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.

A Quiet Song

 I have not felt well this week, and this morning I woke to discover that I had lost my voice. This happens pretty much every year, for one reason or another. I find myself thinking of Gandhi and the fact that he took one day a week to be completely silent. I believe that day was Monday. Mine happens to be on a Wednesday. I am okay with this day of silence. Now, if the voice never comes back, that is going to make for some remarkable changes in my life, but a day or so seems to offer some healing. I leave you with a very fine poem written by Rosemerry Wahtola Trummer. I am not quite ready to sing, but I like thinking about it. For now, I leave the singing to the birds. They do such a fine job.

"Today we lose the words

yours and mine and find

in their absence a song

that can only be sung together.

How did we ever think

we could attempt

this humanness alone?

To the table of love,

we bring soup, bring cherries,

bring the bread of our own

sweet communion.

We bring scissors to cut away

the tresses of the past,

bring dark wine to toast

the courage of showing up exposed.

And when we forget

the words to the song,

well, there is always laughter.

And when we forget to laugh,

well, there is always

the union of tears—

the way many rivers

become one river,

the way many voices

become one music."

First Sip ~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, from her collection All the Honey

image: Dahlia, San Leandro, August 2023

Feeling What There Is To See

 "God is the presence that spares us from nothing, even as God unexplainably sustains us in all things. God depends on us to protect ourselves and each other, to be nurturing, loving, protective people. When suffering is there, God depends on us to reach out and touch the suffering with love, that it might dissolve in love."

James Finley, Center for Action and Contemplation, August 4, 2023

    

So many people I know receive Richard Rohr's daily posts that sometimes I fear being redundant when I quote them. However, this idea of touching suffering is staying with me. I find myself thinking of St. Francis, and all the great healers of the world, including the chaplains, pastors, doctors and nurses and others who step into rooms filled to the brim with suffering. While yes, there is training that can be utilized, there really is no formula that can be relied on. We must first rely on God's love to carry us, and then we must be willing to carry that love.

  

I am going to probably poorly paraphrase a story I read a few months ago. I can't even remember where I read it.  A woman told her story of sitting in a doctor's office as the doctor was telling her that she had cancer. When the doctor paused, she asked him if he realized that he had not once looked up from his paperwork to look at her. Only then did he raise his head. He did seem a little embarrassed, and then quietly said, "Well, I have all this paperwork." That was a room full of suffering, both hers and his. 

  

There is a lovely hymn entitled, "Touch the Earth Lightly". Yes, I agree that we must begin to touch the earth with a more gentle touch. However, touch it we must. We are of the earth. As the saying goes, it is in our bones. And every other little bit of us. We must dare to look. We cannot heal what we do not see.      

  

image: It is dahlia season here in San Leandro. It was overcast when I went out yesterday morning, so the light was a little flat. Yet, I could not resist their cheeriness. They always make me smile, and for a moment or two I know what it is to be healed.