Burning bush

Sometimes I don*t know that I*m waiting for something until it happens.  While I know full well we have a burning bush in the front yard, it is green most of the year.  It only began turning red yesterday.  I forgot I was waiting for this.

Finally the burning bush

In front

Has begun to burn.

We had enough cold

To signal

Autumn is here.

Overnight

It seems

The bush took the hint.

The sugar maple

In our neighbor*s backyard

Turned to red and orange

Overnight,

The hint travelled

Up and down the street

And beyond.

Today is Halloween.

It is gray and wet.

The long-awaited colors

Are finally in tune

With the season.

The stage is set.

The bush

Is burning.

Search

This is one of those things that began in one place and ended in another.  I have changed environments a number of times today, and I cannot tell which way I am counting... up or down.  I think it has something to do with the barometric pressure.  These are interesting times, no matter if I am beginning or ending, or simply staying put.

The search continues.

Just as all of us

Count down

It seems we also

Count-up.

This ends

We-know-not-where

Except

We keep looking.

We keep waiting.

And sometimes

we do not count

At all.

Countdown

The college journey continues.  We are all counting different things.  My brother and sister-in-law arrived on Sunday, and left their car in our driveway so they could spend a couple of days in Chicago.  It*s a funny thing, this counting.  What happens when we arrive at the end... or do we just keep counting?  I keep finding new possibilities, even as I count.  

We are always

In some sort

Of countdown.

What we are counting towards

Varies

Person by person.

It*s not always New Year*s.

Sometimes it*s

To the end of world

As we know it,

With nothing

On the other side.

I waltz with the possibilities

Of what will happen

When zero arrives,

Whenever

Zero arrives.

It seems we are free

To choose

What we are counting.

Today I count the number of animals fed

By the crab apple tree

In the back yard.

Today I count the days

Before I preach

Namely: six.

We are always

In some sort of countdown.

Today I do two steps forward

One step back.

Then

Begin again.

When I sit quiet

The backyard crab apple makes a front yard appearance.

When I sit quiet,

Amazing things happen.

The wild world comes closer.

I see more.

This morning a gray squirrel

Hopped up onto the ice chest

Outside the living room window

Next to my quiet chair.

He held a crab apple

Between his front paws,

Turned the apple

With every bite he took.

If squirrels can relish

He relished this apple.

When I sit quiet

The backyard delights arrive

Next to my quiet chair,

Sit on the ice chest,

Relish the apples procured

From the back yard.

When I sit quiet

Amazing things arrive.

The intentions were good

The house was filled with family last night, two home safe and sound, and two to spend the night before their next excursion.  We went out for dinner.  Now it is me and the cat and the turtle figuring out what*s next. Perhaps I will heat up some soup for lunch.  The house still smells delightful.  Like heaven.  

The intentions were good.

The soup was made

And hot

The house smelled like my kind

Of heaven.

Conversation brought all of us

Up to speed,

With requisite laughter.

This morning I found

The guest air mattress leaked

All of its air

In the night.

I think now

In retrospect

My kind of heaven

Is not the same for someone

Who does not enjoy

Any sort of bean soup.

Alas.

The intentions were good.

We have a month*s worth

Of lentil mushroom barley soup

In the freezer,

With some saved out

For tonight*s supper.

The house still smells

Like heaven

To me.

Soup

Waiting for my brother and sister-in-law to arrive from their conference in Skokie, even as I wait for my husband and daughter to return home from D.C.  They will all converge on this house that smells like heaven.  Heaven right now smells like lentil mushroom barley soup with celery (and a few other things thrown in).  There's a chill in the air outside.  In here it is warm... and smells like heaven.

Soup bubbles

On the stove.

It waits for everyone

To arrive home

From distant states.

The house smells

Like heaven.

I particularly smell the celery

Right now,

But I know soon it will blend in

With all the other parts.

This is the way of soup.

Does heaven smell like

Lentil mushroom barley soup

With celery?

I think some days

It may.

As warmth diminishes

Outside

It seems important to remind ourselves

Of warmth

And even heaven

Inside.

Launch

As I consider next steps with my daughter, I consider next steps for a friend moving on to being a bishop.  I also consider next steps for myself.  It is often difficult to tell who is launcher, who is launch-ee,  I guess it depends on who is looking, and from where.  The next thing always remains to be seen.

So much is said

About launching our children

Into college.

Truth be told

We are always launching others

Or being launched ourselves

Into the wider Universe

And Beyond.

Sometimes we help prepare

The launching pad.

Sometimes we stand on the pad

Others have prepared for us:

Our arms are outstretched

Waiting

For the very next thing

To come.

More music

Home to the table, home to the feast

Where the last are the first and the greatest are the least

Where the rich will envy what the poor have got

Everybody's got enough, 'though we ain't got a lot

No one is forgotten, no one is alone

When we're calling all the children home

                                                -John McCutcheon

                               

Today I walk around humming All Saints music.  I have acquired quite a repertoire over 58 years in the church and beyond.  Because I am preaching All Saints Sunday, I am already in Saturday sermon mode, even though the sermon will most probably gel by the Friday before, so I can get the text to the person who will be translating it into Spanish as I preach for the 1:00 PM service.  I wonder how critters translates into Spanish.  Right now I have no certain idea what will end up on the page, or, for that matter, what will emerge from my mouth.

All Saints music

Accompanies the Saturday chores,

Even though All Saints Day

Has yet to come.

I Sing a Song of the Saints of God

Merges into

Sine Nomine:

For all the saints,

Who from their labors rest.

Then

More faintly I hear

All God’s critters got a place in the choir

Some sing low

Some sing higher

Some sing out loud on the telephone wire

Some just clap their hands

Or paws

Or anything they got now.

Finally

Underneath it all

I hear

John McCutcheon sing

Calling all the children home

Supper’s on the table,

Everybody come in.

I know there will be

More music.

There is always

More music.

Do it again

I am slated to preach in a week and a half.  It has been a long time since I preached.  I have been making notes for the last month.  It is not a surprise to me that I have a preaching dream.  Before now, these dreams involved getting ready for a service and losing my notes and forgetting what I had to say.  Kind of like the dreams about arriving in class to find the final exam and realizing I hadn*t studied.  

This dream had me more than ready to preach, but so delighted to hear what my daughter had to say that I wanted everyone to hear it.

Home alone

For an extended weekend

I capture last night*s dream,

Wonder at the feeling

Left behind.

I attended one of my old churches.

My daughter preached at the early service.

I was slated to preach

At the later one.

Sitting in the pew

With my beloved

We smiled together

At our daughter*s words.

You should do it again

I told her,

Do it again.

More people need to hear

What you have to say.

At this church

They now served whipped cream cake

Between services.

My daughter left her sermon

In the pulpit

For another round

At the later service.

We all ate cake.

I woke from the dream

Strangely warmed.

Juxtaposition

It is Common Application essay time.  Today my daughter and husband leave for a college trip.  I will keep the home fires burning... which means keeping the cat and turtle fed, and picking up the house for my brother and sister-in-law arriving at the exact same time on Sunday that my daughter and husband arrive home.  It will be quite the juxtaposition.  There.  Now I've used it three times.

I don*t believe

I have ever used the word

Juxtaposition

In a sentence.

Now I have,

But the above sentence

Really doesn*t count.

I wonder about the vocabulary

That flows

Like magic

From the mouths

Of my children.

They must have been exposed

To way more input

Than mine.

Of course they have.

They were both

On the launching pad

At birth

Each in his own way

Each in her own way.

The juxtaposition

Of home and world

Began

Years and years ago.

Blue

After yesterday*s chill and wet, gray skies, today*s blue and white and gold felt like what fall ought to be.  Now it is gray again.  I remember it was blue not three hours ago.

It was a little blue today,

The blue of true blue

Fall skies

Punctuated by white clouds,

Full cumulus,

Gold yellow leaves

Unfallen

Yet.

This morning showed blue

To early afternoon.

I hold on

To this short-term memory

Of blue

Mid-afternoon.

It was blue.

It will be that particular blue

Again.

Appreciation

October is Clergy Appreciation Month.  For all my clergy colleagues:  may you know appreciation, and find those who notice your particular gifts and name them, even as you do the same for others. Some congregations have a gift for true appreciation of their clergy leaders, some do not.  I have served congregations of both sorts.  For my friends and colleagues serving congregations which lack this gift, may you seek out and find people who truly see you;  may you know places of affirmation.  May you know yourself loved, year round.

With coffee

Came the realization

I made the right decision

Years ago.

It took time

A lot of time

To come to terms

With it,

To sort of settle the

What ifs

If onlys

And realize

I feel appreciated here and now,

Realize that such appreciation

Is never all or nothing.

Here

I am appreciated mostly,

And mostly

Is enough.

Right questions

Sometimes the plans for the day are not the ones which need to be followed.  This morning I forgot to peruse the plan and ask: Is this really the best idea?  I suspect not, and I'm also not sure I would have known.  Even so, sometimes redemption arrives in the afternoon.

It seems I forgot

To ask the right questions

When I woke up this morning.

How do I want

To spend the day?

Who and what will be

The best company?

Perhaps the birds and squirrels,

The occasional fox,

As they mine the remains

Of the crab apples

Piled under the Tree of Life

In the backyard.

This afternoon I remember

Some of the right questions.

It is never too late,

It seems,

To retrieve the day

From ill-chosen morning questions.

Here

Mid-afternoon

There is redemption.

Competition

I have several friends and acquaintances who are involved in marathon running.  I have never been much into sports myself.  Still... I am competitive.  It is amazing to me how certain things catch me thinking along those lines.  This is not my preference.  Still, it is part of my reality.

  

My preference

Is to compete with no one

But myself.

Still

When I find myself

With one foot

On the yellow line,

Synapses begin firing

Before the starter*s pistol

Has even been loaded,

Much less fired.

One foot on the line

And the race

Has as good

As begun

Yesterday.

My preference

Is to compete with no one

But myself.

Still

Once a race has been named

It may as well have begun

Yesterday.

It*s as good as finished,

Trophies awarded.

I might still have a chance

To win

Even though winning

Has nothing to do with it

At all.

For a friend

This is not an unfamiliar place.  Usually waiting does not involve ballots.  Still... everything is surely different on the other side of a decision.  Different how?  Of course it remains to be seen.  For now... we wait.

This is the kind of wait

With a scheduled end.

Everyone votes this morning,

Waits until the ballots

Are tallied,

Then announced.

There may be one

Or two,

Maybe three ballots,

Perhaps even more,

But still

This is a wait

With a scheduled end.

Life will surely be different

On the other side.

Surely different.

As God wills

As God ordains.

Sunday will come again

Tomorrow.

One returned

Today is the day we honor Luke the Physician.  I love the Gospel according to Luke.  This is year we read from Luke.  Sunday we heard about the healing of the ten lepers.  One returned to give thanks.  The other nine fulfilled the bare necessities.  There are many ways to turn this story.  I am grateful for the many ways.

Most times all we have to do

Is say a full

Yes.

Thank you.

That*s two things.

Sometimes we say one

Without the other.

Sometimes the yes

Forgets the thank you.

Sometimes the thank you

Is offered

When the yes never registered.

And of course it is possible

To say

Yes thank you

Because we were Minnesota-raised

To always be polite.

We would not want someone else

To feel

Their effort went unnoticed.

I am sure

There are more possibilities.

There always are.

This is why we need

So many sermons

On the exact same stories.

This is why Jesus

Tells his stories

Again and again

And again.

One yes

This is one of my If you give a mouse a cookie reflections.  We all have our addictions.  Saying yes to one thing, one time, does not mean we have to say yes to the seeming endless things which come after.  This seems a universal thing with friends and clients, and of course, me.  One time I went to a movie theater and, yes, saw two movies when I had only paid for one.  Both movies were ones I wanted to see.  Still, I was emotionally exhausted afterwards.  I should have stopped at one.

I offer one yes.

Many others wait in line

Behind it,

As if buying the ticket

To one movie

Means unlimited access

To them all;

As if one yes

Opens the floodgates

Of possibility

And

I will be stuck

In the theater,

Seeing movie after movie

Until the theater finally closes.

I will be left with my endless refill

Of popcorn

And soda pop.

One yes

Simply one yes.

I forget

I only have to see

The one movie,

Savor one box

Of popcorn,

Then

Go home.

Sometimes showing up

This is one syllable more than a haiku.  Sometimes more syllables are required ... to carry the thought.   There is a lot behind this distilled haiku plus one.  Currently it means I have added one more service to my All Saints sermon roster.  I have never preached four services in a row.  November 3rd... I will.

Sometimes showing up

Is the only thing needed.

Sometimes we must speak
Too.

Thanks for the apples

We have lived in our house for almost sixteen years.  Never have I seen so much wildlife.  Why have I not realized, until now, that our crab apple is the tree of life for so many creatures?   The grapevine has taken off again.  It is haven for the birds and squirrels.  I wonder if everyone*s backyard offers the potential of being the Garden of Eden.  We have taken to leaving the gates open, not fixing the fence hole, so the boundaries are more permeable.  We never know who will visit.

Sunday night the daughter,

Coming up the front walk,

Nearly stepped on

A possum.

She stood still.

The possum

Ambled away.

Yesterday dawned

Beautiful.

The morning

Brought a fox

To the backyard.

The crab apple has become

A Tree of Life,

A tree that offers food

For the world,

At least the outside world

Around us.

After his apple meal

The fox walked past the back door

Allowed us the full view of himself,

Black-stockinged legs,

All, it seems, by way of thanks

For the apples.

He left the garden.

I await his return.

For Kurt, now gone

This is for Father Kurt Olson, my field education supervisor in seminary in the early eighties.  He died over the weekend while waiting to be well enough for bypass surgery.  He never had the bypass surgery, but I know he is completely healed, and singing in his beautiful tenor voice.  Now he has a renewed vision of eternal life.  

There are things

I never forgave you for:

The vision of heaven

With bishops in the inner ring,

God, of course, in the center.

Priests held hands,

The next ring out.

We will not note

What this vision says

For everyone else.

There are things

I never quite forgave you for,

A few things.

Now that you are gone,

You truly know

What happens Next.

I picture you laughing.

You,

Most likely,

Still have a laugh

Big as the all outdoors.

Here

On the other side of the veil,

I laugh with you.

I remember you laid your hands

On my head,

Wanted me to be

The first woman

You helped ordain.

Here

On the other side of the veil

I laugh with you.

Here
On the other side of things
All is forgiven.

First Meal

This started as a reflection on Jesus' healing of the ten lepers, today's reading from Luke.  It is one of my favorite stories to preach on.  The reflection did not go there, though.  I am not preaching today.  But I am on the roster a few weeks hence.  So it's not a surprise I've been waking up with possibilities every morning. This morning I am captured by the Da Vinci painting of the Last Supper.  The disciples have made plenty of room for the rest of us at the Table, it seems to me.

I ponder preaching again.

The table in front of me
Is set
With possibility.

The company on all sides

Of the Table

Is good.

We eat

The Last Supper.

We eat

The First Meal ever.

There is always room

For one or two or three more.

Always room.

Heck

One side of the Table

Is completely free.

Y’all come.

There is  

Plenty to eat

At the Last Supper,

The First Meal.

The Table was set

At the beginning

Of everything there is,

Of everything there was,

Of everything

That is to come.

Expectations

Parents place different expectations on their children.  My parents did.  My beloved and I do.  Some expectations are frankly weird.  They have nothing to do with the particular children, but everything to do with the fears of the particular parent.  Our children learn from us.  We learn from our children.  It goes both ways.  I am still learning.  God grant me the ability to continue on this path.  God grant my daughter the same.

Less than forty years ago

I was in her place,

The last one to send

To college.

The expectation was

I would not attend college

In-state.

An odd thing, now,

I think.

Heck

It was even odd

Then.

I want her to go

To a surprising unknown place,

Learn things in categories

Of her own.

I want her

To spread her wings

In blue and clouded skies:

Learn the updrafts

Learn the downdrafts.

Still

The language of birds

Is mine.

She will speak

In her own categories,

Her own language,

As she always has.

She may even attend a school

Close to home.

Daughter

Ah, the senior year.  We are all paying closer attention to this time.

She

Is more than ready

To spread her wings.

We

Are mostly ready

To let her fly.

Informed therapy

The workshops for therapists are legion.  Yoga or art or music.  Heck...I could spend years learning every therapeutic nuance.  It seems to me good therapy is informed by life well lived.  This morning I worked out. Now I watch the cat asleep in the sun.  Soon I will shower and go to work.

The announcements arrive

In the mail

Every day.

They offer training

In informed therapy.

The most recent announcement

Offered lessons

In yoga-informed therapy.

It seems everything

Is therapeutic

If we apply ourselves

To it.

This morning I watch

The cat in the sun.

He cleans between his back toes,

Then goes sound asleep

Upside down.

This morning I apply myself

To cat-informed therapy.

I wish I could clean between my toes

In the sun,

Go sound asleep

Upside down.

I might wake up

New.

The Domain

Continuing adventures in school shopping.  Kentucky borders on Illinois.  Really.  I have only driven there from Indiana.  I did not think of myself as geographically challenged.  Clearly I am.

She will consider

No school

In a state that touches

Illinois.

Until just now

I did not realize we claimed

Kentucky

As a neighbor.

Until just now

I did not know my sense of place

Was so narrow.

The closest place

She will consider

Is on a mountain top

In Tennessee.

They call it

The Domain.

Book title

Somehow I know I have a book to write.  Like most things in my life, it is coming in dribs and drabs.  A jigsaw puzzle of perceptions.  Maybe a mosaic of perceptions.  Right now I have the title.

I awoke a month ago

With a book title.

I do not know

The exact content

Of the book.

Some mornings

I secretly hope

Someone else will write it

Whatever it is.

Some mornings

The book title sits with me

At breakfast

Over oatmeal and coffee.

Some mornings

It pirouettes

On the back lawn,

Scares away the squirrels and grackles.

Some afternoons it joins me

In the office

Under the altar,

Sits under the office window,

As I sit with clients.

Some mornings

I secretly hope

Someone else will write it

Whatever it is.

This is one of those mornings.

Carry on

I love what I do.  It is loads of fun.  Even in the midst of difficulties and pain and sorrow and confusion, there is often laughter in the midst.  Dare I say it?  It is fun.  It is joyful.  In this spot under the altar and next to the nursery school I am having fun.  Fun seems a frivolous word.  Still...fun involves play and laughter and occasional pure silliness.

I am having

Way too much fun.

Perhaps this means

I was not having

Enough fun before.

I do not know

If there is some sort

Of fun quota

Allowed

Permitted

Perhaps required?

Is there a measure

For fun?

How will I know

When enough is enough?

I suspect

I won*t ever have to worry

About the measure.

Carry on,

Catharine,

Carry on.

Then

Carry on some more.

Yellow-bellied sapsucker

This is definitely not the way to watch birds.

We took pains

With the sliding glass doors

In the back.

Each one is gridded

Into fifteen sections

So the birds

Do not mistake them

For sky.

We took pains

Yet still

This morning

A bird

Knocked himself out

On a door.

We think the sun

Got in his eyes.

He lay there panting

Long enough

For us to get the rescue box,

Look him over,

Then he flew:

A yellow-bellied sapsucker!

We have not seen one

In years.

Now we have.

The opposite direction

The Minnesota girl still lives inside me.  When I ask for directions or opinions, and I know the other person is wrong, I still have the need to explain to that person why he or she is most likely wrong.  I hope for clearer understanding.  Sometimes it works.  Most often, it doesn*t.

I walked and climbed all night

In my dreams.

My daughter,

It seems,

Had possession

Of the car.

Halfway up a hill

I asked a familiar-looking stranger

The location of a particular street.

The stranger,

A woman with long blonde hair,

The stranger,

She stood

At the bottom of the hill.

She told me to walk

In the opposite direction.

I knew she thought I spoke

Of a different street

In a far-off suburb.

I do not live there

Anymore.

I slipped and slid down the hill

So I could explain why

She did not understand.

She patted my hand,

Encouraged me

In the opposite direction.

Cat clock

I gave the cat clock to my beloved years ago now. Then we got a live cat the same shape as the clock.  We have only noticed the similarity recently.  There is no mouse pendulum, moving or unmoving, under the live cat.  He seems happy, either way.  On occasion we find a mouse left, like a present, on top of the dryer in the basement.  Like the mouse upstairs, it does not move.

We have a cat clock

On the dining room wall.

The mouse pendulum

Stopped moving,

Years ago now.

The hands

Still keep time.

The second hand sweeps

The cat*s body

Once a minute,

As it should.

The mouse

Underneath the cat

Remains

An unmoving part

Of the whole.

From time to time

We talk of reanimating

The mouse.

Still

He seems safer

The way he is.

The specialist

There*s something about starting out Saturday morning, once every three months, with this doctor from Eritrea.  My natural skeptic is put in suspension, and I believe this man who says the same thing each time he enters the room.  I am completely disarmed.

I picture this doctor

Entering every examination room,

Saying the child*s name

At least eight times

In a row.

The name flows off his tongue

Like honey.

You are wonderful,

He says.

You are the best,

He says.

You are perfect,

He says.

My daughter brought a friend once

To her every three month appointment

With this doctor.

Her friend was also amazed

By this specialist

From Eritrea.

He gives lollipops to everyone,

Parents and children alike.

We know he tells each child

He or she

Is number one.

We know each parent
Each child

Believes him,

Just as we do.

Race

Usually I manage to stay on the sidelines, watch races or elections with a favorite in mind, sometimes a clear favorite.  I cast my vote, when I have a vote, then watch the outcome.  Sometimes, however, I have a dog in the race, in the election, and it feels like I am praying bigger, for a particular outcome,  even when I do not have a vote.  This time I don*t.  Still... I have a dog in this race.  I have no idea if this is a faithful way to pray, or not.  

Most times I do not

Have a dog running the race,

Except now I do.

Grackles

More backyard observations.  The grackles are in ascendance.  I miss the coyote.  Perhaps he ate all the crab apples.  Or perhaps something else finished them off.

The yard is filled with grackles

And the occasional squirrel.

They vie for the territory.

The grackles have

The edge.

Numbers count here.

Sixty massed grackles

Overtake one,

Even two,

Squirrels.

One grackle claims victory

For the flock

From his post

At the top of the garage.

Or perhaps he is afraid

Of the squirrels.

It is hard to know,

Not being knowledgeable

In the language

Of grackles.

The coyote has been unseen

Since the crab apple incident.

I worry

He may never return.

My trainer says

Often people come to me and we have an amazing amount in common.  I often wonder how they found me. Then there are those who come to me and I am made aware of things I never knew before.  I think the back pain has been brewing for a couple weeks, but I had learned to ignore it.  Keep walking, the trainer says, Keep walking.  So I am.  So I do.   Sometimes these things happen.

I do not need vicarious back pain

To realize back spasms

Hurt.

I sit with my client

Perched

On the edge

Of her chair.

I awaken

Day two

With back pain.

I am the frozen shoulder girl.

I have a wonky brain.

It registers barometric shifts.

I do not need vicarious back pain.

There are other things

On the resume.

I offer a wealth of experience

From A to Z.

I have not chosen to list

Expertise

In lower back pain.

My trainer says

Sometimes these things happen.
Keep walking.

Keep walking

I know many folk who have back trouble.  I tend toward a wonky brain.  Until this week... that is.  Wonky brain (not a technical term, mind you) has now decided to add my lower back to the chorus.  Keep walking, my trainer says, Keep walking.  So I do. I walk between sessions.  I do the three of five exercises she showed me.  I will make sure I learn the other two tomorrow.  Meanwhile I keep walking.  This is not bad advice, in general.

Now that I*ve mostly mastered 

The art involved 

In living with a brain

Where seizures threaten

With every barometric shift,

My lower back

Demands more attention.

Really?

I find myself

On the floor

Curling this way

And that. 

I remember exactly

Three of the five back exercises

The trainer taught me

Yesterday.

I will return tomorrow.

Whatever you do

She says

Keep walking.

Whatever you do,

Don*t sit for very long

At a stretch.

Whatever you do

Keep walking.

Milkweed

Apparently monarch habitat is being decimated.  There are fewer monarchs around due to a number of things: weed killer in fields, climate change, you name it.  There are fewer monarchs.  We consider planting our backyard, particularly the back corners where little grows, with milkweed.  We do not know how the monarchs will find us.  I imagine there are monarch ways, just like the hobos used to draw pictures on the gates of kind people who would give them food for the journey.

As children

We collected

Milkweed pods,

Split them open,

Blew the seeds.

We ran

With nets,

Caught monarch butterflies,

Let them go.

Fifty-eight years on

Fifty-nine years on

We consider planting our backyard

Full of milkweed,

A specific butterfly garden.

We will place signs

On the rooftop

Only butterflies can read.

The signs will speak

Butterfly language.

We will offer a safe yard

For hungry monarchs.