Advent Eve

Advent is my favorite season.  It seems the only season of the Church year which waits for two things at once, seemingly opposite things.  This waiting time feels, well, liminal to me.  An in-between time of sorts. This year we also get to wait for the comet to appear in the sky just before dawn.  

Advent Eve

The sun has set

The day will dawn blue

Tomorrow

Unless I look

Just before the sun rises

For the promised comet;

Unless I watch the sky,

Darkness incarnate

With a growing purple tinge,

Melting into final day blue.

Hope holds her hands

Pressed

On the baby

Riding safe inside;

Hope holds her hands outstretched

To the Promised One  

Who will return

Again.

The stage is set.

Advent Eve.

I await

The comet

Out the other side

Of the sun.

The sky will change

From darkness incarnate

To purple

To a final blue.

Hope bows down.

Her hands wait

In her lap.

More church dreams

This is the priest equivalent of not arriving prepared for the exam.  Even though I am not serving behind the altar these days, but rather, under the altar, counseling people one by one, I still have these dreams from time to time.  It seems years and years of a particular path, speaking a particular language, begs such things as church dreams like this one.  I wake up wondering if I will be invited to the picnic... the one everyone will attend.

Again I did not arrive

Prepared

For the job:

No alb

No sermon

Heck I didn*t even know

The proper lessons

For the day.

The outside sign said

They were now

In Palos Park.

Still I got there

By a back entrance

In cassock and surplice.

They said they*d figure out

Some sort of stole

To make me look official.

They always were nice

Like that.

I did not arrive prepared.

It took back road after back road

To get there.

Light attendance was promised.

There was a picnic scheduled

For the afternoon.

Everyone would attend

The picnic.

Aftermath

It seems the cranberries I tried to make into sauce, sweetened with orange juice, refused to be budged into sweetness.  Of course it may have helped if I'd used sweetened orange juice, or tasted the o.j. ahead of time. I assumed Whole Foods orange juice would be sweet.  The sauce may not be worth saving.  Some such things need to be let go... with grace.  Our ash tree?  Not so much.

This is the morning after,

The morning after the turkey,

After the cranberry sauce so sour

The leftover sauce

Will have to be doctored

For sweetness,

Perhaps baked into muffins.

The rest of the family

Still sleeps sound

In the light

Of late morning.

Pale blue sky

Highlights bare trees.

The lone backyard squirrel

Fluffs his tail

Runs up and down the ash tree.

The tree still survives

The borer:

Emerald green

From China.

We doctored the tree

For life

Last year.

It is still alive for us,

For the squirrel.

We may have to call it quits

On the cranberry sauce.

Pomegranate is a winter fruit

I always hated reading poetry which required a deep understanding of literary allusion.  Especially literary allusion which required knowledge of Greek and Latin and French and Italian.  Here it is Thanksgiving and I am thinking about Persephone, eating pomegranate seeds in the Underworld, and having to live there from three to six months.  She found her way into today's poem.  I think I explained her presence well enough. I did major in Greek as an undergraduate.  But still.  Happy Thanksgiving!

In northern Illinois

Pomegranate is a winter fruit,

Shipped in

From southern climates

On other continents.

It arrives in the stores

At Thanksgiving

With the first flakes of snow.

Every year it seems,

Like Persephone,

I descend to darker places

Only to rise in the light

Come spring.

Pomegranate is a winter fruit.

Of course it is.

Every year I eat at least six seeds

At Thanksgiving

Around a warm family table,

Remember the past months

Of growth and harvest,

Remember the people,

Remember the losses,

The things which are

No longer gathered in

But somehow still remain.

I am grateful

Oh so grateful

Eternally grateful.

Pomegranate

I read stories of all the food that makes Thanksgiving for people.  The food is rich and varied.  The only thing it all has in common is it is special.

Tomorrow

As families blend and morph

Into new versions

Of themselves,

More dishes will line the tables

At Thanksgiving.

A few years ago

I introduced pomegranate seeds

To a new crowd

Of unrelated people.

Since we were not in charge

Of the salad,

We served them as a garnish

For mashed sweet potatoes.

Years ago

My beloved*s introduction

To pomegranate seeds

Came

When he met my family

For the first time.

In his struggle to figure out

How to eat it a seed

My brother noted

He had dropped one

On his sweater.

This is now part

Of Thanksgiving

Pomegranate stories.

Other families share stories

Of cranberry salads.

Our stories often feature

Pomegranate seeds.

Thanksgiving requirements

There are requirements for Thanksgiving dinner.  Turkey... yes of course, though I understand there are many households which do not celebrate with turkey or cranberries in any form.  My daughter is vegetarian so we'll figure something with seitan for her.  Thanksgiving requires that there is something good for everyone, often involving memories of past Thanksgivings.  Usually it involves food... and lots of it.  My son will stay in Minnesota and celebrate up there.  He is also a fan of canned cranberry sauce with the ridges left in place.

We have figured the food

For Thursday. 

My beloved requires

Sweet potatoes mashed with orange juice.

I require pomegranate seeds and grapefruit

In the green salad.

Our daughter requires

Canned cranberry sauce

With the marks of the can

Left intact.

She also requires

That we eat at home this year.

Last year the refrigerator

Was in the living room.

We had no kitchen

To speak of

Then.

Now

We speak of it often.

A year*s time brings with it

A lot of change.

Still

Some things are required

To stay the same.

Prescience

It*s all tied together.  Now you see it.  Now you don*t.  Still... it will always come 'round again.

It*s all tied into

Thanksgiving

Secular

Sacred

Thanksgiving.

How did I not see

The connection of end times

And beginning again,

Always

Beginning again?

Indeed

I*m sure I must have written this

Before.

The Church
Society
Someone
in their prescience

Sandwich Thanksgiving between

Christ the King

And Advent 1.

The final Thursday

Of November,

The harvest gathered in,

The checkout guy

In the grocery store

Telling us the story

Of wild turkeys being so much

More flavorful

I saw it on PBS

He said

The combination of his Hawaiian shirt

And dreadlocks

And wild turkeys melding

With the blue sky day

After church.

It*s all tied into

Thanksgiving

Doncha know?

Thanksgiving

Beginnings

Endings

Hawaiian shirts and dreadlocks

Wild turkeys

And oh

Simply everything.

Back-story

This was my experience at Convention this year.  Oddly, though it may not sound like it, it was overall a positive experience.  I was made aware again of the pieces of back-story which are mine to bear, mine to attest to, mine to proclaim.  At the same time, I became more aware than ever that I will have to find new ways to do this.  The theme of Convention was "Behold! We are doing a new thing."  We welcomed new people into the diocese, but did not say farewell to others, to those who moved or are moving, to those who retired. Sometimes the old is not honored when we make way for the new.  It is possible to do both.  It is necessary to do both.  Perhaps I am more sensitive to this because I am a few years off from retirement now.  Perhaps I am more sensitive because I am part of that tail end of the first generation of ordained women whose vocational life was like unto those first farmers who moved West and had to clear land before any kind of crop could be planted.  This is part of my personal back-story.  I am a farmer.  I have cleared a lot of land.

Just home from Convention

I realize I know

So much

Of so much

Back-story

To this place.

The archives man died

This year.

I am one of many pages

Still walking around,

Still

Not recorded on official paper

Except perhaps

In sundry places

I have served.

I am one

Of many.

Some remember.

Still

There is back-story,

There is memory

Somehow

Deemed less significant;

There is the new announced

As the whole of things;

The change proclaimed

Which still ties in

With everything we have done

Before.

Somehow

We forgot.

Somehow we forget.

There is always back-story.

Nothing is ever

Completely new.

Amnesia unrealized

In truth

Does not make anything new.

Even when we say

It is so.

Home from Convention

I spent more time this year one on one.  After all, I have always been best, one on one.   Now that I am home I realize it was an amazing quilt of one on one opportunities.  I am not a big gathering sort, except that big gatherings often pull together people I care about.  Convention is one of those gatherings.  

I did the bits and pieces I could,

Found the comfy chairs,

Doled out hugs,

Words of appreciation;

Received and heard a few

Myself.

I was reminded again

It all goes both ways.

All of it.

Yes

There were elections

And resolutions.

But mostly I found out again

It all goes both ways.

All of it.

Even in the bits and pieces.

Convention

This will be my twenty-ninth diocesan convention as a priest.  I find myself grateful for a number of things: the convention has been in this location for the last four years (at least). I know where things are, so I don't need to spend energy on things like finding the bathroom.  Instead I can spend energy connecting with people new and old, just for the sake of connecting.  I am not running for any office.  I am not volunteering for anything. I may wear a collar, then again, maybe not.  I can be present, free and clear.  So I will.

This morning I thank God

For breakfast on my own,

For no small and smaller conversation

With ten people

In a restaurant,

People I enjoy at 2:30 in the afternoon

But 8:00 AM?

Almost everyone pales

At 8:00 AM.

Especially me.

This morning I thank God

For familiar spaces.

I know already

Where I will register

Where we will meet

Where the bathrooms are.

There is comfort

In familiar spaces.

I will not have to reorganize

The synapses

Of my brain

To find my way around.

I will not need the equivalent

Of a therapy dog,

Though a dog is always

A nice option.

This morning I thank God

For the choices I am blessed

To be able

To make

And the choices

I no longer need to make.

I thank God this morning

For the people I will meet,

The nametags we all

Will wear.

I can spend the synapses

Of my brain

On more important things:

Being present one to one

Then again

Being present

One to one.

Detail

On some days I could spend the whole time... writing.  Details flow like... well... like water.  Sometimes they ooze like honey, creep down volcanoes like lava.  Sometimes details mix together into new details and they seem completely new, even worth a dance interpretation.  Today is not one of those days.  Today is a singular detail day.

Find one detail.

Write it down.

Draw it.

Dance it.

It may very well be

The most important detail

In the world.

It is this moment*s detail

Seen through your eyes.

It reached out and caught

Your attention.

No one else has seen

This particular detail

In this particular way.

It deserves a mention,

More than a mention.

It may even change

The world.

Find one detail.

Write it down.

Draw it.

Dance it.

Panther

It seems in dreams we can get anything anywhere.  Even the last panther at the hardware store.  We bought him on a whim.  It was not a planned buy.  I kinda like him representing rebirth.  He was hard to control, certainly, but not ominous whatsoever.

From the Online Dream Dictionary:

To see a panther in your dream signifies lurking danger and enemies working to do you harm. It represents darkness, death, and rebirth. On a more positive note, panthers signify power, beauty and/or grace. Consider the feel of your dream to determine which meaning applies.      

I dreamed we bought a panther

At the hardware store.

He was the only panther left.

On Special.

It was hard to get him

In the cart,

Then

It was hard

To get him through the checkout line,

Then

It was hard

To fit him in the car,

But somehow we did.

I dreamed a panther,

A Sleek

Beautiful

Black

Panther.

He was on sale,

The very last one,

In the hardware store.

Now he is ours,

Except it seems,

Like all wild creatures,

He will never be

Completely ours.

No matter how much

We paid.

On catching up with an old friend

There are many ways to celebrate my ordination anniversary year.  This may be the best one yet... finding again a friend who I worked and played with during that year back in 1983-84.  Here's to you, Kathleen Busby.  I look forward to more lunches and laughter in the year to come.  

Now it is dark

And almost five 

In the afternoon.

I did not write

This morning.

Over lunch

We shared just enough history

To catch up,

To realize again 

We have not changed

Substantially.

Neither of us.

Now we are free

To go on

From here.

Clear head

Wild weather yesterday.  Wild weather means different things on different days.  Yesterday two fronts collided over the upper Midwest. I don't know which one won, except that there were tornadoes to the south of us, and it all moved over Northern Indiana and Lake Michigan to cause its trouble there.

Today I wake up grateful

For a clear head,

Settled weather,

The cat asleep

On the insulated grocery bag,

My beloved at the dining table,

Coffee warm

In his hands.

Today I wake up

With simple joys,

The means

To enjoy them.

I drink my coffee

From the dinosaur mug,

A modified stegosaurus.

A glint of sun

Cracks through the clouds,

Names the gratefulness I feel

On this day,

No words necessary.

Some Pig

When my friend, Rhonda Baker, posted a picture on Facebook of the spider she fed all summer, with her three egg sacs, all of Charlotte's Web came back to me.  Yes, Rhonda's spider was like Charlotte.  She had a singular spider focus.  And, apparently, adored stink bugs.

My friend nurtured a spider

All summer,

Even fed her

Stink bugs.

She says the spider

Was like Charlotte.

The stink bugs

Gave her the energy,

The wherewithal,

To produce

Three egg sacs,

A triple magnum opus,

Before she died.

Maybe this is what

A spider can do

When she has a singular focus

In life.

Maybe this spider*s life

Included the summer life,

In part,

Of my friend

Collecting stink bugs.

Maybe this says as much

About friendship

Continuing on

As a children*s story

About Some Pig

Saved by

Some Spider.

Magna opera

Omnia.

I have a lot to say

I tend not to preach what people expect to hear from the pulpit. Probably no surprise there.  The other Classics major in college (I went to a small school) also wrote poetry.  When we caught up with each other after I had been serving in parish ministry for awhile, he asked  about my poetry.  Oh, I said, I'm writing weekly sermons now.  The poetry energy is going into my preaching.  He was disappointed in me.  We  lost touch with one another.  I think he is out East somewhere.  Joe... are you out there reading??

I have a lot to say.

It seems most of it

Is not preach-able

To a large crowd of people,

Even if that crowd is styled

A congregation.

Nope.

I proved I could do it again.

Again

It is part of my resume.

People mostly responded

With the obligatory

Nice sermon

Or

You sing well

(yes, I sang during the sermon)

A couple heard

What I meant to say

Beyond the singing.

I have a lot to say.

Probably most of it

Is not preach-able

To a large crowd of people,

No matter what name

The crowd goes by.

I believe

With the UCC church

Down the block

That

God is still speaking.

Sometimes we hear Him

Sometimes we hear Her

In sermons.

Sometimes not.

Pondering my place in the Kingdom

Often perspective arrives as I write.  This is one of those days.

On days that I sit and wait,

Like this day,

I ponder my place

In the Kingdom.

At almost 59

I imagine my place

Under the altar,

All the good I can do

From the catacombs,

Though really there is space

Underneath me

As well.

The children play there

In cold weather.

Sometimes

Women dance

In the evenings.

Sometimes,

Kicked out of the upper hall,

The stamp people

Meet there too.

The Kingdom extends

Below and above.

Really I am in the middle

Of the Kingdom

Just as I have always been.

Do-overs

I know God is a fan of do-overs.  It*s really what confession is all about.  Today is sunny and a little warmer.  The snow has melted.   It is easier to consider do-overs in sunlight.

It seems God is big

On do-overs.

The rest of us?

Not so much.

This accounts for much

Of the crabbiness

In the world.

Let*s try that again

God says

I*ll hold your hand.

Maybe take it more slowly

Next time,

Make some notes,

Have a cup

Of Honey Vanilla Chamomile tea.

Approach it

From underneath

Or behind.

It seems

God

Is a fan

Of do-overs.

He says

She says

Let us,

You and Me,

Try that again.

Where are you today?

It was snowing Monday.  I arrived to meet with my supervisor/therapist/consultant to find the building surrounded by fire engines and ambulances.  I was early, so I sat in my car, waited for the emergency vehicles to leave.  Halfway through the meeting, one question shut me down.  I hate it when that happens.  It doesn*t happen often, but sometimes there is a perfect storm.  This is not the kind of perfection I prefer. Yesterday was better.  Today is better still.

Where are you today?

She asks.

She knows weather changes

Throw me off kilter.

Where are you today?

Are you feeling more or less

Balanced?

It*s a lot better today

I say

Yesterday was awful.

I*ll bet it was

My trainer says.

Let*s see what we can do

Today.

Cranes

I think the three Sunday cranes will be it for the year.  A thin marking of fall passing into winter.

Three lone cranes flew

In the Sunday morning sky

High up,

Their crane voices

Thin

But distinctly

Crane

Next to that blue

Almost crystalline background,

So blue

No word identifies it.

Today my beloved texts me

From the north:

Cranes headed your way.

I find the message

After they have passed by.

I consider who lives south of me

Wonder if cranes veer

East or west

As they fly.

No telling.

When you told me you might have left

I live with the illusion that I am not easily fazed.  Except it seems I am.  Surprise.  Other people*s decisions affect me.  Surprise.  My decisions affect other people.  All the time.  The door swings both ways.

When you told me

You might have left

Except

Then

You didn*t,

I was surprised,

Even shocked,

At the depth

Of my sadness

Even though

You are still here

For now.

We are not even close friends.

The hinge that links

Our lives

Swings the door this way,

Then that.

Sometimes we don*t see each other

For days.

Still

I was shocked,

Even surprised.

I know the time will come

When I awaken,

Open the front door

For the morning paper,

Find the for sale sign

On your lawn

Swinging in the wind

And me

Shocked and surprised
Sad

Even then.

Something in the air

I am still thrown off by the time change, the light change, the air change.  The only resolution is to wait until things clear.  I used to be able to push through such things.  No longer.  So I sit and get back in touch with the familiar around me.

There must be something

In the water

In the air

In the light

Today.

I am home from church

Under a blanket

In the blue chair.

My beloved is sound asleep

With the cat

On his chest.

The bush does not burn

In front.

I touch the familiar

Around me.

I wait.

There is something

In the water

In the air

In the light

Today.

I sit and wait

For something

To settle:

Sediment in the water;

Dust particles cleared

Out of the air;

The sun to set

More than an hour earlier

Than it did

Last week.

I sit and wait for that something

To clear,

Make way

For something else.

After we have cleared away

I must be a trial and error sort.  I will not renew the LPC or the CADC.  They are not necessary to do what I am called to do.  I will still draw upon the knowledge and the resources I gained in acquiring them.  The burning bush is still beautiful when it is bare.  Birds come to roost.  The neighbor*s cat knows it is holy, even without its leaves.

After we have cleared away

The things we do not need

The horizon goes on

As if

Forever.

Possibilities gain

Sharper definition,

Page after page

Of a coloring book.

Page after page

Of outlines,

They only require a medium

To be selected:

Color crayons

Watercolor

Sepia tones

Perhaps pen and ink

Maybe even broken bits

Of mosaic tile

To fill between the lines.

Possibilities gain

Sharper definition.

Sometimes

After all is cleared away

It seems we have been painting background

All along

And now

And now

We can see individual trees

In the forest

And now

And now

The birds are no longer hidden

By the leaves,

They sit on the branches

Of the burning bush

Which barely burned

This year.

And now

And now

Leaves gone

I see the neighbor*s cat

Sits underneath.

Autumnal reflection

As I drop letters after my name, I feel strangely lighter.  My beloved and I joke about what it will look and sound like when only a breath mark remains.  I don't know what other couples talk about over breakfast, but this is one of our conversations.

As leaves fall,

Chill arrives,

It seems right

I continue the process

Of subtraction:

Certifications

After my name,

Recently acquired certifications,

Are the first to go.

The degrees were earned

And paid for,

They can stay

For now.

Soon enough

They too will go.

I imagine one autumn

My family name will dissolve

Letter by letter

Until only the name

God recognizes

Will remain.

Until finally

Even those letters will disappear

And

I am named

As breath in…

Breath out…

Then words

Will have done their duty.

Rarely

Wow.  I left parish ministry in 2007.  It took quite awhile to figure out what priesthood might now look like in the human container that is me.  I gave up things.  I took on new things.  Now I know I can still preach. Still... it seems I am to speak in other ways... more.

So rarely are things

Resolved so quickly.

I preached on Sunday,

Four services

In a row.

So rarely

Are things

Resolved so quickly.

I preached

What felt right

To preach.

I even sang a little.

So rarely are things

Resolved

So quickly.

I got the range of responses

I remember

From before.

So rarely

Does resolution come

So quickly.

I know I can do it.

I know the words will come.

I know I can preach

In my street clothes

In my church clothes

Follow the gospel procession

Back to the pulpit

From the pew.

It is rarely

This quick

Or simple.

But now I know

This is most probably

Not the place

I need to stand

And speak.

Rarely

Rarely

Does it come this easy.

Still

I have prepared my whole life

For exactly

This place.

Thank you, Kelly Flanagan, for your blog post this morning http://drkellyflanagan.com/ .  Yes.  

I have long had the skill to help people quit things.  I have also never figured out how to list it on a resume.  It tends not to be something employers are looking for.

I have become

The go-to teacher

For lessons

In saying no.

This shocks

The very blood

Coursing through my veins.

Minnesota blood.

I stand in parking lots.

People approach me,

On the sly

Almost as if I am

A drug dealer.

They say

So-and-so told me

You can help me

Quit this thing

I no longer want to do.

I stand next to parked cars,

In darkened hallways.

You have a choice

I say

You have options.

It is entirely possible

To say No

And move on

To the next thing.

It is then my blood runs cold.

Minnesota blood.

Me

The girl from the Upper Midwest

I deal out noes

Like candy.

It is likely

What happens when the predictable... is *un*   When the burning bushes choose not to burn this year...where is the voice to be found?

It is likely

The burning bushes won*t reach

Full capacity

This year.

They are pale orange on top

With yellow and green

On the bottom.

It is likely

They will be bare

Before red

Is achieved.

What does it mean

When burning bushes

Do not live up to their name?

Do we wait for next year?

Or the year after?

What if autumn has found

A new place to speak

And I have simply missed it?

Where to stand

Some experiences take awhile to absorb or even awhile to register.  I suspect this last weekend will be one of those experiences.  I am grateful for my four friends sharing coffee with me this morning, even if they are creatures of my imagination.

Yesterday

Looking out from the pulpit

I noticed Grace

And her companions,

Humility and Charity,

Two pews back.

Providence inhabited

The choir loft.

Me?

I continue not to know

About me,

Where I need to stand

Or sit

Or kneel.

I found myself

In so many places yesterday

I do not know

The proper place,

If there is even

One proper place

Except the blue chair

Where I sit and write

This morning,

Watch and listen to the cat

Sound asleep and snoring,

Hear my daughter*s footsteps

Upstairs.

Grace

Humility

Charity

And Providence

Ring around

The dining table,

Still in their nightclothes,

Laugh about their

Old-fashioned names,

Toast me and one another

With coffee and tea.

From the blue chair

I raise my coffee cup.

Extra hour

Maybe my brain will catch up eventually.  It*s not simply a change in barometric pressure that does it. Sometimes it*s something as simple as going off of daylight savings time.  I*ll have to gradually re-calibrate meals and bedtime.  Maybe by the time the winter solstice arrives, and the light begins coming back, my brain will arrive with it.

The extra hour of light

This morning

Translated to darkness at 5 PM.

It all gets refigured

On the other end

Anyway.

I sit in the dark,

Realize I am counting

Again.

This time I count an extra hour of daylight

In the morning

But still

It feels like darkness fell

More than an hour earlier

Tonight.

I think the world spun faster.

I swear the world spun faster.

It left daylight

In the dust.

Rhythm

Tomorrow I preach for All Saints, officially transferred to this Sunday.  Four services.  One time the sermon will be translated into Spanish.  I have never done that dance before.  Unlike my times as a solo pastor, during which I most often preached every week, it has been a long time now since I have put together a sermon.  There is a rhythm to sermons.  The first sermon I ever gave was during field education in 1981.  It was on All Saints.  Today, as so many times before, I put the sermon together on a Saturday morning, this time after weeks of thoughts and possibilities.  There is a rhythm to such things, as there is a rhythm to all things.

There is a rhythm

To sermons:

The preparation

The giving.

There is a rhythm

Not unlike the poem

But still

Not exactly the same.

There is a rhythm

To everything we do

Whatever we do

Wherever we are.

There is a rhythm

To all that we do

And say,

Even,

Dare I say it,

A heartbeat

Underneath it all.

The glorious company

Of saints

Living and dead

Stand with us

And sway

In time.

Winter visitor

It*s time for Daylight Savings Time to take a vacation, like snowbirds, south.  The extra hour of light arrives Sunday morning.  I have made up the guest room with fresh sheets.

I am glad

For the extra hour of light.

She arrives

Sunday morning

A winter visitor

Welcome  

As warm-baked cinnamon rolls

Hot coffee

Cat rumbles solid

On the lap;

A winter visitor

Embraced at the door

Shown in

From the dark and cold

Coat hung in the closet

Boots by the door;

A winter visitor

Invited to stay

Til spring.