climb into, or perhaps a crabapple to sit under.

Does it make a difference,

He asked,

That the person you feel

Ignored you

Suffered a brain injury

A couple months after

You met for lunch

Five years ago?

Could there not be

Other factors

At play?

Of course he did.

Of course there are.

My righteous indignation

Flees

To sit under the crabapple

In the back yard.

A suitable place.

Stationary front

Maybe I have a new vocation as a barometer.  I could sell my services to the weather map people.  Still, I*m not sure there*s a lot of call for human barometers when other instruments are so much more scientific.  Yesterday the stationary front kept me at home.  While sitting at home, a job possibility plopped in my lap.  Perhaps it was on the leading/trailing edge of the stationary front.  Today is clear.  Time to pursue new things.

Yesterday the stationary front

Moved back and forth

Back and forth.

The weather could not

Make up its mind:

Cold or warm,

Sun or rain.

The front

Moved back and forth,

Back and forth.

The stationary front

Of my brain

Moved with it:

Back and forth,

Back and forth.

By day*s end

I finally saw the world

Straight on.

The front finally

Moved east.

For now

Thank goodness I don*t see clients until this afternoon.  Paperwork this morning... in the fog.

I almost got out of bed

Six times this morning.

Finally made it up and out

On time seven.

I drink coffee,

Listen to the birds.

Though the sun shines

I feel the fog.

I go down the list

Of morning things.

This is as creative

As it gets

For now.

This counts

As a morning reflection,

As good as it gets

For now.

Rosebush

It seems the world is in full bud and bloom whether I have paid attention, or not.

The rosebush

I never pay attention to

Has buds this year

To beat the band.

The peony behind the garage

Promised pink

Once I turned the corner.

I forgot

It was there.

I wonder what else lurks

Despite me

In spite of me

Maybe even simply

To delight me

With potential bloom.

The List

I am not singing in the All Y*all Choir.  I am not attending the special convention to reunite with the Diocese of Quincy. I am not attending Ian*s ordination to the transitional Diaconate (I*ll catch him at his priesting)

I have a list

Of what I am not doing

Today,

A list In favor of caring for:

Birthday spouse things;

Daughter things;

House things.

The cat is sound asleep,

Slit eyes,

Front legs

Curled under.

Today I practice

Availability.

I pay attention

To what comes next.

I pray for the things

I am not doing.

They will get along

Just fine

Without me.

Available

Yesterday a friend said: Perhaps part of your call is to be available (thank you, Carolyn).  That statement, coupled with last week*s conversation with Steve about God playing Hide and Seek, culminated in this.  Available.  It feels so... well... inactive.  Exactly.  

I have sought to fill my time

With meaningful  things,

Things meaningful

To me.

All the while it seems

God has sought

Instead

My availability.

Simply

My availability.

Are you here?

Are you there?

Oh there you are

I knew you*d figure it out

Eventually.

Pretending

Sometimes seasons are illusory, mis-named.  So.  Sitting here in the warm pretending it is summer.

I pretend

It is summer.

If I sit inside

Crank up the heat,

Gaze at the flowers,

Listen to the cardinal

Through the closed window,

I can almost lull myself

Into summer thoughts,

Picture a hammock

A tall iced drink

When the clouds clear

The sun emerges.

I will not need

To water the new plantings.

The morning rain

Has taken care of that.

I pretend

It is really summer.

I note the calendar,

Make summer plans

In the warm house

Listen to birds

Through the closed window.

Reflections on the day

I write every day... something.  I try to write first thing in the morning.  Of course, sometimes other things take over.  Sometimes I don*t get to write until late evening, right before bed.  Sometimes, I admit, I write to get the writing out of the way.  This is in part why I call these things reflections and not poems.  Poems take work and editing, I think.  Reflections are simply that:  reflections.

Every morning I wake up

New.

First thing I write

The morning reflection.

Most often

If I write it later

Other things take over.

Still

Even when other things

Take over

Before I can write,

Then I write an afternoon

Reflection.

Sometimes I have to wait

Until right before bed,

A different reflection

Than I would write in the morning

Certainly.

I title it

An evening reflection.

Still

Even when the day

Has been taken over completely

I write something

Call it

A little something

Before bed

A bit like a cup of herbal tea

To cap off the day.

Furnace

Sometimes unseasonable weather can allow for good things (like fixing the furnace before the temperature drops below freezing).

Two days ago

The furnace died.

Usually

Come June

We would not have noticed

Until fall.

Now it is fixed and ready

For winter.

Though heat is not quite needed,

We let the furnace run,

Fold the blankets,

Find a few moments

To enjoy the warm.

My people

Dinner at the Bishop*s house last night with the Aurora Deanery.  Lovely.

I often envied those who spoke

Of

My people,

As if I didn*t have any.

I am a mostly Caucasian mutt

Of an unidentified tribe.

We Christians talk of everyone

Being adopted into the family

Anyway.

Still

My people

Meant particular blood

Flowing through veins

Pumped by

Particular hearts.

I often envied those who spoke

About

Their people

As if I had left home

So long ago

The roads

The footpaths

Were no longer traceable.

Still

Last night I had dinner

With

My people.

I knew them in their words,

The way they spoke.

Like me,

They are all adopted anyway.

My People.

Parish picnic

A bit colder and more than a sprinkling of rain would have kept us home... warm.  We were grateful to climb back in the car and bake our eyeballs, in memory of Barry.

Today marked the obligatory

Annual church picnic.

The location was changed

Yet again.

We found it

Just before the Gospel

Was read

On this chill gray day.

As near as I could tell

The only ones dressed appropriately

Were the ones who stood next

To the well-heated barbecue grill.

The rest of us

Froze

Off and on.

The day was not cold

Or wet enough

To cancel.

Years ago we had a cat

Who would get chilled

Position his head

Over the heat vent,

Bake his eyeballs.

On the way home

We baked our eyeballs

In the car,

Heat full blast.

We remembered Barry.

Glimmer

So.  There*s this vimeo by Ira Glass about the creative process.  It feels deeply true.  Not just for writers, or artists or the named/unnamed creative folk... you know, the ones who claim creativity as their life*s work.  No.  It seems true for all of us, working and practicing to get it more right, whatever it is.  Here it is:  

http://vimeo.com/24715531

I find it simple.  And brilliant.

Now

I sit with people

One by one

By one.

They sit with me

Too.

We teach each other

To listen,

Then listen some more.

Sometimes,

Really only sometimes,

A door or window

Cracks open

And we can ease it open

A little more,

Until we can see

What*s inside,

A glimmer

Of what*s inside.

Or a perhaps a glimmer

Of what*s outside.

Blues and purples

This started as a piece on how certain blues in flowers almost glow when the sun is barely setting.  Clearly it didn*t go there.  Kinda like the clematis, almost not trainable in its growth.  A few years ago we began collecting metal sculptures for the yard, welded-together pieces of farm implements, painted with weather-durable paint.  The purple dog is now placed next to the rhubarb.

In flowers

I favor

The blues and purples.

They grab my attention

Every time.

Today the blue wild indigo

Thrives in the back yard,

Graces the front table

With blue-purple blossomed curves.

The lobelia

Promises accent

In the front planters.

The clematis of unknown origin

Will show purple

In late June.

This year it is barely trainable

With its vines and tendrils.

This year

The clematis spans two columns.

I have added more garden twine

For its growth.

Even the thistle

Has perfect purple top-knots

If allowed to grow.

There is low purple-flowered growth

Next to the rhubarb,

Unidentified

In the vegetable bed.

The bed no longer harbors vegetables.

Instead it holds the rhubarb,

A leggy elderberry bush,

And our painted purple metal dog sculpture.

The sculpture marks the garden

As a piece of art.