Lent Begins

 I think my time at last night's Ash Wednesday prayer station may be one of my favorite recent ministry moments.  My community worships in a historic chapel on the campus of a larger sister congregation. The chapel is a small and unadorned building, but the beautiful acoustics makes one forget that the walls are bare and the benches have no cushions. The church who rents this space to us hosts an Ash Wednesday service in the chapel, and some of our members often attend.  When it came time for the imposition of ashes, I had been asked to be at the prayer station, and I happily accepted. I love praying with those I know, and those I don't. 

One beautiful young woman came to me for a blessing. In her arms was a small baby with beautiful dark eyes that looked right at me. I smiled at him and he smiled back. I placed my hand on his heart and lifted a prayer of gratitude for this young child. He just wanted to chew on my finger. With everything that is going on in our nation it would have been easy to pray a prayer of concern. However, worry did not surface for a second, only joy.  I am still smiling this morning.   

After everyone who wanted to take part had received their ashes, anointing oil, or a prayer (or all of the above as I encouraged them to do because these are strange times), the pastors paused and faced the congregation for the benediction. It was humbling to see the people sit quietly, most with ashes on their forehead. In that moment, I felt the unity that continues to hold us. We are not alone.     

As I drove home, I thought of Jesus and Mary. I have seen one, just one, drawing of the adult Jesus laughing in a small church in San Jose. I cannot remember ever seeing a picture of Mary smiling, but less laughing.  Maybe we need to let the Beloved Ones lighten up a bit. 

Blessings on your noble journey.  Make room for your beautiful soul. Chat with a baby when you can, but make sure to listen. These little ones are coming into our world with much wisdom to share.    

   

"The spiritual journey involves going beyond hope and fear, stepping into unknown territory, continually moving forward. The most important aspect of being on the spiritual path may be to just keep moving...
Rather than indulge or reject our experience, we can somehow let the energy of the emotion, the quality of what we're feeling pierce us to the heart. This is a noble way to live. It’s the path of compassion - the path of cultivating human bravery and kindheartedness."        

Pema Chodron 

     

 image: Coyote Hills Regional Park, 2025      

     

In the Neighborhood

 In anticipation of the February 28 boycott followed by Lent, I decided it was time to renew my library card. I rarely shop in large outlets, but I am quite reliant on Amazon for books and other items. So, I have placed a moratorium on buying new books until after Easter. I have several beautifully written books on hand waiting to be read, and I look forward to immersing myself in them. 

 On my way to the library I made a couple of stops. At my first one, I saw a woman I had not seen in quite some time. She apologized for looking so frazzled. She had been out of the country for a month or so, tending to a sister who is seriously ill. As I listened, I found myself growing quite still as she told me of her fear and sorrow as she struggled to accept that her younger sister, who physically lives a long way from her, is dying.   

As our time came to a close, I touched her arm and said, "Remember, life is eternal." Suddenly, it was as if she had stepped into a beautiful light. She had come home to her body. We hugged, said our good-byes, and wished one another well.  

I then went on to the produce market and the library. I needed to renew my library card which I learned had expired in 2019. I had a book in mind that I wanted to take a look at, but obviously it had been a long time since I had been in a library. I could not even remember how to even find a specific book. A woman kindly volunteered to help me, and then a young man guided me through the checkout process which had changed considerably since the last time I was there. Yet, I eventually walked out with not just one book, but three. I also walked out pondering how quickly young people seem to be moving these days, even at the produce market. It is tempting to feel inadequate, but if I moved that quickly, I might have missed a story that very much needed to be listened to. I am well past the time of needing to be efficient.   

I have recently enrolled in a tai chi class designed for those of us with arthritis. It is held at the senior center, and the first time I walked through those doors it was as if I was experiencing a silent rite of passage. Yet, despite the lack of fanfare, I am finding those I am learning with to be quite heroic in the quest to regain balance and some fluidity of movement. My life is changing, no question. However, I also think my experiences are deepening. Technological advances have their place, but so do we. May we not underestimate the strength that can be found in community and connection, despite what some politicians want us to believe. 

My thanks to the Salt Project for this morning's poem. My thanks to all of you.     

     

What We Need Is Here

Geese appear high over us,

pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.    

 

Wendell Berry      

      

image: "Yes, There Is a Bee There"  San Leandro, July 2024

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.