Rest

 It is early morning. I light candles as I view the shrouded round  moon that is shining through the dark tree branches.  Our thermostat is broken. We hope the  replacement part will arrive today.  I ponder putting on a cap. 

 In the past few days I have received three emails that have stayed with me.  One from a young staff member in a skilled nursing community: "We are in a battle ground and we are counting deaths."   Another is  from a  community just up the road from the first.  I feel the elation.  They are Covid free and everyone is receiving vaccinations.  Yet another sends me a cautiously hopeful note saying  she has received clearance to hold activities for three people at a time.  Could I do a Zoom worship for three?  Of course.

 These  and others trust that I am praying for them and with them. I am aware that trust is sacred.  I remember a book of poems a friend gave me a few years  before she passed.   I feel her nudge.   

   

Just Sit There Right Now     

   

Just 

sit there right now. 

Don't do a thing. Just rest.

   

For your 

separation from God 

is the hardest work in the world.  

  

Let me bring you trays of food and something 

that you like to 

drink.   

  

You can use my soft words 

as a cushion 

for your 

head.   

    

Hafiz 

Love Poems from God, Daniel Ladinsky    

   

Every week during  Lent, I plan on  hosting two times of  meditation via Zoom.  The exact times have not yet been set, but I believe there will be one on Tuesday afternoons and one on Wednesday evenings.  If you are interested in possibly joining, please let me know what time might work best for you.  We will begin each session with a short reading to focus our intention. Then we will sit in silence for 20 minutes, and conclude with a  time of conversation and spoken prayer.  I anticipate these sessions being about an hour long, maybe less.    

Let us rest in God together.        

 

    

 

   

photograph:  hyacinths, February 2019, San Leandro.  Oh, the scent...    

 

Sometimes

I love this poem.  If I were reading it aloud for a Lectio Divina group, I would probably feel the need to change at least one of the masculine nouns to a feminine one or gender neutral.  Yet, today, I do not feel it is appropriate to tamper with the  poet's words.  I am not familiar with the writings of Sheenaugh Pugh.  I have learned she is a contemporary British writer.  If this poem is indicative, her works are surely worth exploring.    

May all your colors  thrive. 

Sometimes  Sometimes things don't go, after all, from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail, sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well. A people sometimes will step back from war; elect an honest man, decide they care enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor. Some men become what they were born for. Sometimes our best efforts do not go amiss, sometimes we do as we meant to. The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you. ~ Sheenagh Pugh

photograph:  San Leandro, March 2020

A Prayer for This Inauguration

"Our words are feathers that fly

on our breath. Let them go in a holy direction."

 Jeanne Lohmann, "Invocation"     

   

    

 

photograph:  San Leandro, December 2020

On the Subject of Hope...

 Friends, some of you may see this post twice, as  I wrote this piece for this week's San Lorenzo Church newsletter.  Just now  I  received  a Facebook message  from St. Raphael Parish and Missions: St. Mary and St. Theresa.  The writer advised that he or she knew little else about the carol.  The four lines were included in a compilation, "A Way to the Heart of Christmas," New City Press, 1991.  I believe this book is out of print.  

 "The middle of the night

 is the beginning of the day.

 The middle of need

 is the beginning of the light."

 A friend recently sent me the first two lines of this quote and asked if I knew the source. Not only did I not know the source, I could find no reference to it on the internet. I passed the inquiry on to another friend who found the first two lines and two additional lines on the Facebook page of a church in Eldred, PA. Their post advised these verses are from "an old carol." I left a post on their page asking if they knew any more about this carol, but so far no response. 

Even if I never hear from them, this process of exploration and connection lifted my spirits. This past week has been complicated, disappointing, and even frightening. While I certainly knew that the difficulties we have experienced in 2020 were not going to magically disappear just because our calendars told us the year was over, I was hoping for a little steadier beginning to 2021. I am certain I was not alone in that hope. 

Yet, these four lines tell me that God's hope is surprising and reaches further than I can imagine. I may hope for a comfy start to a new year, but that is actually a small hope. A private hope. In the heart of this carol is the reminder that in the middle of all that appears to be going terribly awry, the beginnings of hope and promise of a brighter time are already in place. I am also reminded that hope is for all people. Let us remember that hope was born in a manger, dunked and raised in a river, and honed in the desert. Those in power would eventually try to annihilate it. Yet, hope could not be extinguished. Hope took the form of Christ and continued to grow.

 I have always appreciated the Common English Bible translation of Psalm 27:14. Many translations read "Wait in the Lord!" The CEB reminds me that at the heart of waiting is hope. The good news is that hope is already here and it will continue to grow. If we keep our hearts open to these stirrings, we can help nurture hope in those who no longer believe such a thing is possible.    

      

Hope in the Lord!

Be strong! 

Let your heart 

take courage!  

Hope in the Lord!  

  

photograph:  San Leandro, December 28, 2020  

Some neighbors recently moved north.   One of them has a yet to be diagnosed illness, and they are moving to a city where they know no one.  I find that a little worrisome, but they have their own journeys.  When I walked past their now empty house a week after they moved, this solitary rose was blooming.  I guess for me it is both a momento and a prayer.  Yes, a sign of hope.  

I have a pot of pinto beans cooking on the stove.   The aroma is one of my favorites.  

   

    

Monday Mourning

This morning I told Tyler that I did not feel well.  Something was just not right.  As we talked, I said, "This feels like mourning."  Well, then I realized that would not be surprising.  The beloved dog has been ill and we were up very early with him this morning.  We were all  tired.  The country is jangling with fear and anger.  The kitchen needs cleaning.  What creativity I have seems elusive and is not bailing me out.   

So, I was grateful to receive this morning's post from First Sip.  I have found healing and encouragement in other poems by  Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. I am now breathing a little more deeply.  

Yes,  let us try to quiet some of the jangling.  Yes, the beloved dog is getting expensively better.  And yes, just after I post this, I will try once more to get the kitchen cleaned.  My dentist's office manager told me this morning that they will be happy to see me.  Oddly enough, I believe her.   I am getting better about crossing that threshold.     

Friends, I am certain we all are experiencing some level of PTSD.  Remember to take good care, talk to friends and loving family members, a therapist, maybe even a pastor!  Look for the blessings, for they are there.  Do give your dog or cat a big hug.  In these jangly days they are working overtime. So is God. 

 Yes, I do believe.      

     

Manifesto   

And if we can’t save the world,
and who says we can’t, then
let us try anyway. Perhaps
we have no superhuman powers—
can’t see through buildings,
can’t fly, can’t bend the bars of cages—
but we have human powers—
can listen, can stand up to,
can stand up for, can cradle.
And if we can’t imagine
a world of peace, and who
says we can’t, then let us
try anyway. Perhaps we start
tonight—on a Wednesday.
Thursday works, too. Or Friday.
Doesn’t much matter the day.
All that matters is the choice
to meet this moment exactly
as it is, with no dream of being
anyone else but our flawed
and fabulous very self—
and then, wholly present,
bringing this self to the world,
touching again and again what is true.
What if we do? And if we can’t
save ourselves, and who
says we can’t, let’s try anyway.
There was a time I thought
I could never be healed. That
was only because it hadn’t happened yet,
so I decided it wasn’t possible.
Healing happened anyway.
What have we decided isn’t possible?
What if we stopped believing
that limit? What if, right now,
we used our human powers
of compassion, clarity, gratitude,
praise? What if we did it together—
opened all those closed doors inside
us? What if we let the opening do
what opening does?

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer   

    

     

photograph:  San Leandro, November 2020   

Moving

 "One of the facts about my Granny's life that I do not usually refer to is her attitude towards death. For her, death was not a painful topic because she believed so firmly that our real Self cannot die. In other words, even though we cannot but grieve when our dear ones pass away, the mystics tell us that underneath this grief we should always remember that death is only a change of rooms."   

The Bhagavad Gita for Daily Living, Volume 1, page 72 

Eknath Easwaran       

    

All change requires an acceptance of death.  The word fluidity comes to mind.  Fluidity allows us to move through this world without causing great harm.  We in the United States are suffering from the ramifications of those who refuse to accept change.  Such refusal affects the whole world.  

   

   

 "In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.  And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also. And where I go you know, and the way you know.” 

      

John 14:2-4,  New King James  Version   

     

     

Pausing

 This poem and photograph came to me through Claudia Cummins' "First Sip."  I contacted her to find out the scuptor's name.  While I learned that the sculpture resides on her brother's fence, he did not know the artist's name.  It is beautiful.  

  I know I feel a little older today, and I am probably not alone in that. Let us pause in this knowing and give our wisdom time to sink in. Only then can it rise up and guide us through these times.         

Beneath the Sweater and the Skin  

How many years of beauty do I have left?
she asks me.
How many more do you want?
Here. Here is 34. Here is 50.

When you are 80 years old
and your beauty rises in ways
your cells cannot even imagine now
and your wild bones grow luminous and
ripe, having carried the weight
of a passionate life.

When your hair is aflame
with winter
and you have decades of
learning and leaving and loving
sewn into
the corners of your eyes
and your children come home
to find their own history
in your face.

When you know what it feels like to fail
ferociously
and have gained the
capacity
to rise and rise and rise again.

When you can make your tea
on a quiet and ridiculously lonely afternoon
and still have a song in your heart
Queen owl wings beating
beneath the cotton of your sweater.

Because your beauty began there
beneath the sweater and the skin,
remember?

This is when I will take you
into my arms and coo
YOU BRAVE AND GLORIOUS THING
you've come so far.

I see you.
Your beauty is breathtaking.

~ Jeannette Encinias     

 

Oneness

 "You and I are not 'we', you and I are One."

Meher Baba as quoted in The Bhagavad Gita for Daily Living, Volume 1,

 Eknath Easwaran 

  

This statement is true whether we are looking at a corrupt politician, someone we love, or a beetle.  A humbling lesson to learn, and not easy. However, it is an essential one for the sake of the health of all life.  

  

Lately, in my nocturnal dreams I have been in happy gatherings with other people.  There are no masks, only people laughing, talking, and eating with one another.  While  I believe mask wearing is necessary,  I do  think this masked physical distancing is taking a toll.  It  gives us a sense of separateness that in reality does not exist.  Yet, trying to stay well is the loving and responsible thing to do.  Let us maintain a safe physical  distance in the spirit of love.  

   

 How will you celebrate today?  It is Epiphany and Three Kings Day.  It is also a day that an Irish tradition called,  "Women's Christmas,"  or " Little Christmas."  On this day, men would take over the household chores,  including caring for  the children. Women then had free time to socialize with one another.  According to Wikipedia, the tradition is still active in Cork and Kerry.  We may not be able to get together now, but today is a good day for us all to give a call or send a note to someone we have not seen in awhile.  Let us continue to remind one another that we belong to God and to one another.  We are One.  This was the prayer of Jesus in John 17:21.  Let us respond to that prayer with our unmasked hearts.   

   

 

  

photograph:  San Leandro, January 2021   

Out of the Box

New Year's Eve was  pleasant. I took my weekly Yoga for Healthy Aging class.  I then watched the 35th Bonsho Bell ringing  ceremony hosted  by the Asisan Art Museum and the Kojin-an Oakland Zen Center.  On New Year's Eve the bell is struck 108 times to help free humanity from the 108 worldly desires that trouble us. I so appreciate the memory of hearing the beautiful large bell being struck 108 times with a wooden mallet.  There were several people who rotated striking the bell, but their strikes were quite consistent.   Here, tradition and discipline matters, and is a good lesson for Westerners so determined to have our own way.    

After the ceremony,  I cooked black-eyed peas, and for the first time, I added turnip greens and cabbage to the pot.  Delicious.  I also made some green chili cornbread from a recipe that Mother kept in her recipe box.  It is entitled "Spanish Cornbread", and  is handwritten on two lined small pages of notepaper. I now keep these pages in a plastic sleeve because I want to keep these yellowing and stained pages intact as long as possible. This recipe was given to my mother by Mabel Kelley, who graciously signed her name at the end.  I do not remember ever meeting her, but I have always admired her strong and clear handwriting.  Her recipe, written in blue ink,  is orderly, and not once did she need to scratch out anything nor did  she ever wander from her succinct guidelines, except to offer the good advice of serving the cornbread with red beans.  I seldom have the canned corn or the small can of pimento on hand, nor do I use the shortening her recipe calls for,  but cornbread is flexible and I think Mabel Kelley probably knew this as well.  I also enjoy her recipe because it gives me a chance to use my mother's Bromwell flour sifter.  It is a satisfying tool to use.  I love the sound it makes as I turn the crank.  

 

Those of you who read one of the church newsletter articles I wrote this week may have already seen this quote.  However, I am going to include it here as well.  It comes from Marcus Samuelsson's excellent book, The Rise, Black Cooks and the Soul of American Food, page 82:  Recipes are rituals. They're more than an ingredient list and a series of steps. They're personal meditations, small celebrations. They connect us to loved ones we remember well and those we wish we had known. Recipes introduce us to cultures that are new to us, and they reflect our own histories in the lives of others.     

  

We cannot simply close the door on 2020 and think that the myriad of issues that came to light last year have been resolved.   We can, however, keep going in courage, determined to connect with one another as best we can, learning and relearning as we go.  May we remember that we matter to one another, and we need one another,  so let us take good care.    

  

I believe another bowl of black-eyed peas is in order.   Yes, and cornbread.  Thank you, Mother, and thank you Mabel Kelley for helping start me on the journey through 2021, nourished and grateful.