Response

 

This week looks to be busy, so imagining that I am pausing with a friend over a cup of tea reminds me that I can only do one thing at a time. The moments are worth savoring. Perhaps there would be less nastiness in the world if, as words become heated, we would pause and say, "Let us heat water instead, and sit together with a cup of tea."  For our upcoming trip to Bountiful, Utah to have our new ( to us) Tahoma truck fitted to be a camper, we have ordered a tea kettle so we do not have to always boil water in a pan. Spouts do come in handy.  Maybe that is what poetry is for.  I am hopeful about seeing a dark sky.  I have promised the sacred voices that I would keep a record of what I see, and while it might be a little chilly, I will, for a few moments, play my flute, and listen for the response of All.   At the Tea Garden    My friend and I mull over the teas displayed in square jars with beveled glass labeled by type. Each name seems part of a haiku: “After the Snow Sprouting.” “Moon Palace.” “Mist Over the Gorges.” I’m drawn to green teas with unoxidized leaves that don’t wither, hold their grassy fragrance like willow under snow in winter. The proprietor offers real china for the Chinese tea. Animal bones, fine ground, give whiteness, translucency and strength to the porcelain that appears delicate, resists chipping. The rim of the cup is warm and thin. My friend’s lips are plush: her lovely mouth opens to give advice I ask for. We talk about memory of threshold events, like a first kiss or a poem published. She can’t remember… I tell her about my brother-in-law’s chemotherapy—his third bout of cancer. He wants his family to put a pinch of his ashes in things he liked: his banjo, the top drawer of his desk, the garden. I wouldn’t mind becoming part of a set of bone china that serves tea in a cozy teahouse smelling of incense, cinnamon, musk, and carved teak. I’d like to be brought to a small table, sit between friends’ quiet words, held in hands so close that breath on the surface of warm drink makes mist rise over their faces. ~ Margaret Hasse from First Sip  image: San Leandro, December, 2023

Settling In

Those of you who are on Diana Butler Bass' email list have probably seen this, but it is such a rich offering that I felt I really needed to share.  The photograph, from a couple of days ago, was taken through our dining room window. I did not want to open it, or walk outside because I knew any movement would disturb the doves. Sometimes lesser quality just might be the better way. In the past few days we have had quite a few birds in our backyard, and I am sorry I have not yet put up a birdfeeder. That will be my project for next month.  Fortunately, a neighbor has one a few yards over, and another neighbor has left persimmons on their tree. 

The attached photograph is not a black and white photograph. Although many of my photographs over the years have been in vivid color, this time of year my eyes and heart yearn to rest easy among darker shades. Our souls need the rhythm of light and dark: spring's tender new shades of just being born growth, summer's vibrant hues in full array, autumn's oranges, yellows, and golds, and winter's greys that call us to silence.  The winter solstice will be at 7:27 p.m.Pacific Time on Thursday. If you can, take a moment and give thanks for the good order of heaven and earth. Yes, even in these times. Maybe especially in these times.  

Blessings this winter solstice and always.   

Light cannot see inside things.
That is what the dark is for:
Minding the interior,
Nurturing the draw of growth
Through places where death
In its own way turns into life.

In the glare of neon times,
Let our eyes not be worn
By surfaces that shine
With hunger made attractive.

That our thoughts may be true light,
Finding their way into words
Which have the weight of shadow
To hold the layers of truth.

That we never place our trust
In minds claimed by empty light,
Where one-sided certainties
Are driven by false desire.

When we look into the heart,
May our eyes have the kindness
And reverence of candlelight.

That the searching of our minds
Be equal to the oblique
Crevices and corners where
The mystery continues to dwell,
Glimmering in fugitive light.

When we are confined inside
The dark house of suffering
That moonlight might find a window.

When we become false and lost
That the severe noon-light
Would cast our shadow clear.

When we love, that dawn-light
Would lighten our feet
Upon the waters.

As we grow old, that twilight
Would illuminate treasure
In the fields of memory.

And when we come to search for God,
Let us first be robed in night,
Put on the mind of morning
To feel the rush of light
Spread slowly inside
The color and stillness
Of a found word.

— John O’Donohue, “For Light”
as posted by Diana Butler Bass

   

image: San Leandro, December 2023. 

-- 

Deep Callings

 I took a beautiful walk this morning just before the rain began. The wind came up, and the leaves that had hung on the branches surprisingly long began to let go, almost all at the same time. While leaves of various hues are everywhere, most of the vibrant pinks, blues, yellows and purples of our gardens are nowhere to be seen. We are all surrendering to the inevitable fall.  

   

As I walked past some large trees that line a street a couple of blocks away, I thought of a poem by Rumi that I had discovered earlier this morning. I then said hello to a neighbor. He has been ill and is still not looking well. May this poem be true for him; may his roots still be growing strong.  

   

"And don't think the garden 

loses its ecstasy in winter.  

  

It's quiet, but the roots 

are down there riotous." 

  

Rumi   

     

   

    

image: San Leandro, December 2023
  

 

Oneness

 "We all have a light and a dark side. To use an analogy, we might say that we go through life with a watchdog on one side of us and a wolf on the other. We sometimes feed one, sometimes the other. We all feed both in the course of a life, no matter how saintly or errant we are. Thus, Mother St. Teresa's wolf did not starve and neither did Hitler's dog. 

From a spiritual and saintly perspective, our identity is something like the faith view of the Eucharist. Under the appearance of who we are in the world is our true divinity/identity. Then we too are a holy sacrament, outward signs of inward grace that can nourish the world. Likewise, all the cosmos is sacramental. We can come to see all that is, both ourselves and all natural things, beaming from the monstrance of the universe. We come to see all that is as a bodily holding of a divine presence. When this happens in us, we are truly engaging in perpetual adoration. Our wholeness has become holiness." 

Wholeness and Holiness, David Richo, page 9 

Early this morning I dreamed of two dogs fighting. In the dream they appear at my screen door. They are wounded, but not dramatically, and are quietly standing side by side. I had not yet read this passage from David Richo's book, but I had begun crafting my personal pledge of allegiance. I am reminded once more that there are no coincidences. I am also reminded that any movement to wholeness is not just for ourselves as individuals, but for all of life. We heal together. While that certainly seems ample, we can go further and offer the process of our healing in gratitude. Yes, that is praise. I am also reminded I might benefit from being a little easier on (and in) myself.  

   

Here is the rough draft of my pledge. It is to no flag, but to the sacredness of all life:  

 

"I pledge allegiance to my heart, my mind, and my soul, 

and to the freedom in which we all can live: 

Unity in God - with liberty and justice for all.  

say, November 27, 2023 

   

Yes, I had to look up the word monstrance. It is the vessel in which the consecrated eucharistic host (the sacramental bread) is carried and displayed in the Roman Catholic church, and others. 

   

 

image: Half Moon Bay, November 25, 2023. The creatures in the foreground are hardworking sanderlings who quickly try to harvest any nourishment  they find washed up on the sand before the next wave comes. They run incredibly fast on short legs, but also take to the sky when necessary. I find them fascinating. Please excuse the lack of detail. There is just so much I can do with my eye phone!

Touched and Spoken To

 Last month in my monthly visit to an assisted living community, I asked about Ms. D. who normally would always be us. I was told that she was in the hospital and would probably need to be moved to a community that could provide her with more care than they can offer. I was not surprised because she was growing frail. Yet, I was saddened. I always appreciated her cheery good will. I was told that she had a beautiful garden. I am not surprised.

Yet, this week as we were just beginning the service, I was surprised and delighted to see a caregiver bring Ms. D. to the service.  She was in a wheelchair, and appeared weak. I happily greeted her, and I placed a song sheet on her lap and pointed to the song we were singing. I then returned to lead the group in the singing of the beautiful old Thanksgiving hymns. I glanced at Ms. D. and I realized that she was quietly singing some of the words from memory. I walked over, gently placed my hand on her shoulder, and pointed each word out, and we sang together. Her voice was barely audible, but she was singing. Afterwards, she and I had a good chuckle. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling. My eyes were probably bright as well. Moments such as these are not uncommon in SpiritCare, and they are why I continue to volunteer at a few local communities. 

Before the rains began, I went into the back yard and played my flute. In the book, Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer writes that plants like to be touched and spoken to. I have been trying to interact more with the plants in my garden and it is a pleasurable thing to do. I do not know if they like music, but I love playing outside. On this particular day, the light was beautiful, and I noticed a small white flower glistening as it took in the sun. This particular plant has lived here longer than we have, and I finally learned that it is known as an African or fortnight iris. I think I see better when I play.  My flute teacher contends that music builds communities, and I think he is right. Fortunately, we don't have to be brilliant musicians for these connections to happen. I also believe these communities are made up of more than just humans. Earlier, I stepped outside to pick up the newspaper and to check on the plants in the front. There was a slight wind blowing. The wind this week has been interesting. The air has been warm, but cool breezes have been blowing through. While we cannot see the wind, the movement of warm and cool has reminded me of a Van Gogh sky. I paused to feel the wind and look around. I realized that there was a scent of heliotrope in the air. I was surprised as the one plant we have is not that large, but it is healthy and mature. I bent over and noticed a small caterpillar on one of the blossoms. It had eaten enough that it had taken on a pale purple hue. I had to smile. I did not have the heart to dispatch it, but I do need to keep an eye on it. I am learning that gardening is a balancing act, and not unlike music and pretty much all of life, it takes practice to learn the harmony. 

 

The light is beautiful this morning, and it is time for a walk. Do get outside if you can. Wonders are everywhere and should be celebrated.  

  

Joyful, joyful we adore you, 

God of glory, God of love. 

Hearts unfold like flowers before you, 

Opening to the sun above.  

  

Henry van Dyke 

Hymn tune: "Hymn to Joy", Beethoven, 

adapted by Edward Hodges

  

image: African Iris, San Leandro, 2015

 

Attending

 Recently, I dreamed of a figure dressed completely in a long white gown.  On the left front shoulder was an image of a red heart about the size of my outstretched hand. As I woke, I heard the words, "Make room." I took these words personally (to heart, one might say), and I have been pondering how to respond to that suggestion.   

A few weeks ago, I signed up for a one day retreat at San Damiano in Danville. I love that Franciscan retreat center, but many of their offerings stretch over a weekend, so I am limited as to the number of retreats I can attend. This retreat was held this past Saturday. As I parked my car, I saw and heard a small group singing in the labyrinth. It was a beautiful fall day, and as I walked towards the meeting room, I fell in love again with their garden that was donned in beautiful fall colors. The retreat was titled, "How to Be Sane, Spiritual, and Saintly". I had never thought of myself on a journey to be saintly, but the actual retreat topic did not really matter to me. What I was responding to was the quiet but persistent call to return to San Damiano. 

   

As I settled into the meeting room, I noticed that it was filling quickly. At that moment, I realized I did not even know who would be leading this retreat, and I felt a little foolish. Yet, while I may have known nothing of David Richo, Ph.D., it seemed that everyone else in the room was very familiar with his talks and his books. I sensed happiness that he was returning for the day. It turned out to be a lovely, thought provoking time led by an older, soft spoken, and intelligent author who listened deeply to people's questions, and responses. I told a friend that I would send her the prayer that was given to us. I am sharing it with you as well. I am making an effort to read it every morning. I appreciate addressing God as Sacred Heart. It brings warmth to the journey. 

     

"I say Yes to everything that happens to me today

as an opportunity 

to give and receive love without reserve. 

I am thankful for the enduring capacity to love 

that has come to me from the 

Sacred Heart of the universe. 

May everything that happens to me today

open my heart more and more. 

May all that I think, say, feel, and do 

express loving-kindness 

towards myself, those close to me, and all beings. 

May love be my life purpose, my bliss, 

my destiny, my calling, 

the richest grace I can receive or give." 

  

Dave Richo, The Power of Grace 

One of the retreatants asked about trying to be saintly. I was grateful for the question, and for Dave's soft spoken response: "If we believe we are on a spiritual journey, why wouldn't we try to be saintly?". That actually seems like a very sane response. The day turned out to be a time of mostly silence for me. I spoke very little. I did take my flute with me thinking I might find a secluded place to play after lunch, but I opted instead to just walk and quietly take in the rhythm and beauty of place. I took no pictures. Even that simple action felt like it would take me out of that silence that I now understand as  Presence tending to my heart.  

  

Listening for the Word

 The Journey 

  

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again
painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be inscribed across
the heavens
so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
small bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

~ David Whyte

First Sip   

    

I do love seeing the full (or close to full) moon in the dark morning sky, and I was quite surprised to receive this poem this morning. Actually, I do not think surprised is the right word. I really do not believe in coincidences much any more. 

Last week, I had a snippet of a song roaming around my mind, "This Is My Commandment", but I could not find it in any hymnal. Then, on Friday, a volunteer pianist and I visited a community that serves elders who have been diagnosed with a mental illness. Many of those who gather with us enjoy singing, and some do so with great gusto. The staff member who helps gather people in also loves singing, so we generally have a good time.  After worship, she asked if anyone had a song request. One man, who spoke so quietly that I had to draw close to him to hear, said that he "had one" but he was having some trouble remembering what it was. I tried to assure him that it would come to him. I then heard him haltingly sing the words, "This is my commandment". The woman sitting next to him recognized the song and amplified his singing which brought both him and me much happiness. Then we joyfully sang it together. In that moment, freedom surfaced, and I gave thanks for these group efforts that remind us that Jesus is always present, knitting us together in surprising ways.

   

The sky is now a beautiful pink, and the moon, while still visible, is slightly veiled by a thin veneer of clouds. The birds have begun their morning songs. As precarious as the journeys must have been for our early ancestors, I believe they looked up, and often celebrated the sky that taught them the signs of changing weather and seasons. Like us, they needed both the sky and one another. I am grateful for all these lessons.  

Yes, gratitude is the word I was looking for.  

 

"I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you and your joy will be complete."   

John 15:11

image: Hunter Moon, San Leandro

Reaching In, Reaching Out

"The extremes are easy.
Only the middle is a puzzle."

~ Louise Gluck  

First Sip   

 

And it is the middle way that people of faith are called to move around in. Because that is where people meet. In that open space is where compassion lives. It is there where we find Christ, Krishna, Buddha, and a Host of Others. There we find love. 

        

image: April 2023

Coming Home

 This week I was blessed to be able to spend four days at Villa Maria del Mar in Santa Cruz. There I met with seven friends with whom I graduated in 2007 from the spiritual direction program at San Francisco Theological Seminary. The weather was beautiful; the pelicans and seagulls seemed to be finding plenty to eat, and the sail boat regatta  came by on Wednesday evening. Our conversations and reflections were rich as we pondered the changes in our lives: the physical, mental, and spiritual. Yes, we have done this every year. 

This year I took my flute with the intention of finding a secluded place to practice. Every morning before breakfast, I went down to the beach and simply played. That experience proved to be incredibly moving. I no longer felt I was "on the beach" but rather that I was a part of it. The colors seemed richer; the ocean was an exquisite blue and the cliff nearby appeared gold as it reflected the rising sun. As I played, I watched the shore birds, pelicans, and gulls begin their day. I noticed the industrious insects in the sand. I was deeply touched as I watched a young couple joyfully run and play with their dog. 

During our retreat, we were surprised to learn that an interest in music had re-surfaced for several of us. One friend had attended a recent singing retreat. Two others had experienced a renewed interest in Taize. The friend who attended the retreat mentioned that at the end of their time together they had a talent show, and she suggested that we do the same. In my typical fashion, at first I said no. However, I then remembered a Hafiz poem that I had recently discovered, so I decided to read that, and include a couple of short musical interludes, or what Tyler calls "flute noodles". Stories and poems were shared, and together, we sang Taize. I was asked if I could play the flute to accompany some of the Taize, but I declined until next year. One person responded, "You can tell Tyler (who plays in a band)  you have a gig next year!" I did indeed tell him that. He responded by handing me a copy of "O Holy Night" and suggested that he and I play this piece for Christmas. I shall give it a go.   

I often think of an ancient flute that is currently housed in a museum in Slovenia. It is described as the "oldest musical instrument in the world, a 60,000-year-old Neanderthal flute is a treasure of global significance. It was discovered in Divje babe cave near Cerkno and has been declared by experts to have been made by Neanderthals.

It is made from the left thigh bone of a young cave bear and has four pierced holes. Musical experiments confirmed findings of archaeological research that the size and the position of the holes cannot be accidental – they were made with the intention of musical expression.
The flute from Divje babe is the only one that was definitely made by Neanderthals. It is about 20,000 years older than other known flutes, made by anatomically modern humans. This discovery confirms that the Neanderthals were, like us, fully developed spiritual beings capable of sophisticated artistic expression."  

Today, here on the West Coast, we probably will not be able to see the eclipse because the sky is overcast.  I am okay with that. I look to the sky every morning, and give thanks for the wonders that I see. My heart is full. I do look forward to one day being able to see a truly dark sky, and playing with the stars. Perhaps much like my Neanderthal flute playing ancestor did so long ago. 

    

"Listen to This Music"
   
I am a hole in a flute that the Christ's breath 
moves through - listen to this music. 
  
I am the concert from the movement of every 
creature singing in myriad chords.   
  
And every dancer, their foot I know and lift. 
And every brush and hand, well, that is me
too, who caresses any canvas or cheek. 
   
How did I become all these things, and beyond
all things?  
   
It was my destiny, as it is yours.  My poems are 
about our glorious journey.
   
We are a hole in a flute, a moment in space, that
the Christ's body can move through and sway 
  
all forms - in an exquisite dance - as the wind in 
a forest. 
   
Hafiz   
A Year with Hafiz  
Daniel Landinsky   

images:  

My photograph is entitled, "My Practice Room, Santa Cruz, 2023  

The  Neanderthal flute comes from this website: 

https://www.nms.si/en/collections/highlights/343-Neanderthal-flute#:~:text=The%20oldest%20musical%20instrument%20in%20the%20world%2C%20a%2060%2C000%2Dyear,have%20been%20made%20by%20Neanderthals

Good Light

 I do believe that most, if not all, of humanity's discord comes from a lack of compassion for ourselves.  When this happens, we carry that lack of compassion with us and project it on all of life. 

The light is beautiful this morning, and I think I shall go out in it.

Love and blessings to you all this morning and always. 

    

"Some say that my teaching is nonsense.
Others call it lofty but impractical.
But to those who have looked inside themselves,
this nonsense makes perfect sense.
And to those who put it into practice,
this loftiness has roots that go deep.

I have just three things to teach:
simplicity, patience, compassion.
These three are your greatest treasures.

Simple in actions and in thoughts,
you return to the source of being.
Patient with both friends and enemies,
you accord with the way things are.
Compassionate toward yourself,
you reconcile all beings in the world."

~ Lao Tzu 

First Sip 

       

    

    

image: This image is mine, and I am sure I have shared it before. I randomly pulled an image from my files, and this one came up. It always makes me smile.

A Poem To Hold On To

 While I am not feeling particularly sorrowful this morning, we all have those times when we are. I love this poem, and I think it is worth keeping close by. Not to avoid feeling the sorrow, but to hold it respectfully, and listen to its teachings. 

Much love to you all.  

"Wave of sorrow,

Do not drown me now:

I see the island
Still ahead somehow.

I see the island
And its sands are fair:

Wave of sorrow,
Take me there."

~ Langston Hughes

First Sip

 

  

image: Potato tree in my backyard. No, I have no idea why it is called that. One very territorial carpenter bee has claimed it for its own.  

Generosity of Moment

 It took a few days before I settled into this poem. It is not that I did not like it, but it is so subtle that if you are the least bit distracted with other matters, it is very easy to read it quickly and move on to the next email. Yet, slowly I realized that the poem has a beautiful quietness. What came to mind was Andrew Wyeth's paintings of simple things like gently blowing curtains, or a dog napping on a well made bed. I felt the door to my heart gently opening to the sacredness all around me.  A generous gift indeed.  

When I went online to learn more about the author, I was moved by this photograph of her. She looks complete. Just the way one hopes to look towards the end of these physical lives. It really is a journey of learning to hunger less so we can savor more. 

My coffee tastes delicious this morning.  

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

~ Pat Schneider

First Sip  

  

     

In the Growing Light

 What a beautiful sunrise this morning. I truly believe that our deepest call in these times is gratitude.  I found this quote by Richard Rohr to be illuminating. And who can resist a Mary Oliver poem? I leave you with both.  

 

"God does not directly destroy evil, the way our heroic and dualistic minds would like to imagine. God is much wiser, wastes nothing, and includes everything. The God of the Bible is best known for transmuting and transforming our very evils into our own more perfect good. God uses our sins in our own favor! God brings us - through failure - from unconsciousness to ever deeper consciousness and conscience. How could that not be good news for just about everybody?"

Richard Rohr, Breathing Under Water   

   

Be still, my soul, and steadfast.
Earth and heaven both are still watching
though time is draining from the clock
and your walk, that was confident and quick,
has become slow.

So, be slow if you must, but let
the heart still play its true part.
Love still as once you loved, deeply
and without patience. Let God and the world
know you are grateful.
That the gift has been given.

~ Mary Oliver, First Sip  

   

image: San Leandro, May 2023

Dreaming of a Poem

 Detour

I took a long time getting here,
much of it wasted on wrong turns,
back roads riddled by ruts.
I had adventures
I never would have known
if I proceeded as the crow flies.
Super highways are so sure
of where they are going:
they arrive too soon.

A straight line isn’t always
the shortest distance
between two people.
Sometimes I act as though
I’m heading somewhere else
while, imperceptibly,
I narrow the gap between you and me.
I’m not sure I’ll ever
know the right way, but I don’t mind
getting lost now and then.
Maps don’t know everything.

~ Ruth Feldman (1911 -2003)

      

I woke from a dream this morning that I am pretty sure was inspired by this poem. Most Wednesday afternoons at  4, I meet on Zoom with two other people and we do lectio divina on a poem, and this week I read this poem. I love the whole process: the poem coming to me in one way or another, the time spent in short meditation, and our conversation afterwards.  It is a beautiful way to spend 45 minutes or so, and when we need to cancel for one reason or another, I miss it.  The traffic seems louder and the birds are more quiet. Poetry helps me hear the world's sounds as music, and I am grateful.  Others are welcome to join us! 

In the dream, I am gathered with several people I know. The room that is devoid of furniture. The walls are painted white, and we are pretty much just standing around and talking. A couple of people I hug because I have not seen them in quite awhile. Overall, it is a pleasant experience, if a little stilted. 

Somehow, some of us came to the conclusion that there was somewhere we needed to be. I remembered a street that I have dreamed about before, and I not only was certain we could get to where we needed to be, it would be enjoyable to walk up that street again. I assured this smaller group that the uphill climb is not as bad as it looks, and the neighborhood is interesting so there is always something to look at. We depart. 

When we get to the top of the hill, we see several  narrow passageways. I suggest that we take the winding hallway and stairs to the right. The hallway was  rather whimsical with color and different shapes and sizes, as were the stairs themselves. We continue to climb. We walk through a hallway with  rooms on both sides filled with fantastical furniture. There are no straight lines, and the rooms are open. There are no doors. Everything is painted in bold, beautiful colors. There are people in these rooms and they often smile and say hello. I am so happy, and I believe the others were having a good time as well, although someone would periodically ask, "Are you sure about this?"

We eventually get to the rooftop, but the stairs continue, not straight up, but rather lead us up and down through various open spaces on the roof. There are all sorts of people sitting on fancy couches or elaborate tables. We meet a young woman with very dark hair who tells us she is about to be married. She was wearing white, and some of the roof was painted white as well. She tells us how to return to the street. Again, we talk a path to the right, and we arrive at street level. The journey had been so wonderful, I actually felt a little let down. The street was quite linear and rather dull, but it was where we needed to be for now. While I knew, at least for now, that I could not go back,  I was certain I would again.  

This morning, I am grateful for that assurance.  

   

image: San Leandro, July 2023

Voices

 I have been pondering this poem for a few years. Certainly some of society's collective views on aging have changed as we continue to live longer lives. Yet, I still hear people dismissing themselves and others as old. I say dismissing because the perceived arrival at the sacred time of old age is announced not with gratitude or a sense of accomplishment, but rather defeat. While it is true that sometimes we can't do what we used to, that does not mean there is not more we can do, including falling in love as we read about in this poem. 

I also rankle when I hear people referring to an elder as cute. Surely living a long life full of challenges, joys, disappointments, and accomplishments is the journey of a hero (or shero as a friend of mine says).  Frankly, I think even the very young are living heroic lives as they learn their way through this world.  

I hear the voices of the children in this poem as our internalized voices that try to convince us that we are anything but beloved. The poet, Anna Swir (Świrszczyńska), was born in Warsaw, Poland in 1909, and served as a military nurse during WWII.  I think she surely lived a heroic life. She died in 1984.   

    

The Greatest Love  

   

She is sixty. She lives 

the greatest love of her life.  

  

She walks, arm-in-arm with her dear one, 

her hair streams in the wind. 

Her dear one says: 

"You have hair like pearls."

  

Her children say: 

"Old fool."

     

image:  San Leandro, July 2023. I have enjoyed watching the various stages of the neighborhood artichokes.

My voice continues to heal. Blessed be. I pray that all our inner voices continue to heal as well. 

Day 2

 Thank you all for your encouraging notes. My voice is stronger, but I still have at least one more day of mostly silence.  Although I am not feeling lonely, I think I shall take Mary Oliver's advice and go outside to notice and consider. Silence is always with us, willing to help us heal. 

The morning news reminds me that we live on a wild planet that refuses to be subdued. I think this is a hard lesson for westerners to learn, but if we are humble enough to take that task on, the world can begin to heal.
I love the last line of this poem. 

"When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or not.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind."

~ Mary Oliver   

      

   

image:  I was not in the mood to look for a photograph of a beetle.