Succumb to Joy

 Last night I dreamt again of a laughing baby, 

this one the child of a sister who was preparing for her wedding day. 

My grandmother, still clinging on to the idea that babies 

should come after the wedding and not before, 

 was a bit cranky about the order of events, 

but the baby seemed quite happy 

with the chance to take part in a celebration. 

Eventually even my grandmother succumbed to joy. 

In a dream a few weeks ago

I changed the diaper of a tiny girl 

just before we were about to step out in darkness 

as armored men on thundering war horses

were fast approaching.

 Best to start out clean for that sort of thing.  

We smiled and giggled, and

Despite the darkness and the menacing noise

 she was not afraid, nor was I.  

  

I think we need to pay attention 

to the laughing babies around us,

and to the crying ones as well.  

They are here for a reason, 

and that reason is love. 

And so are we.      

     

 

  

image:  "Among the Nasturiums" San Leandro, February 2025

Taking My Stand

 

This poem, which came to me from the site First Sip, describes my winter, a season that I am now calling the Winter of Soups. Yesterday I made a chili verde. There are black beans in the refrigerator. I just saw a recipe for mushroom barley soup which I will certainly try as soon as I figure out where I can get good barley.  The making of a  minestrone last week pretty much saved my life.   

   

The photograph of the emerging geranium was taken in my front yard. It is growing from a cutting from the geranium in my backyard, which is a cutting from a geranium from a neighbor who lived across the street for many years before she passed from cancer.  My geranium is easily 30 years old.  Even as new people move in, this is a neighborhood of old trees and flowers. I love that.   

  

So armed with a flag of red geraniums, a bowl of soup, and a poem fueled soul, I wii I take my stand against the terrible politicians practicing their terrible politics. I am confident angels will always be present. I dedicate this post to my friend Rev. Patricia Wood whose body succumbed to cancer yesterday. She was a fine chaplain and a fine gardener who loved her family, human and otherwise. She loved poetry.  She probably knew this poem. She was always a step or two ahead of me, but shared her knowledge with love.   

  

Still so much to be grateful for. Let us remember.  

Poem with an Embedded Line by Susan Cohen

Barbara Crooker 

When the evening newscast leads to despair,
when my Facebook feed raises my blood pressure,
when I can’t listen to NPR anymore,
I turn to the sky, blooming like chicory,
its dearth of clouds, its vast blue endlessness.
The trees are turning copper, gold, bronze,
fired by the October sun, and the bees
are going for broke, drunk on fermenting
apples. I turn to my skillet, cast iron
you can count on, glug some olive oil,
sizzle some onions, adding garlic at the end
to prevent bitterness. My husband,
that sweet man, enters the room, asks
what’s for dinner, says it smells good.
He could live on garlic and onions
slowly turning to gold. The water
is boiling, so I throw in some peppers,
halved, cored, and seeded, let them bob
in the salty water until they’re soft.
To the soffrito, I add ground beef, chili
powder, cumin, dried oregano, tomato sauce,
mashed cannellinis; simmer for a while.
Then I stir in more white beans, stuff the hearts
of the peppers, drape them with cheese and tuck
the pan in the oven’s mouth. Let the terrible
politicians practice / their terrible politics.
At my kitchen table, all will be fed. I turn
the radio to a classical station, maybe Vivaldi.
All we have are these moments: the golden trees,
the industrious bees, the falling light. Darkness
will not overtake us. 

   

    

15th Century Advent Poem

Last night Tyler and I felt we really did need to go to his company's Christmas party. It was anything but quiet. Yet, optimism was present, as was gratitude.  After the party we both felt we had done the right thing, even if we did get drenched returning to the car.  

This morning I thought of this poem I love so much, and I also thought of Revelations 3:20: "Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come and eat with you, and you with me." 

 May we always hear the gentle knock. May we remember to open the door.    

  

Thou shalt know Him when He comes
not by any din of drums
nor the vantages of airs
nor by anything He wears...
For His presence known shall be
by the holy harmony
that His coming makes in thee.    

           

I believe I first shared this poem in 2016.  I  have never been able to learn anything about it or who wrote it.       

        

 

 

 

image:  San Leandro from a few years ago. I call it "Welcome" 

A Child's Teaching

 I dreamt of a child - 

a baby so tender.  

The child is not mine, 

but is the daughter of a friend.  

Yet, I love this child - 

her scent, her softness. 

I sense her growing in my arms.  

In the dream I even gently change 

her diaper and clean and powder her

 as I softly spoke 

probably about nothing, 

but maybe enough of the everything 

that she might be yearning to hear.      

   

And then we three were on the street

in dusky light along with many others, 

including armoured men on war horses

who were thundering our way.

I hold the child and wonder

about the warriors' blindness,

why it is that they cannot see 

the tenderness, or hear the rhythmic stirrings 

of a tiny heart offering itself to life, 

 to be held, not in strength and might, 

but to rest in arms that hold, and tenderly care-fully in love.

  

The child is quiet. We are not afraid.  

   

 

say, November 2024

Locating

 In the dream I am looking for a new place to live.

 I have packed a few things;

I am ready to go.

I read a post by a famous writer. He mentions an apartment by a peaceful river.   

I think, "Yes, that is where I would like to go."  

I then realize that I do not know where this place is. 

 I send the famous person a note asking him for the location.  

What I received was a clear plastic gift bag, 

something like what one would receive at a conference. 

Like most conference gift bags, it held nothing of value (at least to me).  

 I set it aside and then walk through a large square building

 that is painted a sort of tan. 

Everything is a varying shade of brown or tan: outside, inside, 

even the carpet.

Not very interesting but certainly functional. 

I have dreamt of this building several times. Sometimes Tyler is with me;

Sometimes not. In this dream, he is not. 

Instead, I am walking with a young woman who with some authority, 

seems to be showing me around.

I spot an open space 

at the end of the hall by the stairs on the second floor of this multi-floor building. 

In these dreams I am always on the second floor. 

There I find a large desk. In fact, that is all this space holds.  

I sit at the desk and say, "This is perfect."

The young woman expresses concern:

"There is nothing here but a desk. Not even a door or a wall."   

Not looking at her but rather at the desk,

 I respond, "This is all I need."   

 

I then remember I have lived in this building all along.    

     

 

image:  Taken in Santa Cruz in October 2024. I think I may call it, "Vision While Pondering a Desk".

Now Is the Time

 The morning meditation is always about the permanence of impermanence.  

 To the southeast pink clouds stretch across the blue sky, 

As if an unseen calligrapher's brush left a message 

that almost, but fortunately not quite, 

began to disappear as quickly as it was created.

The relationship between sky and sun, earth and moon 

cannot be long held in the hand or the mind. 

We can only humbly come before them  

as nations plan and rant and plunder, 

trying to hoard and completely eat up at the same time.

  

Yet, there are messages that linger long enough 

to guide us a little further, messages that whisper,

  

"This is your life. Go ahead; 

please make yourself at home

 and plant some beautiful seeds." 

  

say

 November 30, 2024    

      

    

say

 November 30, 2024    

With Gratitude to Jack Kornfield

 Early this morning I read that National Geographic 

believes older women should get out in nature more.   

I would agree that modest adventure is good for some of us, 

and wild adventure is good for others, 

but yes, if possible, all of us should get up and go.

So I decided to take my rain jacket for a modest walk. 

I love my jacket.    

It keeps me dry and does not complain about doing so.

It seems to enjoy, like most of us, being asked to come along 

rather than left to hang around in a crowded dark closet. 

It kindly leaves my hands free to help my phone take pictures.

Yes,  the three of us went for a walk. 

It did rain, but not hard. Did that make us an intrepid party of four?

I was startled by a flock of birds that I heard 

take off before I saw them.   

Actually, I do not know how many creatures, including 

birds and trees and fallen leaves still in their colors, and rain, 

and the skittish grey cat, and neighbors who said hello, 

 joined me on this small adventure. 

I just knew I was not alone.   

  

Before I left, I listened to a presentation by the wise Jack Kornfield. 

As I walked I pondered the difference between 

awareness, and compassionate awareness. 

At least, I think that is what he was talking about.  

Regardless, we all know people who express 

their awareness like a pouncing lion.  

They sense weakness and have a mission  

to make themselves known just before they try to devour us. 

I confess that on occasion I, too, have jumped to make myself known.  

Yet, there is another awareness that includes compassion.   

That is very different.  A knowing that does not consume 

but makes room.  Lots of room.  

Enough for the whole world. 

Today has been a beautiful adventure.   

It is not quite noon.  

I still have time, and some room, to learn.     

      

 

 

say, November 2024