Fennel

This is the third week in a row for fennel in the CSA box.  Fennel is a new experience for me.  I*m a convert.  In addition to the delicate licorice flavor, it looks a bit like a small person with hair.  If it arrives in the box next week, I will do a fennel skit with it before dinner.  Fennel is a versatile vegetable.  I*m a fan.

I am rather fond

Of the feathery fennel

I find every week

Not the fronds so much

But the very fine timbre

Of crunch, then anise

Floods – no – flows - no -faint

Whispers licorice hidden

In salad: surprise!

Taking turns

I did think about going into the office today.  It seems the better part to allow the cardinal to sing the day into fullness outside.  I may take my turn tomorrow or the next day.

I hear the bird outside the front door.

The cardinal

Will need to take this day,

Sing it into fullness,

Take its turn.

Keep it up.

That crested cardinal carries

So much more music

Than the 3 and 4 AM

Robins.

I take a break

With my summer cold

Inside.

I may offer such joy

Tomorrow

Or perhaps the day after.

Perhaps then

I may offer such joy

In fullness

Take my turn.

Keep it up.

Glinda

Are you a good witch or a bad witch?  Oh... but I*m not a witch at all.   

When I grew up we had a black and white TV.   Because of this, while I imagined the Emerald City to be green, and the ruby slippers to be red, I never knew that Glinda, the good witch, wore pink.  On a black and white TV,  It looked like she was dressed in white.  It wasn*t until I was in seminary, in my mid-twenties, that I saw the Wizard of Oz in color.  Amazing.  Who knew?  Glinda wore PINK.  It seemed... well... wrong, somehow.

This, I think, is my fifth witch reflection.  The new supervisor, the supervisor who will not be my supervisor, wore dark pink yesterday.  She was most clearly a good witch.  Or perhaps she was not a witch at all.

She must have chosen

Her sparkle shoes

To wear yesterday morning.

I admit I did not see

Her feet,

But she did arrive

In a dark pink blouse,

And the wind

Ok the breeze

Was clearly warmer,

Out of the south.

Mom thing

Today I do the mom thing.

I make sure all the pills

Have been taken,

Breakfast consumed,

Socks matched.

I lock the door

Behind them

As they leave.

Today I do the mom thing,

Change the water

In the cat*s bowl.

I realize I myself

Need to shower and dress,

In that order

Oh yes

Take the morning pill,

Eat breakfast,

Match my socks

Before the scheduled afternoon meeting

With the woman

Who might be witch.

I wonder if her socks

Will match.

Probably.

Accomplishment enough

This has been a summer of arriving late to church on a fairly regular basis.  We usually arrive before the Gospel, which I read somewhere makes the service count.  Of course this means we sit in the back under the choir loft.  Today we actually arrived in time to hear the opening sentence before taking our seat.  

We arrived in time

To hear the opening sentence

From the back;

Slipped in the pew

Second from the front

Before the procession

was halfway down the aisle.

Sometimes such things

Count as accomplishment enough

On a chilly July day:

Three people out the door

In enough time

To hear the opening sentence.

Talking with the witch

Usually I let unrecognized numbers go to voice mail.  Yesterday I didn*t.  I answered the phone from my comfy chair.  The witch and I had a regular professional conversation.  All night I dreamed regular conversations with people I rarely talk with anymore.  This is witch reflection number three.  I have moved through dropping a house on her, dissolving her in water, to a civil professional conversation.  This bodes well for Monday.

Sitting in my cozy chair

On a Friday off,

I answer the phone.

I forget the witch

Has my number.

She has decided to counsel

A client I will leave.

She will meet him

On Monday,

Begin to see him

The week after I am gone.

I sit in the blue recliner

This Saturday morning.

I woke all night

In the midst of regular conversations

With people

I never talk to

anymore.

In the daylight yesterday

I talked with the witch.

I forgot

She had my number.

Six things before breakfast

Social media provides so much information about ... well ... so much.  Already this morning I have learned about the black bear in Estes Park, Colorado who has learned to open doors and walk into local businesses. The fun fact about coffee beans and civet poop does make me wonder whoever thought to do this in the first place.  This makes me wonder about whoever decided raw oysters were a food item.  Which makes me wonder... well ... a lot of things.  Time for breakfast with real breakfast food (cereal with skim milk, and, of course, coffee).

So

A bear walks into a bar

In Colorado,

A black bear.

This is perhaps the start

Of a great joke.

Maybe

Better even than

A bear walks into

A candy store.

The most expensive coffee

In the world

Is made from coffee beans

Found in civet poop.

I think I shall eat breakfast

Before I find out

Four more things.

My brain

Is full.

My stomach

Isn’t.

M.A.S.H.

I grew up watching M.A.S.H.  I wish I remembered who told me I reminded him (I think it was him) of Father Mulcahy.  I think of all those exercises which ask participants to name their hero or heroine.  I have never been good at those exercises.  Likewise I can never figure out what animal I am like.  But somehow that one compliment resonates with me.  Even though I cannot remember who said it.

Years ago I was told

By someone,

I no longer remember who;

Years ago I was told

By someone

Whose opinion

I must have held in high esteem;

I was told

I reminded him

Of Father Mulcahy

From M.A.S.H.

I think this was the best compliment

I have ever received

Bar none.

Years ago someone,

I wish I remember who,

Someone told me

He saw me

Whole.

Add water

More Wizard of Oz (see yesterday*s reflection).  I am still considering melting the new supervisor with a bucket of water.  I imagine by Monday I will be able to wish her well.  This week I count the people I will miss and spend some good time with them.  Next Monday I will not carry water with me.

The new supervisor

(Not mine)

Says she knows everything.

She believes that an intern

And a volunteer counselor

Are exactly

The same thing.

No.

Since I no longer count hours;

Since next Monday

Is my final day

As a volunteer,

I count the people

I will miss.

I count my way

To a good ending,

One conversation

At a time.

After I metaphorically

Drop a house

On the new supervisor,

In my head,

Mind you,

I consider buckets of water

And then

Only then

I wish her well:

Out loud.

Drop a house

This morning I am grateful for the Wizard of Oz and all its useful metaphors.  It is rivaled by Alice in Wonderland and, of course, the Bible.  Not that I would ever label anyone a witch... not me... but there is something cathartic about picturing a house whirling out of the sky and nailing a witch-like person.

It is Tuesday morning.

Already I have a list of people

On whom

I would like

To drop a house.

I take entirely too much pleasure

In the metaphor.

I know this.

It is only Tuesday.

The week has barely begun.

I line up people

Consider the houses

I would drop,

Picture the ankles with striped socks

Underneath.

Simplification

Two more weeks at the Clinic.  It is time to leave.  It is really time ... to leave.  Not the Clinic, exactly, but the mental health system there.  Not the people, exactly, but rather, the system.   This morning brought one more complication.  Heal yourself! I say to the system in place:  Heal yourself!  

Now is the time

To simplify.

My life experiences

Simply

Do not fit

On any one piece of paper

Or even

In a book.

Now is the time

To simplify,

To drop experiences

Like bread crumbs

Through the forest

So they may feed the birds

A whole grain diet.

Now is the time

To simplify,

To do what needs to be done

Now,

Not bother

With the catalog.

Now is the time

To feed the birds,

To simplify,

Simply

To simplify.

Behind the scenes

I am sitting in my office underneath the nave during the main Sunday service.  My door is open so I can see what goes on behind the scenes.  I think I will do this again.  There is a lot that happens backstage.

Behind the scenes

And underneath,

I sit in my office.

I am available

For whoever walks by

While my husband and daughter

Share nursery duty.

My door is open.

I am

Behind the scenes

And underneath.

I hear the service

Through the downstairs speaker,

Watch the last minute acolyte

Robe up.

She will sneak in

From the side.

Behind the scenes

And underneath,

I attended the early service

Today.

I am available for all comers

Now.

Resume

I attended another workshop yesterday.  It was a good review.  I could have taught it myself.  But I did re-connect with someone I haven*t seen in a few years.  I thought: It could be I am here for this connection, somehow.  The resume itself, its catalog of accomplishments and experiences, now feels like one of those historical documents in the back of the Prayer Book.

I wake up laughing.

I have tailored my resume

To appeal

To many different sectors.

I have done

More training

Than I can ever use

In a lifetime.

Now is the time

To begin.  

I laugh as I re-read

My resume.

I have no one left

To give it to.

In fact

I don*t believe

I need one anymore.

I will keep it

For posterity.

I will do

What seems right.

Promise of iris

Iris is a spring flower.  I often buy them in April.  In this hot steamy weather I had to buy them, even now in July.  They are in the black olive vase, on the dining room sideboard, surrounded by baby*s breath.

I purchased

The promise of iris

In July:

Two bunches of purple iris:

One pale,

One deep,

Both barely unfurled;

One bunch of baby*s breath

In honor of yesterday*s dream.

The iris shows some promise

Today,

The breath holds the space

Between the promise.

July is not the month

For iris.

I was surprised to see them

For sale.

I will coax them along

For another couple days,

Trim their stems,

Add new water.

The promise of iris

In July

Is always one

Worth honoring.

Delivery

Therapy is worth every penny.

Last night I dreamed

I delivered a baby

In the exact fifty minute

Therapeutic  hour.

We did not have much time

For talking.

I was busy

Having that baby.

She was a beautiful newborn

In that wrinkly way

Newborns have.

The rest of the requisite fifty minutes

Ok

Maybe it took fifty five minutes,

Considering the clean-up,

The rest of the time

We spent finding something

To wrap the baby in

So I could walk with her

Through the waiting room

To all the oohs and ahs

Of the gathered assembly,

Those who waited

For their therapeutic hour

Of delivery.

Crooked tree

I consider what it means to return to my roots. As I leave one place, I invest more fully in another.  

Outside my office window

There stands a crooked tree,

A pine of some sort.

It holds its needles

Through the winter.

On different days

This tree

Tells me different things.

Yesterday the homeless man

I have come to think of

As Jesus

Sat on the bench

Underneath my crooked tree.

He drew

What he saw.

I did not know he was around

This year.

I guess Jesus

Never leaves.

Today the bench is empty.

My crooked tree reminds me

Of roots

I all too often

Forget.

Jungle Gymnastics

It is another hot muggy day.  I sit in the air conditioning.  Outside the morning activity in the back yard picks up.  I think I will take the turtle for a spin in the warm today.  He loves weather like this.

Outside

The entire back yard

Has morphed

Into jungle gymnastics.

One squirrel has found a stick.

It amuses him entirely.

He throws it in the air

And catches it.

Another squirrel

Lures him away.

They leap and chase up one tree

Down another,

Then

Back to the stick.

A chipmunk has found

The perfect rock

To survey his tiny world

In the sun

With chipmunk eyes.

Yesterday a bunny rabbit

Claimed the middle of the lawn

As his,

Chewed grass,

Cleaned his ears with his front paws

Almost exactly

Like the cat.

In the obstacle course

That is my back yard

The animals are amused.

Sometimes at night

We hear raccoons scream,

Or even catch an opossum waddle

On its tiny possum feet.

He bares his teeth

If he sees us.

Mulberry

We have a love/hate relationship with the mulberry tree next to the driveway.

We left one car

In the driveway

Under the mulberry tree,

Drove the other one

To Minnesota.

Home again

We consider

Mulberry jam.

Home again

We consider

Cutting down the tree.

Home again

We sit in air-conditioned comfort

Pretend the mulberries

Are not fermenting

On the car still parked

Under the mulberry tree.

Comfortable places

Ready to go home to the cat.  We will drive past the orange moose in Black River Falls.  There is comfort in familiar things.

Back in my comfort spot

Away from home.

Writing again.

Soon we will return

By way of the orange moose.

He will wave us past

With his antlers.

Moose are like that.

Certain landmarks

Are vital to existence.

To me adventure feels best

When it sets off

From comfortable places.

Consider the day

We are staying in the same motel this year as we did last year and the ten years before that.  I hold these hours precious.  The time together and the time apart.  One sleeps in upstairs, one is writing emails, another sleeps in across town.  Me?  I find a comfy leatherette lounge chair across from the sign-in desk.

I sit in familiar space.

Breakfast is just as it was

Last year

And the year before that.

The daughter sleeps in

Behind

Do Not Disturb.

This year it reads

Quiet Please.

I have even found

A comfy lounge chair

In the lobby.

Here I write.

We do not have to be anywhere

Until this afternoon.

I breathe in and out,

Write,

Consider the day.

And so it is

Feeling existential today.

And so

It is.

Pieces land,

Settle back into the picture

That is me:

The jigsaw

The tapestry

The mosaic

That is me.

Home again

Home again

They say,        

With a sigh,

It is good to travel

They say

Good to see and experience

New spaces.

It is all,

All of it,

Good.

That was,

After all is said and done,

The Promise

From the Very Beginning.

And so it is

Now.

Maybe

Maybe it really does take years.  I counsel clients about this all the time.  Why should it not refer to me as well?  I am making my list of what I can do now, and offering it up.

Maybe I needed a year

For every four or five years 

To recapture the pieces

That are really mine.

Maybe I needed these six years

Of school

Of trainings

Of seizures

Of sitting in the pew in front,

Now further back;

A year of serving

The Clinic;

Six months

At the Halfway House;

Six years scanning the horizon

For what is most likely buried

In my own back yard,

Under the crab apple.

Maybe I needed these six years

To determine the pieces

That fit.

Soon I set off

I wondered why I wasn*t looking forward to this experience.  It*s not the plastic chairs.  Last time I did this I had just started driving again.  Last time I did this every channel offered Sandy Hook.  I sat with a group of strangers having their cars fixed.  Time to gird my loins.

Soon I set off

To get the oil changed.

I will sit with everyone else

Who waits,

TV blaring.

The complicated snack machine.

The plastic covered chairs.

The people

All who wait.

Some will be bored,

Some will sit

With present eyes.

Last time I did this

I watched two hours

As Sandy Hook developed.

Then they came and told me

The car was ready

To go home.

Crash

Sometimes mysteries bring us together in... well... mysterious ways.

The daughter

Is at camp.

The cat

Is sound asleep

In the playroom.

My beloved and I

Are in the midst

Of two separate

Evening things

In two separate rooms.

Crash

We converge

In the hallway,

Survey the basement

Where the gas leak

From an old dryer hose

Awakened us at 4:30

That morning.

Nothing there.

We can*t figure it out.

We return to our places.

Crash

Number two.

We converge on the hallway

Again.

The cat joins us

This time.

We talk about birds

Hitting windows

But it is dark

Most birds have gone to bed.

A complete survey

Of the upstairs finally reveals

A downed shower curtain rod

In the daughter*s bathroom.

Mystery solved

This time

At least.

Odors

We only read the gas company directions after the fact.  Do not turn on lights or use the phone.  Do not open doors or windows.  Stay outside.  We are inside with the doors open, smelling leftover skunk smell and a cat box that needs fresh litter.  We wait for Nicor to arrive.

We woke up at 4:30

To a faint smell of gas,

Turned on every light

In the house.

Apparently

This is wrong.

Thankfully

We are still here.

Now we wait

For the gas company,

Doors open,

Noses attentive to every odor.

Skunks were busy outside

In the night.

The cat box

Needs fresh litter.

We no longer smell gas.

Still we wait,

Cat carrier ready.

My beloved will get the cat.

I am in charge

Of the carrier.

We are primed for adventure

At 6 in the morning.

We wait for adventure

At 6 A.M.

Bee Balm

Yeah!  I knew there was a reason I let those vaguely familiar plants grow.  I originally thought they were successors to the Echinacea I planted three years ago.  Nope.  It seems the soil, that particular spot,  is perfect for bee balm, something I never planted to begin with.  Not my original idea, but perfect in its own right.  And the ID?  Thanks, Mom.

The plants

Were vaguely familiar

So I let them grow.

Secretly I hoped

For Echinacea

Purple coneflowers.

When they bloomed

They said

Look us up

It will be worth your while

To let us grow.

I knew I*d seen the flowers

Somewhere.

Somewhere in my head

The word Monarda bloomed.

I think my mother has returned

To help the garden along.

She aids the burgeoning bee balm,

Gives it the proper Latin name

In my head

So I can look it up

On Google.

Familiar order

There is comfort to be found in familiar things.  Like a regular plain old summer thunderstorm coming on gradually and moving on gradually.  Best of all, my weather brain moves with it.  It seems from here I can move on to more adventurous things, with my toes anchored in the familiar.

Now this

This

Is like summer thunderstorms

The way I remember them.

Distant rumble,

Sky gradually darker,

The patter

Of gentle rain.

This is the progression

Of things

In familiar order.

I am at home

In my chair.

I will go to the Clinic

In an hour,

Like every Monday.

The storm

Will have moved on.

The rumble

At a different distance

Already grows fainter.

The sky becomes

Lighter and lighter.

Eventually the sun

Will appear.

This is the way

I remember.

Medium intentions

My daughter is going back to camp this afternoon.  Last night, we had every intention of going to church this morning.  This morning those intentions wavered in their intensity.  Laundry had its way with all of us.  The birds are singing.

I tried to get up

For church.

It could probably be said

I had

Medium intentions.

Nothing hot.

Nothing cold.

Lukewarm.

Pleasantly cool.

I thought to get up

But when my daughter

Had to dry her clothes

For camp instead,

It seemed better

To stay home and drink coffee,

Keep her company

In the living room

As her clothes dry,

The cat sleeps

In the sun.

I write this,

Pour myself another cup.

We will stay where we have always stayed

I grew up in Minneapolis.  I have not lived there since high school.  When Mom moved into assisted living years ago and left the family home, my family always stayed at a particular motel in Golden Valley.  Truth be told, it is not an easy place to get to or from, but now, years later, the paths are well-worn.  We know the pool, the continental breakfast. No, it is not particularly close to my son, but it is familiar.  The paths are well-worn.  We can get anywhere from there and back.

We will stay

Where we always stayed

When Mom lived

In assisted living,

My sister lived

In St. Louis Park,

My brother lived

In St. Paul.

Now Mom lives

Nowhere visit-able

Or perhaps everywhere

Visit-able;

My sister lives

In Santa Fe;

My son now lives

In Northeast Minneapolis;

My brother lives

In the same house on Laurel

In St. Paul.

We will stay

Where we have always stayed,

Even though my son

Will be the only one home.

We will stay

Where we have always stayed.

There is a small comfort

In knowing exactly

Where we will be.

The Fifth of July

We live one town west of the famous 4th of July fireworks in Itasca.  It took our town forever to install weather sirens.  The idea was that we could hear the sirens from the communities around us, if we really needed to hear them.  Besides, they might go off in the middle of the night and wake people up.

Right.

We do have weather sirens now because a wonderful woman took on weather sirens as her cause.

Today we celebrate the Fourth of July a day late.  

I*m sure the fireworks will be spectacular as we celebrate our freedom on the Fifth.

My town*s fireworks

Are tonight.

It seems we got a deal.

We celebrate here

On the Fifth of July

Because everything is cheaper

The day after.

Independence

I am on pastoral care duty this week.  It seems fitting that today is Independence Day as I consider we are all moving in that direction.  Today is the day of our release, or tomorrow, or even fifty years from now. We are all on our way.  We are all getting used to the idea.  The arms of God are wide open to catch us.

Independence.

Today I reflect

On another sort.

As fireworks explode

In the distance;

As the gym is unusually full 

For a weekday;

As I stand next to the bed

Of a dying man,

I remember today

May be Independence Day

For any number of folk

Or maybe it will tomorrow

Or the next day even.

The man has already taken

A turn toward independence.

The fact of the Fourth of July

Is neither here

Nor there.

The man

Is already on his way.

He is getting used

To the idea.

The arms of God

Are wide open

Waiting.

This is independence

Of a different sort

But Independence

All the same.

Late rhubarb

Often I don*t get to the rhubarb harvest until after the flower stalks have grown.  This is late.  Way late.  No flower stalks yet.  It is already July 3rd.  Tomorrow is the 4th and friends are planning their barbecues.  It is cold in the house, and I am sitting under a blanket as I write this.  It is difficult to plan a holiday when the weather won*t comply, when circumstances conspire to quash celebration.

I am late to harvest the rhubarb.

It has grown thick,

Red and green,

In the remains

Of the garden bed.

When people ask

What I*m doing

For the holiday,

I think about the rhubarb,

The weeds that need

To be pulled,

The grapevine taking over

The crab apple

Again.

I think about being on call

For pastoral care

During the fireworks,

My daughter home from camp

Friday night.

It is chilly today

Overcast gray

The rhubarb awaits.

The corn in the fields

Is not knee high

This Fourth of July.

I am hopeful for sweet corn

Come August.

Is this normal?

It has been awhile since I*ve made a hospital visit.  It came back natural as breathing.

The grapevine winds its way up

The crab apple

In the backyard.

It did the same thing

Last year.

Most likely

It will do the same thing

Next year.

I will cut it down.

I expect the vine to do the same thing

Next year.

Everything comes

Everyone comes

With his own particular way

With her own particular way

Of being

Of living

Even

Of dying.

Is this normal?

They ask me

In the hospital

As we wait and watch

For death and life

And in between.

Is this normal?

I tell them about my son

Never learning to crawl.

Before he could walk

He rolled everywhere.

It was normal for him.

Now at 26

He walks

Even rides his bicycle

Everywhere.

Is this normal?

They ask.

I say

I think it is.

DOMA

What do a priest and a political scientist discuss over coffee on a Monday morning?  It seems Justice Kennedy used the Fifth Amendment as his support for striking down DOMA.  Constitutional theorists were expecting him to use the Fourteenth.  Who knew?

It seems there is more

To the Fifth Amendment

Than a reason

In court

Not to incriminate

Oneself.