When I die

When I die

Whenever it is

However it is

I would like a service

Calling to mind

The Resurrection

And me

With it

And

In it.

When I die

I would like a party

In celebration of my life

Including the difficult bits.

We all have

Difficult bits.

When I die

I would like to become ashes

And spread

And scattered

And strewn

Somewhere the family

Deems fit

Where I can nourish

Nematodes

Prairie flowers

A scrub pine,

perhaps,

A black panther

Maybe even

A hawk.

When I die

I would like to be returned

To the earth.

When I die

I would like to see

What comes next.

Coffee with a friend

I'm not sure what vehicle I am riding these days. Certainly it varies from day to day. Coffee or lunch with friends, old and new, is a treat, always, no matter if I am driving, walking, or sitting still. Next year? Really? I have no idea where I'll be next year.

Coffee with a friend

Last fall:

In my perspective:

Lovely.

We must do this again

Next year,

She says.

We

All of us

Ride different cycles:

Unicycles

Bicycles

Tricycles

Some with too many wheels

To count,

Hamster wheels maybe.

Some walk endless treadmills

Wait for a power outage

So they can stop

Finally stop.

Coffee with a friend.

We must do this again

And again

And again

Before next year

Before we die.

In the midst of life

Today brought a gift of a sermon to my email box. 

http://inwardoutward.org/tag/lent-year-b/?utm_source=inward%2Foutward+email+subscribers&utm_campaign=cd4721c677-The+Story&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_791e8aa8ec-cd4721c677-70564269

A gift for my sixtieth birthday. Lovely.

In the midst of life,

We are in death.

In the midst of death

Life.

Palms strewn

Donkeys ridden

Crowds cheering

On the way

To the upper room

To the Garden

To beyond.

But that is for later.

In the midst of life,

I am in death.

In the midst of death,

Life.

Today my birthday

Holds hands

With both,

One on either side.

We intertwine our fingers.

All is as it must be.

Uncaged (for Maya)(and for me)

For Maya Angelou.  May she rest in peace and rise in glory.

Against the odds

You made them into

Evens.

Rewrote

Then rewrote

The rules again

Then rose

And rose again

Singing

Always singing

And now,

Whatever cage held you

(we all have cages)

Whatever cages held you

Those cage doors

Have been flung open

And you

You are completely free

To sing

To fly

To rise and rise again.

Vocations week

Back into themed therapy weeks.  Not even just therapy weeks, unless I count myself in this week*s mix. Which of course I do.  Life is in the air. Life brings change and transition with it.

This is vocations week

In my office

Under the altar.

Everyone I see          

Is in

Active transition.

Everyone I see

Above the altar,

On the street,

Is in active transition.

Life is in the air.

Heck

Death is in the air.

They go together

Hand in hand.

This is vocations week.

Everything does not fit

On a resume

I tell them.

I tell myself.

I tell anyone

Who will listen.

This is vocations week

Under the altar.

And above.

Independence

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

Independence.

Today I reflect

On another sort.

As fireworks explode

In the distance;

As the gym is unusually full 

For a weekday;

As I stand next to the bed

Of a dying man,

I remember today

May be Independence Day

For any number of folk

Or maybe it will tomorrow

Or the next day even.

The man has already taken

A turn toward independence.

The fact of the Fourth of July

Is neither here

Nor there.

The man

Is already on his way.

He is getting used

To the idea.

The arms of God

Are wide open

Waiting.

This is independence

Of a different sort

But Independence

All the same.

Brain exercise

My mailboxes (snail and e-mail and Twitter) are swamped with different ways to exercise my brain, to calm it down, to change it up and switch it out.  Brain exercise seems to be the latest thing to take control of aging, and face it: more of us are living longer and longer.  The baby boomers (including myself) are a large group.  My namesake aunt who died at 92 did the NY Times crossword most days.  She is my anecdotal example of reasonable aging.  She was also an editor for years at the University of Chicago Press and was one of the authors of the Chicago Manual of Style during her time there.  An impressive accomplishment.
The last couple weeks have shown me once again that some of us still die far too young.  Whatever we can do to forestall death in all of its forms seems worthwhile.  The latest thing seems to be brain exercise.

The latest thing

Is brain exercise.

The latest thing

Is that Alzheimers

May be forestalled,

Even prevented,

By exercising one*s brain

With crosswords and Sudoku,

Finding different routes

To take to work,

Different places

To park the car.

The latest thing

Is to find new paths

Through the forest

Of getting older.

More and more of us

Are getting older,

Living longer.

Some of us,

As always,

Die far too young.

The latest thing

Is brain exercise.

If only

If only

We exercise our brains enough

Then everything

Will come out right.

Death gathers us differently

Went to a memorial service yesterday.  The husband of a colleague had died unexpectedly.  It was interesting to me who showed, even who didn*t show.  It is always a surprise.  Always.  Next time it will be a surprise as well.

Death gathers people

Differently.

No invitations

To speak of,

Word of mouth or newspaper.

These days:

Disparate social media.

Death gathers us

Differently.

It is always a surprise

Even when expected.

The people who gather

Are often a surprise,

The people we had not planned to see

This week

This month

Even                         

This year

In this setting.

Death gathers us differently,

The segments of our lives

Weave

Unweave

Unplanned,

Almost always

Unplanned,

Uninvited,

Until it happens

Again.

Rumors of life

Why look for the living among the dead?  The words echo.  No matter how hard I try, there is no way to prove what I know is true.  Still I try to find convincing words.  I am not alone in this.  At the deanery meeting today, one colleague observed that resurrection is particularly hard to preach.  Yep.

We still look in the tomb

To secure the body

For safekeeping.

Two weeks hence

The body is still gone.

We hear rumors of life

On the road

On the beach

In the bread

In the wine warm on the lips

Down the throat.

We still look

To secure what we think

Is true.

Two weeks hence,

It is still

Gone missing.

There are rumors

Upon rumors

Upon rumors

Of life.

Buddha*s birthday

Every morning I receive a number of things to help me reflect.  Today I was reminded by Garrison Keillor that it is Buddha*s birthday.  I probably wouldn*t  have known otherwise.  I don*t think of Buddha having a birthday, much less what the occasion looks like.  Fixing it to a particular date on the calendar (like we have fixed Jesus to the 25th of December) seems curious to me.  But we all have a birthday.  It*s part of what anchors us to the earth, to time specific.  Of course Lent is tied to the spring cycle of the moon.  I don*t know about specific dates, and the Buddha.  Maybe he is tied to the moon as well, like Lent, and Easter.

Today is Buddha*s birthday.

Here past the middle of Lent

We remember all sorts of things

Even the birthday of the Buddha,

The day when all flowers were said

To bloom

Simultaneously.

Here

Past the middle of Lent,

We remember all sorts of things.

Even Buddha.

Here it is the seventh of April

On the calendar;

There are so many things

To remember

And detail.

The lawn people took the rotted edges

Off the garden bed.

Last night I saw it in the evening light.

Without edges,

It looked like a grave,

A three by seven mound of dirt.

It seems they even cleared

The rhubarb,

But maybe it is still there

Under the dirt.

Here it is past the middle of Lent,

The birthday of Buddha.

The fortune cookie last night said:

Everything will now come your way.

It is a scary thought.

Still

I wait for all the flowers to bloom

At once.