Garlic soup

Today was a day with other plans.  Then I woke up to thunder and no electricity.  My computer had five minutes left of power in its battery.  I sneaked a yogurt out of the refrigerator.  The back yard was still.  So was I.  I contemplated garlic soup.  I am still contemplating garlic soup and the power has been on for four hours now.

This week brought

Tomatoes red and yellow,

A stapled brown bag

Of garlic.

I contemplate

Garlic soup.

Today is a day

For contemplation.

Once I assemble

The necessary ingredients

Tomorrow may bring

Execution.

Meanwhile a Cooper’s hawk

Stations himself

In the crab apple.

A squirrel sits frozen

On the fence.

A rabbit crouches motionless

Under a bush.

Today is a day

To be still.

Tomorrow may be different.

Think about it

As I write this I realize it took me less than 24 hours to come to this.  This is a personal record!  I spent years wrestling with me and the Church, how I might best use who I am, who God has called me to be.  Now the temptation to think about it again has come, and I can hold it in front of me, think about it, and let it go.  I am where I need to be.  I have a counseling office directly under the altar.  The thread which ties together the people I see is one of vocational search. There is nothing (I think) that beats choosing to be where one finds oneself.

Think about it

He says,

Presenting me with data

I gave him

Two days ago.

Think about it,

He offers.

So I think.

Now the offer has come again

Full circle

Through his brain and heart

And back to me.

Think about

What you might do.

So I think.

Overnight I realize

I have already answered

The question.

My answer is here

In this small office

Under the altar.

I write and pray.

I talk with one person

At a time.

Sometimes,

Like this week,

In the cycle of things,

Schools fill

Even as they will empty

Next June.

Think about it

He says.

He presents me with something

I wrestled with

For years.

It is new to him.

For me:

I came, I thought, I wrestled

Like Jacob

At the Jabok.

It was truly worth years

Of thought

And wrestling.

Truly.

Now I think again

And let go.

It might snow

Rationalization:  we all do it.  Pretty regularly even.  Sometimes it*s only when we hear ourselves say things out loud that we catch it.  Sometimes... not even then.

We all do it.

My favorite excuse

Was the client

Who could not show up today

Because the weatherman said

It might snow

Tomorrow.

We all do it.

It sounds perfectly reasonable

In our heads.

It*s only when

It comes out of our mouths;

We hear it landing with a thud

In someone else*s ears.

Good reasons

Why these calories today

Won*t matter tomorrow,

Splendid reasons why

Self-serving things

Are really in the best interest

Of the other.

We all do it.

It might snow tomorrow

After all.

It might snow.

Reference

It*s been awhile since I have served as a reference for someone.  Now that I am not in a job search of my own, it seems fitting somehow that I should be called as a reference for someone else.  This is not a small job.  Even as I say this I realize I believe there are no small jobs.  Even as I say this, my job this morning is to answer the phone between 10 and noon and speak the truth as I know it. Then my job will be to pray for all involved.  For All Involved.  

Today I will answer the phone

Between 10 and noon,

Have a conversation

With a man I do not know

About someone I do know.

The conversation

Matters a lot

To both men

and more.

It matters

A lot.

Still

I am simply one person.

There will be many involved

In final conversations

And decisions.

I am simply

One person

Who will answer the phone

Between 10 and noon

Today.

I will speak the truth

As I know it.

I will watch and listen and pray

As the conversation ripples out

Beyond me

After noon today.

Stopped

I sit.  Stopped.  

My beloved went off to work out alone with the trainer.  I woke up on a trajectory to sure difficulty if I continued the way I began.  

I am in the blue chair, drinking coffee.  I consider a new beginning, a new trajectory.  The one important thing today is grocery shopping.  The next is a meeting with my daughter*s teacher this evening.  It is hot and humid outside.  It is even humid indoors.

I sit. Stopped.

I consider a new beginning to the day.

Awake and moving

Far too quickly this morning

I stopped.  Took note.  Stopped.

Company

There is a truism which says:  If you don*t write it... no one will.  Sometimes I think this may be true  Other times, though, it seems as though there is something to Carl Jung*s idea of the collective unconscious, and particular words and phrases and whole sentences, heck, even entire essays feel pulled from The Source (and I*m not talking about James Michener*s novel).  

I might have written that

I think.

Almost every day I find something

I might have written,

So I know,

I absolutely know,

I have company out there,

Down the street

Perhaps,

Sitting in a blue chair

Like mine,

Watching ducks

And grapevines in crab apple trees

Like mine.

I think

I might have written that.

I know

I have company.

Afikomen

Sometimes I wonder at odd dreams.  Like this one.  So I write them down and figure they may sort out later.  As I write this I think communion wafers are rather like matzoh.  I wonder what it would mean to be the last reminder of Christ in the world, not the first in line. Dream connections are often tricky.  I write them down so I might remember.

I dreamed last night

My surname was changed

To Afikomen.

In my dream it seemed to mean

My last name began

With the letter ‘A’

So I was first

When we lined up

In alphabetical order.

This morning I looked it up

And remembered again

The afikomen is the hidden matzoh

At Passover.

It is always found and eaten

Last.

Last night I dreamed the Passover.

I was the afikomen.

Kosher yes

But last in line.

Think again

Thinking this morning of the people who have shown up in times of loss and times of joy.  The expected people, of course, but also the unexpected ones... like my high school friend*s mother who came to Dad*s funeral... for me... even though I hadn*t seen her in years.  I also think of the unexpected people who share my joys and show me the Kingdom spreads out way beyond any boundaries I have ever imagined.  When you think it doesn*t matter... think again.

When you think

It doesn*t matter:

Think again.

When you think

You won*t be missed:

Think again.

Your presence may be,

It may simply be,

That one thing that shows

One person

The whole world

Is aware

Of their loss,

Of their joy.

When you think

It doesn*t matter,

Consider your presence

Just might possibly be

A sign of the Kingdom

In attendance.

Think again.

Then

Think again.

For Bob

For Bob, who entered the Larger Life this morning.

Some struggle

Always,

Take step after step

In the mud and muck,

Grab hand after hand

To pull them out

But still continue their slog

Until finally finally

God brings them home

Wherever that is

Whatever that looks like

God brings them home,

Shows them

How to walk again

Even

How to dance.

Inspiration

What is it about cleaning so someone else can clean?  It seems we all work to deadline.  Nothing like the knowledge that someone is coming at 7:30 AM on a Friday morning to motivate the three of us to put away our stuff  on Thursday.

The woman who helps us

Keep the house clean

Has returned from a summer

In Poland.

This is not a small thing.

Her impending presence inspired us

To pick up extraneous things,

Clear counters,

Put away the dishes

In the dish drainer.

What is it about cleaning the house

Before someone arrives

To clean the house?

Our inspiration

Has returned from Poland.

She is downstairs vacuuming.

I am upstairs writing.

I cleaned yesterday

So our inspiration could clean

Today.

Gimlet eyes

Whatever works, I say.  For our pets it seems to take a hard penetrating stare.

The cat and turtle

Share gimlet eyes.

This

It seems

Is what it takes

To get through to us,

Each of us

In our own space.

The cat stands next to chair.

He yowls

Then stares.

He accompanies the stare

With a cat wink

When we look,

Then gimlet eyes

When we ignore him.

He scratches

At the bathroom door

And stares.

He waits for it to open

Magically,

Then gimlet eyes

Which bore through the door.

The turtle wrestles his food plate

Against the glass

Of the turtle tank.

Then stares

With gimlet eyes

Until someone pays attention.

The noise seems

Never enough.

The boring penetrating stare

The gimlet eyes

Get us

Every time.

One fact

I grew up privileged.  I live... privileged.  I know this.  Still... I get stuck on trying to convince someone of that One Fact I Know is Right... I do this sometimes.  OK, maybe I do this Too Often. I do this and perhaps I convince someone of something, or perhaps they stop listening, or name me something that cannot be written in this space.  In fact, I did it this morning on a listserve... trying to convince someone of a Very Important Fact... which I shall not name here... because, even though she is not a judge, and I have custody of my children, and I am privileged... there are other things which call for my time.  This is called... letting go.  It seems a lifelong lesson I need to learn.

I know someone

Not so very long ago

Who lost custody

Even visitation

Of her daughter

In part

Because she tried to convince a judge

He was wrong.

She was right.

The judge was wrong.

She chose one fact,

Worried it to death

Like a dog

With a bone,

Like our cat

Fixated on the feather toy

He cannot forget,

Even though we put the toy away

In the closet

Months ago.

She chose one fact,

Worried it to death.

Her daughter turned 18

This year.

I imagine the two of them

Together now

Making up for three years

Of lost time.

Mountain ash

I don*t really believe in folklore, unless it comes true.  The Farmers* Almanac is a good source for this.  The mountain ash is particularly fruitful this year.  In other parts of the world it is known as a rowan.  Branches are used by farmers to drive herds into the fields first thing in the spring as a protection.  Who*s to say it doesn*t protect them?  I have yet to see a woolly bear caterpillar this year.  I have no idea what they have to say about the coming winter.

The mountain ash

Is filled with orange berries

This year.

Weather journals say

This predicts a hard winter,

Like thicker stripes

On the woolly bear caterpillar.

Who*s to say

What more means here.

Who*s to say

What wider stripes mean

With no caterpillar to compare

From last year?

The mountain ash is filled

With orange berries.

Some say it is a magical tree.

It stands at full height

Next to the patio,

Filled with orange berries,

Ready to feed songbirds

Before their long trip

South.

Some say it is a magical tree.

Who*s to say

It*s not?

Reframing

This is for missionaries everywhere, whatever their mission.  For Rebecca, Debbie, and Patience, my missionary classmates.  For Kathleen, who made it her mission to help me write that personal ad.  For Scott, who encouraged my beloved to answer my ad.  For my beloved, Jeff, who took the chance.

Today is for reframing

My professional life.

I remember three classmates:

Missionaries to

Guatemala

Peru

Nigeria.

I think I will be a missionary

To Glen Ellyn.

I remember the personal ad

I ran years ago.

I named myself

A community and family-oriented professional

Who enjoys ethnic food,

Instead of Episcopal priest,

Single mother with young child.

The newspaper made a mistake.

It said I liked ethnic good.

My beloved says if his friend

Hadn*t convinced him

It might be a typing mistake,

We never would have met.

I am grateful

To the friend,

Now a kind of missionary

In Norway.

Today is for reframing

Possibility.

After all

It has been reframed

Many times before.

Empty chair

My beloved and daughter are doing nursery duty this morning.  We all attended the 9 AM service.  I wait for them.  I write sitting in the place my clients sit, consider the scenery from here.  I remember what I learned in school of the gestalt empty chair technique.  This morning I prefer to leave the chair empty, consider what my clients see.  God Himself is with us...they sing upstairs.  I leave the door and window open, watch the latecomers slide in... late.

I sit in the place

My clients sit.

One difference is

My chair is empty.

Still the window is open

To the outside;

The door is open

To the hallway.

I sit

Where my clients sit.

I see different things,

Hear the service begin

Above me.

God Himself is with us

The people sing.

I hear nursery noises

Down the hall,

Watch the latecomers slide in

Through the back door.

I sit

Where my clients sit

Every week.

I consider the view

From here.

One day longer

Another Saturday morning... just me and crab apple and the grapevine.  And life abundant.

Life is robust in the crab apple

This morning.

Squirrels use the remaining grapevine

As climbing rope.

A downy woodpecker,

Unconcerned by the squirrels,

Mines the trunk

For bugs.

The cardinals have claimed

One particular branch,

Away from the grapevine side.

Today was the day

I planned to finish

The removal of the grapevine.

It is three inches thick

At the base.

Life is robust

In the crab apple.

It calls me

In more ways than one.

One day longer

It says

Watch me

One day longer.

One day won*t hurt.

Proud

The word proud is an odd one.  We take pride in things we have had a hand in, a project coming to fruition, accomplishments like graduating from school, landing the perfect job, oh yes... and children.  Still... as soon as children are born, we have a hand in teaching them how to grow up, and make decisions, and find the world around them.  Still, my children have taught me how to be a better human being from the moment they came into the world.  I am proud of them for that.  I am prouder and prouder every moment.  Of course I am proud.  But admiration seems the next step after pride.  Maybe I will write about admiration tomorrow or the next day.

You must be proud,

They say,

Of your children.

They seem to know

They are part

Of a wider fuller world.

I am

Proud.

I could not be

Prouder.

The more I say the word

Proud

However

It takes on that narcissistic glow

As if I or my beloved

Were chief agents

Of this event.

Maybe it*s the Minnesota

In me.

Still

I am proud

Of the human beings

They are,

Of the fascinating beings

I have been able to watch

Grow:

From that knowing look

In their eyes

At birth,

To now,

To Infinity

And Beyond.

Icon

With the Icons in Transformation exhibit at church last month, I have been thinking back to this conversation years ago, held after egg salad sandwiches and iced tea.  I was able to inquire recently about the piece, only to find out it was never completed.  

She unveiled the icon

After lunch,

Asked me what I thought.

Mary and baby Jesus,

Prairie grasses

All around.

Baby Jesus looked

Like the former rector,

The one I had replaced.

What do you think?

She asked.

I told her

I like Mary

I like the prairie setting

Baby Jesus

Well

Baby Jesus looks like…

Oh

She said

Oh

You*re right.

I think it*s the cheeks.

I*ll have to work

On the face.

This was years ago.

At a recent party she told me

The icon

Was never completed.

If I never clean up

Just what I need... an excuse for not cleaning up.  Still... watching the squirrels and chipmunks, the robins finding shelter as I drink my morning coffee... I find joy in that tangled mass of grape vine. I even wonder what it would look like covered in snow this winter.

Last weekend I began the task

Of removing the grape vine

From the crab apple.

Now mounds of grape vine

Provide gymnastic equipment

For the squirrels and chipmunks,

Offer a hiding place for robins,

Safe from scanning hawks.

More grape vine remains

Wound into

The top of the tree.

I tell myself I will clean up

When I have finished the job.

Still

The squirrels and chipmunks,

The robins

So enjoy that mass of vine.

If I never finish

Or maybe

If I never clean up

They will continue

To offer their

Their endless joy.

Five at a time

The reality of counseling is that sometimes people don*t show up.  Even five people at once.  Maybe especially five people at once.  Sometimes people call and let me know (I found out twenty minutes before the appointment this time).  Still... next time five people want to see me at once... I am ready!

Yesterday I figured out

How to fit five clients in my office

At once.

I was proud of my accomplishment.

They did not show.

I am still proud.

I may never hear from them

Again.

Still

I am proud.

The outcome was not

What I expected.

Still                      

I am proud of myself

For considering the possibility,

The possible reality

Of sitting with five clients

In my small office

Comfortably.

The next time five people

Wish to meet with me

At once.

I am ready.

This is what I have to offer

I could just as easily title this: Good Enough, or maybe No Pretense, or perhaps With Kindness.  There would be some merit in each of these, but they would not be true to the whole.  As a priest and counselor with umpteen years of training and life experience under the bridge or perhaps over the dam, I bring all of it, I draw on all of it.  How do I market myself when one brand name will not fit?  Perhaps this is a question for all of us.  Perhaps.

This is what I have to offer.

It will need

To be good enough.

Anything else

Would be pretense.

I do not thrive

On pretense.

Actually I believe

No one thrives

On pretense.

I offer you this:

Myself, plain and simple,

Simple and plain.

I will tell you what I see,

What I hear,

As much as I can.

I will offer what I know

What I see

What I hear

With kindness shot

Through and through,

Layers upon layers

Of kindness

And still no pretense

That mine is the defining word.

It will need to be

Good enough.

This

This

Is what I have to offer.

I meant to call you

I like to learn new things, new perspectives, new translations.  This does not mean that I need to do everything myself.  My beloved tells me it is possible to live some things vicariously.  I remember that I used to be a Vicar in a small parish.  It sounded quaint and rather British.  Now I am without such a title.  I have added more letters after my name since then.  And now, six years out, I consider dropping letters. I am no longer a vicar, but I consider the possibility of living some things vicariously.

Workshop upon workshop,

Training upon training,

The letters string after my name.

I learn good things

From each.

I also learn

What I do not wish to do.

It is possible

He says

To live some things vicariously,

To learn things

From others

Without doing them

Yourself.

At lunch last week

A friend said

I meant to call you

When I heard you were involved

In one more training;

I should have called you

And said

Whatever are you doing?

Ah perhaps she should have called.

Perhaps

I may have listened.

Perhaps.

Understanding is for later

My beloved hates it when I say It is what it is.  Last week a colleague told me: It is what it is.  I said My beloved hates it when I say that!  My colleague replied:  Back at ya!

Understanding is for later.

Now the glimmer needs to be

Enough.

Understanding

Is for some other time

In the future.

Now the faint hint

Of possibility

Needs to be

Enough.

Not

Of course

That it is

Enough.

Still

It is what it is.

Enough

For now.

Understanding

Is for later.

Every spare minute

Every time I tried to subtract something from this day, more was added in.  I*m sure there is a message here, somehow.  Now I am try to figure out how to fit five people (six including me) in my office on Monday.  I*m sure I can find a spare chair to sit in.

Every spare minute,

Was not spare

Today.

I attempted to grab

A second here

A second there.

The places I inserted time,

Those places

Were filled

Before I knew it.

It is almost 5:30.

This counts

As my morning poem.

The sun moves

To set.

At least it is still summer.

Daylight hangs around

For another couple hours.

Whole megillah

I was going to title this Chunks,  but it really is about the whole megillah, the whole of everything, every jot and tittle.  One thing shifts and of course everything else needs to shift.

Awareness comes

In chunks

It seems.

One piece shifts

Allows room

For the whole megillah

To shift,

Settle into new order.

Chunks fall into place

Next to the old pieces.

New sense is made

Of the whole

Even as I struggle

To understand

What it all means.

I marvel at

What this chunk looks like

Next to that chunk.

Even as I wonder

At the shift

In the whole megillah.

Labels

Now this, this... is the reflection.  What follows is the poem.  I wrote the poem first.  The reflection came after. Of course it partly came before when I thought of writing the poem.  I feel a mite like Archy the cockroach hitting the keys of his typewriter.  But the aim here is not to get lost in metaphor.  It is to reflect on what I have written so anyone who reads this might perhaps understand.  Poetry and/or reflection are important.  Yes.  They do not take the place of the living around the writing.  I*m sure there will be more later.  

Labels are important,

Doncha know.

This

This

Is a poem.

The critic voice

In my head

Says:

Not a particularly good one

Really not worth

A comment.

I say:

Oh, what do you know?

Out, out, dark spot.

Begone.

Still

In the morning light

This morning*s light

(Specifics Are Important)

I realize the volumes of reflections

I have saved

In zippered cases

Of plastic covered pages              

Aren*t reflections at all.

They are poems.

Life is done

In reflection

On the poetry.

Or perhaps

The other way ‘round.

This

This

Is a poem.

Good or bad or in-between.

All that comes before or after

Is reflection.

Double space

I learned to type with two spaces after every period.  It wasn*t until this week that I learned the one space mode is preferred by those in the know.  Clearly I missed something, somewhere.  Two spaces seems, well, cleaner somehow.  Not so hard to miss when one sentence ends and another begins.  YMMV.

Why use a single space

When a double space

Will do?

I am all

For taking twice the space

No matter how old-fashioned

It is.

Paragraphs are more roomy

That way.

Speeches are better heard

With longer pauses

Inserted

Especially if the sentences

Are short,

Especially if one does not

Lose one*s way

In a thicket

Of clauses.

Why ever use a single space

When a double one

Will do?

Dress the double space

In crinoline and bloomers.

Make it

More interesting.

Signs

Truth be told, signs of God*s presence are everywhere.  Sometimes we pay attention.  Pastor Davis is pastor of the church which shared the church building where I was vicar.  He was also a toll booth attendant on 355.

In my past life

During four years

Of the forty minute commute

Each way

I regularly found signs.

They spoke to me

On the highway.

On local roads.

Some signs even

Had words:

Easy Street:

No Exit.

or

Sidewalk Ends

In a place it was clear

No pavement continued.

There was a sign

It read:

Pleasant Lane

Dead End.

To make the point

Pleasant Lane

Dead-ended off Route 53

On both sides.

When I took the toll road,

Before the automatic tolltakers

Were installed,

I dutifully tried to give my money

To Pastor Davis

Only to be waved through

With a blessing

Every time.

May I stand on Daddy*s feet

This is what appeared today when I was reflecting on the man who wanted to build bigger barns to store his treasure.  Soul, said he, Soul.  Let us build bigger barns.  Today is the wedding. The dance floor is already filled.  There is always room for more.  No matter if we know the steps or not.  Pay it no mind.  The floor is filled with dancers and twirlers.  Who will we ask to dance with us?

The wedding reception is today.

Who do I ask to dance with me

When the floor is filled

With dancers and twirlers?

Children stand

On Daddy*s feet,

Learn the steps.

Children perch

On Daddy*s shoulders

Like so many baby birds.

They learn the dance floor moves

From above.

Today is the wedding banquet.

How will I join in?

I made it to the ceremony

Now

Who do I ask to dance

With me

When the music is so inescapably

Good?

How do I learn

The steps?

The floor is filled

With dancers and twirlers.

Who will I ask to dance?

Change in rules

I don*t remember when I last slept in so late.  My daughter and her friend have now gone back to the weekend Concert of the Year.  It*s me and the cat (and turtle) again.  And coffee.  I wonder whether the caffeine rule needs to changed to No coffee after 2:00 PM.  I watch the sparrows take a dust bath in the planter out front.  I may go to IKEA later today.  Then again... maybe tomorrow.

There is little

Like a house of women

Asleep.

The cat goes from room to room

All morning

Meows at each door.

There is little

Like a quiet house

On a Saturday

Now after noon.

The other women have left

To take the train

To the City.

I am home in the cool

With the cat.

I break the rule

No caffeine after noon

Because I did not arise

Until 11:45.

The rule today

No coffee after 1:00.

Maybe

No coffee after 2:00.

It is rare:

A house of women

Asleep.

It begs a change

In rules.

I have my own list

What could I possibly do alone?  This is a question to ask an introvert?  I have my own list.  Trust me, I am not bored.  I miss my beloved, in Florida with his parents.  I miss my daughter, coming and going to the Concert of the Year all weekend.  I miss my son, living in Minnesota.  Yes.  Bored?  No.  I have my own list of possibilities.  I add things to it all the time.

They were worried

I wouldn*t have enough to do

While they were gone.

My family.

I love them.

They left me lists

Of things to do

So I would not

Be bored

While they were gone.

My family.

I love them.

I have my own list.

It comes to me

In the silence

Of the cat

Kneading his paws

On my lap;

The cardinal

Singing the day in

And out.

I will shop for new pajamas

At Target

This evening

When I am not

Cooking dinner.

I will browse IKEA tomorrow,

Find a side table to hold the tissues

In my office.

I will watch people

The whole time.

Even now I sit and hear the train whistles

Blow loud, then softer

Then they disappear

Entirely.

I have my own list.

I add things to it

As I do them.

If only

OK.  I*m a mite petulant this morning.  Because I claim almost thirty years in the priesthood, and because I took a break from parish ministry, got a counseling degree and then some, and because (I know this is a run-on sentence), and because for some reason God has seen fit to place me on the edges of things, because... because... if only... but it*s not.  Whatever it is.  This is NOT good writing, and I am going to leave it anyway.  So there.  

Today I am cleaning the guest bedroom.  I never know who will arrive at the door tomorrow.

The article

In today*s newspaper 

Offered this catchy title:

Why Women Quit.

It spoke of corporations

And middle management.

Because this was a newspaper article,

It offered the problem,

Solution

And hope

In less than half a page.

If only

It said

If only.

I know

**If only**

She is a house guest.

She has overstayed

Her welcome.

This is for Virginia

This might be a poem.  Thank you, Virginia Vagt.

This is for Virginia.

She told me

Over lunch

I write

My autobiography

In poetry

Every day.

This is for Virginia.

She does not believe

I should call these things

That I write

Every morning

Reflections.

No

She says

No

They are poems

Pure and simple

Simple and pure

That is what they are:

Poems.

This is for Virginia.

She dropped this on me

Over lunch.

I am still chewing.

This might be a poem.