Dribble

As I sit here I feel the numbness under my right ear.  I*m told it should all wear off in the early afternoon.  I am sort of drinking coffee from a mug I rarely use.  I am dribbling.  The mug says Thank you for not being perky.  Thank you, I tell the mug, thank you... it is great to be honored in my non-perkiness.

Back from the dentist

My upper jaw is numb

Through my right nostril

And slightly

Under my right eye.

You will be able to eat

The dentist said.

Sitting here I think

You didn*t tell me

Drinking coffee

Would be such a challenge.

Sitting here

I dribble.

And I write

Numb of jaw.

I push my husband

To reschedule

His dental appointment.

My honorable aim

Is to promote his self-care.

Secretly,

Or maybe not

So secretly,

As I dribble,

I really seek

Company.

Counting chickens

Clergy used to be paid in chickens and eggs (and other such things).  I*m back to figuring out what I will be when I arrive, much less where I will be when I arrive. God knows.  Of course God knows.  And pay?  Cups of coffee and an occasional chicken.  My friend says God holds up placards for me.  Yep.  It*s been a multi-placarded week.  I*m not sure how many placards I will need.  Probably a few more.  Almost certainly a few more.

I*m not much for labels.

I do believe Child of God

Is plenty good enough.

Yet

Yet

I still wonder

When I will ever arrive.

If

I will ever arrive.

And

If I do,

Where will I be?

I wonder

How to market myself.

After all

I*m not much for labels.

I wonder

If anyone will ever find me

Other than

By word of mouth.

I wonder if the practice

Of offering something

Hot to drink

A discerning heart

Will net anything more

Than the occasional chicken.

I wonder if anyone

Will know me

As God does.

I wonder if God is the only one

Who needs no explanation

And I can simply rest here

Awhile,

Count the occasional chicken

And

Wait.

Simply wait.

DSM-5 (a haiku)

The Diagnostic Statistical Manual, Fifth Edition, arrived in the mail yesterday.  I am assured the editors see it as a work in progress.  I am skeptical.  Can a book progress as people do?  This is a reminder haiku.  It*s short; easily committed to memory.

They say it*s a work

In progress.  The book*s like us.

Exactly like us.

Flood

It was one of those days... a series of encounters meaningful to me, and, I realize now, to others.  A figurative flood of encounters.  This probably happens all the time.  It*s just sometimes... I notice.

Yesterday was a figurative

Flood.

People washed over

My hull

In public places

And private.

I had lunch

With unplanned people,

Met them coming

And going.

I realized

I was part of the figurative flood

Washing over

The hulls

Of others.

I figure I know

Some of them anyway.

There is rarely any good way

To figure them all.

Yesterday I was flooded

And flood

Both.

Robin

We live here too.  You*ll just have to share.

The robin in the tree

Across the street

Has claimed our front lawn

And driveway

For his own.

He hops the blacktop

For worms

Or perhaps to mark

His boundaries.

This morning he thought

To stand down

The car,

Puffed up,

His chest more orange

Than usual.

We live here too

I said to him

You*ll just have to share.

Cloud of Information

I have to laugh.  Even as I write this, I know this blog is adding to the massive Cloud of Information.  Somehow this does not bother me.  So...what does it matter that someone might find out how many steps I take in a day, or whether my sleep was light or heavy?  Still... I am the child of the father who always overpaid his taxes, in part so he would be left alone.  I am the child of the father who sought to protect anything and everything.  This Memorial Day I am the child of the father who fought in World War II, who was injured in France, the only one left alive when his truck was bombed.  I am the child of the father who never talked about such things.

So many things

To pay attention to.

We have devices

Which almost mean

We do not

Have to pay attention to anything

Ourselves.

The devices will do it

For us

Just as long as there is Wi-Fi.

The devices will chronicle

Every atom of sleep

Deep or catnap;

Every step we take

Running

Or walking;

And oh so many

Other things.

There is an application

For everything, almost.

The apps will register it all

In the Cloud of Information.

I am the child of my father.

I just purchased

A pedometer.

It will count my daily steps

As I work up

To ten thousand.

It will not be registered

Anywhere

But in my head.

I leave my sleep

To fend for itself.

I am the child of my father.

The Cloud of Information

Knows enough about me

Already.

Trinity

I woke up this morning thinking about writing that owl reflection.  It is such a cool picture: three barn owls peering out of a rounded cross shaped window.  So I began.  The owls have yet to make their appearance.  Instead I remembered that breakfast with Possibility and Disappointment, and the later meeting I had with my therapist/supervisor/consultant.  Perhaps you could all hold hands, he said. Maybe you could close the circle.  

I am not on the roster

To preach

Yet every time

Trinity Sunday rolls around

I think what I might say

To clear things up

This time.

A few weeks ago now

I had breakfast with

Disappointment

And Possibility,

Just the three of us.

We all walked under the crabapple.

Possibility and I

Held Disappointment*s hands.

What if all three of you

Held hands,

Closed the circle

In the backyard

And danced?

He asked.

What if?

This morning I think

Why that would be

Perichoresis.

If we danced fast enough

No one

Could tell us apart.