Scilla

I had to ask a friend for the name of "that flower." I never knew it before. My mother, the gardener, called it a weed. It is only blue for awhile in the spring, but now I know it has a name. Now I know I can plant it and it will spread where it wills. It will light up the shade.

Every spring I encounter

Blue carpets

On stray lawns,

Blue I have to remember again

Each spring.

I have never lived in a house

With such blue.

When I grew up

The next door neighbor

Had a shady patch which blued

Each spring.

I didn’t encounter it again

Until a few years ago now

On a walk around some block

Somewhere.

Now that blue appears

When we are late to church

And park a block and a half away.

I dreamed that blue last night,

A patch of flowers grew

In my living room.

When I looked out the back door

The blue covered the lawn,

A blue carpet

On my grass.

It was a Visitation

It was an Annunciation

It was Holy

I hear about the families

Families. We all have them.

I hear about the families:

The spouse

The children

The parents

The grandparents

The distant difficult relative

Who only appears

At Thanksgiving

Along with the turkey.

Hour after hour,

I hear about the families.

It is amazing

We all have them

Or people like them

They are woven with strands

Of similar DNA

If we look closely

We can see it

The blink of an eye

The tilt of the head

The turn of a phrase.

Some appear nightly

Some only at Thanksgiving

Along with the turkey.

I hear about the families

The client who did not

Want to meet with me:

I reminded him of a particular aunt

He preferred not to see.

He changed his mind.

I am grateful.

Blackbird

Thinking like a blackbird.

On days like today

Somewhat warm

Somewhat sunny

Every redwing in his particular tree

Claiming his territory

(My beloved does

A fine redwing blackbird

Impression

I wish you could see it)

On days like today

Warm

Sunny

I mark my territory

Stake my claim

Like every other blackbird

After my beloved goes to work

To mark his territory

Make his claim.

Tonight we will return

To the nest.

Egg McMuffin

Rarely have I eaten something so...so right. I even bought two so my beloved might share the experience. I figure one Egg McMuffin every five years or so might be allowed.

It has been years

Since an Egg McMuffin

Passed my lips,

Entered the system

God made

A system which will now

Need to figure

What to do with it

The Egg McMuffin

In all of its particularity

The Egg McMuffin

Which demanded a companion

Egg McMuffin

Nestled in its yellow wrapping

In the white fast food bag

A companion Egg McMuffin

For my beloved.

Two-step

We all go as far as we can go. Sometimes we are propelled forward...despite ourselves.

A person near and dear to me

Got stuck at step two.

He was powerless

(He knew)

Somewhere there was hope

(He knew)

He never got to surrender.

Yet

He continued that two-step

Until he died.

I believe he gets it now.

I believe he was launched

The rest of the way.

Now

He gets it.

Plans change

One more configuration for today. Why am I surprised?

Plans change.

They always do.

Sometimes they change

To something bigger,

Sometimes

Something smaller.

Of course size

Is relative.

Plans are sufficient

Unto the day,

Until they require change.

Then they’re not.

Sometimes new plans

Are called for;

Sometimes the plan

Is to capture

That extra moment

To ponder the cat

Sprawled asleep

In the sun.

Plans change.

They always do.

What was in

The original mind’s eye

Comes out the other side:

Different.

Whining

My beloved thinks I have a great book idea here: How To Get the Most Out of Whining. He says it would be a bestseller.

When I whine it seems

A new client shows up.

Ha ha, God. Ha Ha.

Rhubarb says

Once again the rhubarb has emerged in the garden bed... first looking other-worldly...now more recognizable. Spring is still doing its thing...a patch of warm, then frost, then warmer. Rhubarb says: That's just the way of spring. That's its way.

Rhubarb says

It’s not too cold for me

Once I begin spring growth

I follow through

As sure as rain and sun

As sure as the grass

Grows with me

As sure as the clematis

On the front porch pillar.

Rhubarb says

It’s a promise

You know

It’s a promise

And promises will eventually

Be kept.

Gold string

I remember a Christmas, long ago now, me, a single mom with a three year old boy: blonde and beautiful with wonder. His favorite gift that year came off of a present...a piece of gold string. He ran through the house, the string behind him: My "tite" My "tite"  Later the string became part of an intricate series of traps. Gold string. Who knew?

Gold string:

I remember the small boy

Running…it’s my kite!

Over soup

I'm reminded of a line from a song by Larry Norman: This earth is not my home. As I wait and watch for a new heaven and a new earth, I find certain comfortable places to hang out, realizing, of course, this too will pass.

Over soup

She reminds me

I have made my own niche

Or perhaps

It was waiting for me

A Catharine-sized hole

Maybe a nest

Maybe a spot

To inhabit.

Wherever I find myself

There I am,

And certainly

Most certainly

Someone will cross in front

Or behind.

I will say

There you are

There you are

I knew you were coming

Foxes have holes

Birds have nests

Sometimes I do too.

Sometimes

There is simply nowhere

To lay my head.

Sometimes everyone else

Seems to be asleep.

And then some

Though I am not a listmaker out loud or on paper, I do confess to making lists in my head. I am still learning different ways. It's amazing what wings its way in an unstructured hour, when I do not name the limits.

She said

I usually have made a list

Of things to talk about.

I’ve been so busy today

I did not make a list.

That’s ok

That’s ok

Maybe we can wing it

I said

Maybe

Just maybe

There may be a different way.

It’s amazing.

We filled the hour

Anyway

And then some.

Up early

Things (and people) show growth as they are made to show growth. Sometimes it's curly growth. Up early today, witnessing the curliness of things.

Up early,

I learn the curly willow

Is up early

As well,

Lit by morning sun

Shadowed curly

On the living room carpet.

Up early

I learn

Pussy willows green

In a different order

Catkins first

Then comes green.

Up early

I write this

In its particular order,

Somewhat curly

In its own right.

Curl

This will be a very full week: more clients than usual, a day of continuing education, spring allergies, and a spinning head. Today I observe the cat and the curly willow on the front table.

Slowly

Slowly

I learn new pacing.

Tomorrow will be a combination

Of allergies,

A crowd of Christian mental health folk,

A minister or two

And my head,

Prone to spin

These days.

Today I focus

On the curly willow,

On the cat,

Curled in a ball,

Sound asleep,

One of his many

Morning naps.

Slowly

Slowly I learn

New pacing.

Tomorrow I will be present

As I am able

I will curl as necessary

I will green like the willow

When it happens.

Different order

I wondered for days and days whether this was perhaps not a "forsythia year." Other years have brought forsythia gold before the green buds. This year they arrived together.

The trees and bushes greened

Before the forsythia

Popped gold.

Spring arrived

In different order.

Perhaps it is always

In different order,

But I don’t notice.

On the front table

The pussy willow

The curly willow

Bud green

In the clear glass vase,

White root filaments

Beg to be planted

Out back

Next to the creek.

Tiny houses

I continue to be fascinated with the tiny house movement, the paring down of belongings to take up the least amount of space. Sometimes, though, I do wonder if, in all the effort to go small, to make a small footprint, we fool ourselves. Not that the answer is big houses or the accumulation of more possessions, but simply that, we all live in tiny houses already, no matter how big our living room. Maybe the idea really is, by living tiny, we expand into life beyond our walls.

No matter how big 

Our living room, we all live

In tiny houses.

Shirt

Sometimes particular dreams set up ripples, like stones thrown into a still pond. 

Years ago now

I dreamed I asked a friend

For the shirt off his back.

He wanted to give it to me

But

Try as he might

He couldn’t.

He pulled out shirt tail

After shirt tail

After shirt tail

Like endless magician’s scarves.

Months later

Driving home from blessing a house

I realized:

I get my own shirt!

Happy dance.

I get my own shirt?

Damn.

I get my own shirt?!?

Now what?

Years ago I learned

I get my own shirt.

Now I sit with people

Talking about shirts.

Red purse

Sign of spring.

On a particularly bright spring day

We drove past a woman

She waited to cross the street

Paper bag in each hand.

Somehow she managed

To also swing

Her red purse.

There are many signs

Of spring

If we look.

Off the grid

Several Midwestern cities are gridded. How else would we know which direction we're going? Or even where we've come from? I did live in Boston for a couple years. There they speak of streets being old cow paths. The main streets are unlabeled. If you belong there... you know what they are. I grew up on the grid. I am learning to make my own grid, reorienting myself by the sun.

I grew up

On the grid.

Streets were oriented

North and South,

East and West.

North South streets were named

In alphabetical order.

When the alphabet ended,

It began again.

East and west

Were numbered.

For numbered streets

There is no end.

Now I live on a one block lane

With curves.

I am forever getting mixed up.

I reorient myself daily

By the sun.

In truth

I have been off the grid

For years.

Now

The alphabet has way more

Than twenty six letters.

Now

I have completely lost faith

In numbers.

I am gridless.

I reorient daily

By the sun.

Capture

My beloved and I... we barely make it to work out on Tuesday and Thursday at 9 AM. Still, we mostly make it. Now we are trying to add in a daily walk. Our trainer (the one we pay so we will feel guilty if we don't make it) would like us to keep track of our daily walks. This is a stretch.

When I awaken

I try to capture

The very first thought,

So the day

Has a clear beginning

Written down.

It will move on from there.

We have begun semi-daily walks.

Are you keeping track?

She asks,

The trainer who monitors us

Tuesday and Thursday mornings,

Are you keeping track?

How will you know

What you’ve done?

I am not a listmaker.

In the morning

I try to capture

That one thought

So it can move on

From there.

Privilege

I am not looking forward to the next election, and the round after round after round of privileged folk being unaware of so much. I find it, well, interesting that countries with a poor track record in recognizing that women are 100 per cent human will elect a woman to lead their country.

Privilege:

So many people

Spell it wrong.

So many

Can’t claim it,

Much less

Spell it.

I wonder

If it’s so difficult to spell

In other languages

In other countries

Even

On the moon

With no atmosphere

Whatsoever.

Timing

New meaning for the term "Low Sunday."

We arrived an hour late.

We thought

We were early.

The church was still dressed

For Lent.

The six or seven people present

Eventually told us

They had changed the time

Of worship

The week before.

We got there

For announcements

About the lawn.

After a year and a half

Without a pastor,

They have formed

A search committee.

Timing

Is everything

Or perhaps

Nothing.

Boxes

I remember, as a child, hearing about all the starving children in other parts of the world. It was a ploy to get me to eat my breakfast, my lunch, my dinner. It was a ploy to get me to appreciate what I had: the spinach, the runny eggs, the canned button mushrooms I picked out of every spaghetti sauce my mother made. I am done with ploys, but still admit I have a few of my own. My children are grown. Then there's still me, thinking it is possible to box up my own needs, send them, like breakfast, to the starving children in other parts of the world. No. It's a ploy.

I box what I need

For those in need

On the other side of the world.

It does not help

Either one of us.

Catkins

More pussy willow observations.

The catkins

On the very top

Of the pussy willow branches

Have sprouted

Fur upon fur

Pale yellow green fur

On the soft gray.

It begs for some new spring

Flying thing

To find it

For nourishment

For pollination

Maybe perhaps for both.

I realize

I do not know the life cycle

Of pussy willows,

One of the many many things

I do not know.

Still

It remains an amazing thing

Of Spring.

Questions and answers

Sometimes I get trapped into thinking there is one right answer. 

Like the child listening to the children's homily preached by her pastor, being asked the question: What's brown and furry and has a long tail, and buries nuts for the winter? 

I know the answer is Jesus, says the child, but it sure sounds like a squirrel to me.

Do I have all I want? Do I have all I need?

Sometimes the answer comes the next day.

It's a squirrel.

Sometimes

We ask the right question

And then

Don’t wait

To hear

The answer.

Perhaps it is even

The right answer,

But we have moved on

To other interesting questions

Or figured

There wasn't an answer

Worth considering

To the first.

Sometimes someone else

Asks the question

And if we don’t have an answer

We make it up,

Get stuck in an endless loop

Of words

We wait for the next question

Perhaps we will have an answer,

A real answer,

To that one.

Yesterday I was asked if I had

All I wanted,

All I needed.

A good question.

I got stuck on the difference

Between wants and needs,

Got lost in the fog,

Spun the rest of the day.

This morning I woke up to rain,

Spring, greening, rain

Realized what I have

Is enough.

Weariness abides

Barometer has been wonky all day. Spring weather change coming on. I did not write this morning. Perhaps tomorrow will offer clear brain. If not, maybe Friday.

Weariness abides.

So much is gone of today.

Tomorrow I write.

Sticks

One Christmas years ago I ordered an interesting arrangement of red-barked boughs for my mother. She referred to them as "the sticks I sent her." As I recall, they had red berries on them as well. My mother only saw the sticks. I think of my mother every time I place sticks in a vase, and wait for what might come: sticks with potential. I figure now she sees potential everywhere.

Every spring

I harvest sticks

With potential:

Forsythia

Pussy willow

Curly willow,

Sticks

With potential green,

Possible leaves.

I keep the sticks in vases

Filled with water,

Trim the bottoms

So the water

Will rise.

As the world greens outside,

My sticks green

Inside.

I need reminders

Everywhere I look.

All it takes

Is a bud

A shoot

A leaf, maybe two.

Now. Here. This.

I love to listen to Krista Tippett's On Being. Saturday's show was a repeat of an interview with Greg Boyle, a Jesuit who works with gangs in Los Angeles. He speaks of preparing for each encounter with this breath prayer: Now. Here. This. to remind him to remain present for this one moment in time, this one encounter. I like it. Now. Here. This. It allows me to hand out business cards, plant a seed, and maybe, just maybe, work with that person... eventually.

I have,

Slowly,

Learned to carry business cards

In every pocket,

Leave them outside

My office door.

I hear you’re good

She says.

I wonder who told her,

But that is not

For casual conversation.

I am,

Slowly,

Learning

People may take my card,

Gratefully even,

Fold it over in their wallet

And perhaps

Only perhaps

Call me in a year or two

When they’re ready.

Nap

Easter afternoon nap. The next liturgy.

Even with no liturgies planned

No liturgies executed

I am lulled into watching

Egg hunts

In the spring sun.

I close my eyes in the warm rays

Drift into the nap

I have not earned

This Holy Week.

Still

The liturgy of Easter Sunday afternoon

Calls for a nap

Like no other,

A nap

Of large proportion,

In keeping

With the culmination

Of Holy Week.

A Holy Nap.

A Nap of Alleluias

Without end.

Holy Saturday 2015

So like Him.

On this beautiful blue day

They say

Jesus is down

Evacuating Hell.

What’s the Son of Man to do?

Twiddle his thumbs?

Maybe

Play Gin Rummy,

Or even

Go Fish

With the Heavenly Host?

What’s a guy to do

With this free Saturday

Like no other Saturday

This free blue beautiful day?

So like Him

To throw open

The gates of Hell,

Invite absolutely everyone

To the Resurrection Party

Tomorrow.

This is what I do now

This becomes less difficult as time goes on. As I remind my clients, I remind myself:  such change takes time and practice.

I remind myself

This is what I do now:

Pray around the edges

(Not in front)

This is what I do now:

Sit in the middle of things

(Without directing)

This is what I do now:

Stand on the edges

(Without resentment)

Encourage from the spaces

In between.

This is what I do now:

Watch

Listen

Speak occasionally

If necessary.

Maundy Thursday 2015

Like all those familiar plays, we know how this one goes. I think we each play a different part every year. This year I am that unnamed young man in Mark who ran away naked when Jesus was arrested in the Garden. No. I have no idea what this means.

We know how this story ends

Or perhaps

Begins again.

The measure of things

It is Wednesday in Holy Week. I do like spring but these days all my measures are off-kilter. When my brain comes up with sphygmometer and I look it up (ain't Google wonderful), I find it's the technical word for a blood pressure cuff. Oh yeah, that's been off too. Still, my brain is working. Way to go, brain.

Finally spring weather.

This will take

A reorientation

Not a bad one but still

Change comes harder these days

My brain moves

With the barometer

With the thermometer

Even it seems

With the odometer.

Out of the depths

My brain comes up with

Sphygmometer

I had to look up

The meaning.

I must have learned it somewhere.

Way to go, brain,

Way to go.

All is not lost in this change

To spring.