Correcting the Course

"I wonder how many times the world will change before we learn that the world IS change. I wonder how long we will struggle against change like a fish on a line, rail against it like children, build fortresses of sand around ourselves only to see the waves of change dissolve them again and again. I wonder how long it will take for us to learn that stability is vulnerability, that resilience is strength...

This is what it means to be resilient: to mourn a thousand endings and celebrate a thousand beginnings, to be as strong as steel and as soft as warm butter, to practice both resilience and acceptance, to cradle both life and death in our arms."

 Ethan Tapper, Vermont forester and founder of Bear Island Forestry and author of How to Love a Forest  

 

I found this quote in this morning's email from First Sip. I am unfamiliar with Ethan Tapper's writing, but now I am intrigued by his work. I have said and written more than once that I really am not a forestry kind of person. I generally prefer a more open landscape, preferably a dry one with a vista. However, on our last two camping trips I was able to see some tall healthy ponderosa forests in Northern New Mexico, as well as camp in a beautiful old oak grove in Central CA.  Not sure the latter counts as a forest, but there I was standing, sleeping and breathing among the silent ancient ones. I knew only awe and gratitude. Perhaps I am learning how to love a forest. Maybe I should get the how to guide book.  

Yet, what caught my eye in this morning's email was the reminder that the "world is change". Earlier this week I found myself praying, "Please guide us through these correcting times." The word correcting surprised me. Yet, I do believe these are times of correcting our course. Certainly what we are moving through feels to at least some of us as harsh, traumatizing, even dangerous. However, there is much about our nation that has long been harsh and dangerous. Harsh and dangerous to the land. Harsh and dangerous to those who were enslaved. Harsh and dangerous to the Indigenous people who were part of the land long before the settlers arrived.  Harsh and dangerous to those who simply want access to education, affordable health care, and a chance to work and support a family. Harsh and dangerous to those whose lifestyles and beliefs just seem too different. All of this reflects a resistance to change and growth, and that resistance is throttling us.

I am reading Kaitlin B. Curtice's book Native, Identity, Belonging, and Rediscovering God. I am not very far into the book, but she writes eloquently about what it means to her to be what she described as "a white-coded Potawatomi woman". It is a book about reclaiming her Indigenous roots and about reclaiming her own story, as well as the story of her people, while also exploring what it means to be an Indigenous person of Christian faith. She, too, is moving through a correcting time. We all are.  

Her writing reminds me that we must all remember our own stories as well as the stories of others and our nation. Yes, even the inglorious ones that embarrass, sadden and even frighten us. Curtice writes: "So with that in mind  we journey through our own stories, carrying our own experiences, living lives beyond the times of our ancestors. We step through that reality in trust, and we find a depth of God we could not have known existed - a depth  that holds us in a space where we can speak the truth to a time in which the rich and powerful express their power through oppression and not compassion."   

Let us all go forth courageously, shedding our own outdated codes in order to remember and reclaim our own stories. You might ask "Well, where are the guide books?" Everywhere. Both ancient and new voices are rising up, including our own. We just need to learn to listen and speak with discernment, not prejudice. With courage, not fear, and always with the intention to let love surface. Easy?  Probably not. But truthfully, I know no other way.     

  

 

    

image:  Wagon Caves, Los Padres National Forest, May 2026    

Meaning and Beauty on a Monday Morning

 "You take the pen -- and the lines dance.
You take the flute -- and the notes shimmer.

You take the brush -- and the colors sing.
So all things have meaning and beauty 

in that space beyond time where You are.
How then, can I hold anything from You?"

~ Dag Hammarskjold~   

As quoted in First Sip    

    

Image: 

Tyler took this picture, and I think the photograph does a fine job of showing just how large some of the oak trees are in the Valley of the Oaks,  Wagon Caves Rock Formation, Los Padres National Forest.  Although we did see several caves on our hike we did not find the actual Wagon Cave. Now there are at least  three items on our to do and see list: seeing the caves, viewing bighorn sheep, and witnessing condors in flight.   

Early this morning we had very high winds. The winds have returned, but are a little milder.  Alas, our planet continues to grow restless. Why wouldn't she?  

    

        

I Should Memorize This

 Just in case you, too, are struggling with the barrage of news articles, opinions, hyperbole, virus threats (computer and otherwise), and blatant untruths, just to name a few.  Remembering I am part of the plural helps. We are still being carried forward. We belong to the Whole. This birth, like so many, is painful. Let us breathe together. We have been giving birth for a long time.

"Freshness Comes from There"  

There is a way of passing away from the personal, 

a dying that makes one plural, no longer single...

When life is this dear, it means the source
is pulling us. Freshness comes from there.

We are given the gift of continuously dying
and being resurrected, ocean within ocean.
 
~ Rumi 

image: San Leandro, August 2025

Held

 I received the following post a few days ago, and I fell in love with the image of Mother Earth carrying " flowers and fruits, birds and butterflies, and many different animals" in her arms. I began to imagine her with a head of gorgeous hair that was filled with all this beautiful life, so full it overflowed all around her.  

Jesus, too, touched the earth, and knew her rhythms so well that he based some of his teachings on them. This is worth remembering. As I read this post I also thought of the attached photograph. I was surprised I could find it since it is from 2015. The gardens in San Leandro began changing during and after the drought, and of course, with good reason. Sometimes, however, I miss the overflowing abundance that began to disappear during that time. Our young landscaper who comes once a month to lend hand and expertise to our small front and back gardens told me this morning that she again senses some change in all the gardens she tends to. She feels the plant's responses are more subdued. She added, "I think the earth feels humanity's stress and concern with all that is going on."  I believe that as well. We are of the earth, and the earth is of us. There is no separation.  

"The earth has been there for a long time. She is mother to all of us. She knows everything. The Buddha asked the earth to be his witness by touching her with his hand when he had some doubt and fear before his awakening. The earth appeared to him as a beautiful mother. In her arms she carried flowers and fruit, birds and butterflies, and many different animals, and offered them to the Buddha. The Buddha’s doubts and fears instantly disappeared.

Whenever you feel unhappy, come to the earth and ask for her help. Touch her deeply, the way the Buddha did. Suddenly, you too will see the earth with all her flowers and fruit, trees and birds, animals and all the living beings that she has produced. All these things she offers to you. You have more opportunities to be happy than you ever thought. The earth shows her love to you and her patience. The earth is very patient. She sees you suffer, she helps you, and she protects you. When we die, she takes us back into her arms."

~ Thich Nhat Hanh

 As quoted in First Sip     

         

image; San Leandro, 2015

Why I Keep Photographing Flowers (and trees and rocks and other stuff)

"Self-Portrait as a Tuning Fork"

There is, perhaps you’ve felt it,

a moment when the day falls away

and your name falls away and

everything you thought you knew

falls away and for a moment

you know yourself only

as whatever it is

that continues—

your whole body abuzz

with the eternity of it—

and you quiver

as if struck by the great hand

of what is true,

becoming pure tone,

a vibration, a wave,

a human-shaped resonator

tuned to the frequency

of life itself,

and though later you might try

to dissect what happened,

in that moment you’re too abloom

to wonder how or why,

you simply are

this ecstatic unfolding

knowing the self as I am,

so alive and so infinite

you tremble like a song.

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

image: "Community", June, 2025, say

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. 

   

    

Focusing

 On Saturday, Tyler and I ventured out to a place where we had never been, Coyote Hills Regional Park. It is a fascinating park with wetlands, dry hills (this time of year) and many birds. We forgot our binoculars, but even with our ordinary vision, we saw turkeys, white pelicans, egrets,hawks, ducks, avocets, and other shorebirds. As we walked along the wetlands, we met an older woman who evidently goes there a lot. She had a beautiful monocular mounted on a tripod and she invited us to take a look through it. She said that morning she had already spotted forty-six different species of birds. I liked her immediately. Standing next to her was to experience silence, even when she was speaking. I sense she had been looking for a long time.

I am grateful for those who are trying to pay attention to the earth and who value all creatures. When we re-learn this practice of attentive watching, the earth can heal us, and we all can live in balance once more.

"We are not here on Earth to be alone, but to be a part of a living community, a web of life in which all is sacred. Like the cells of our body, all of life is in constant communication, as science is just beginning to understand. No bird sings in isolation, no bud breaks open alone.

And the most central note that is present in life is its sacred nature... Hearing its presence speak to us, we feel this great bond of life that supports and nourishes us all. Today's world may still at times make us feel lonely, but we can then remember what every animal, every insect, every plant knows - and only we have forgotten: the living sacred whole."

~ Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee--

First Sip

Only This and More

 I have been thinking of this beautiful poem all week. I woke this morning thinking of this photograph that I believe was taken from our campsite on the western side of the summit of Sonora Pass.Tyler is not sure of the location.  I do know it was taken on the day before we drove home because the eye phone keeps track of dates. If you look to the right just below the peak, you will see a patch of snow.  If you look lower and to the left, you can see falling water, more than likely runoff from the snow. This is not a gentle, rolling hills sort of land.

I find our journey across the Sonora Pass is staying with me. We take for granted being able to pass through the mountains (Although if you lived there you might not.)  This morning, I feel like we should have asked their permission before traversing. I still feel their presence, and I am humbled.     

  

This Only

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map led him here.
Or perhaps memory. Once, long ago, in the sun,
When the first snow fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast of motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

~ Czesław Milosz   

From Wikipedia:  Czesław Miłosz was a Polish-American poet, prose writer, translator, anddiplomat. He primarily wrote his poetry in Polish. Regarded as one of the great poets of the 20th century, he won the 1980 Nobel Prize in Literature.     

     

Service Station

 I received this poem back in August. I find it beautiful. The images are so clear to me, probably because I remember when there really were gas station attendants with whom we actually interacted. I also love it for the reminder that Jesus does walk among us, doing what seems to be routine tasks in profound ways, while casually reaching out to someone with a few kind words of greeting or encouragement. May we not fear to be that simple, that profound.   

 

Service Station  

 You’re beautiful, sister, eat more fruit,

said the attendant every time my mother
pulled into the 76 off Ashby Avenue.
We never knew why. She didn’t ask
and he didn’t explain. My brother and I
would look at each other sideways
in the back seat, eyebrows raised—
though, lord knows, we’d lived in Berkeley
long enough. He smiled when he said it,
then wiped the windows and pumped the gas.
I liked the little ritual. Always the same
order of events. Same lack of discussion.
Could he sense something? Attune to an absence
of vitamin C? Or was it just a kind of flirting—
a way of tossing her an apple, a peach?

It’s true my mother had a hidden ailment
of which she seldom spoke, and true
she never thought herself a beauty,
since in those days, you had to choose
between smart and beautiful, and beauty
was not the obvious choice for a skinny
bookish girl, especially in Barbados.
No wonder she became devout,
forsaking nearly everything but God
and science. And later she suffered
at the hands of my father, whom she loved,
and who’d somehow lost control
of his right fist and his conscience.
Whose sister was she, then? Sister
of the Early Rise, the Five-O’Clock Commute,
the Centrifuge? Sister of Burnt Dreams?

But didn’t her savior speak in parables?
Isn’t that the language of the holy?
Why wouldn’t he come to her like this,
with a kind face and dark, grease-smeared arms,
to lean over the windshield of her silver Ford sedan,
and bring tidings of her unclaimed loveliness,
as he filled the car with fuel, and told her—
as a brother—to go ahead,
partake of the garden, and eat of it.

~ Danusha Lameris

Basil and Rue

 This morning I walked out to the front porch to water a basil and a rue before the sun came up. I know a little about basil, but nothing about rue. Yet when I saw these two at our local nursery, I found them so beguiling that I brought them home. Rue is reported to have medicinal qualities which I will probably never test. As usual, I have been slow to repot these plants, and now the heat wave just seems too intense to subject them to such a dramatic change of venue. My gardening skills are lax which is probably why I like hanging out in other people's gardens. 

As I stepped out on the porch with water pitcher in hand, I noticed a small reddish spider spinning or perhaps re-spinning its web. The spider is so small I could not see the web. Her tiny legs, which seemed more like arms to me, moved patiently in a slowly increasing circle. It was as if she was playing a harp that I could neither see nor hear. I took comfort in those few moments of listening to that which could not be heard, and watching what could not be fully seen. 

​The sounds of the stream

   splash out
      the Buddha's sermon

Don't say
   that the deepest meaning
      comes only from one's mouth

Day and night
   eighty thousand poems
      arise one after the other

and in fact
   not a single word
      has ever been spoken

~ Musō Soseki, translated by W. S. Merwin

        

 

Possible

Yesterday,  I decided to walk away from my frustrations. Trying to stare them down was doing me no good. I picked up my flute and went into the backyard. As I let the notes rise, I looked up and saw this iris blooming in the sun. I was so touched by the simplicity of the moment, and even through the sound of many comings and goings was all around me, I remember only silence. When I play outside, I often get a deep sense of belonging to and in this life, and I fall in love with God once more. 

"You’ll always reach the end of how you thought your life would go. You’ll reach it many, many times. What looks like the low point is also the high point. What looks like the end is always the beginning.

Finding faith may seem impossible in your darkest times, but like the earth’s eternal orbit and the sun’s ceaseless shine, impossible things happen all the time.
You may be lost right now, but after days, months, even years in the wilderness, you will be found alive. Completely, joyously, miraculously alive."

~ Karen Maezen Miller-- 

          

 

There Are Days (in case you have not noticed)

 I needed to see this today. I may not be the only one.  

"Be gentle with yourself. Be kind to yourself.
You may not be perfect, but you are all you've got to work with.
The process of becoming who you will be
begins first with the total acceptance of who you are."

~ Bhante Henepola Gunaratana
With gratitude to Claudia Cummins, who understands sometimes a poem  or meditation is needed.

           

 

The photograph was taken a few years ago. Nasturtiums are blooming again.  Spring continues.  

Calm Mind, Calm World

I first came across this poem last year, and was grateful to see it come up again in my email. Learning to befriend all is a worthy endeavor to begin in Lent and to continue for as long as we live - maybe even longer.  I particularly like the phrase, "make the mind your friend."  There really is no other way to calm the mind without first befriending it.  A calm mind can help everyone and everything around us be a little calmer.  And then calmness can continue on its beautiful journey.  

Fear cannot lead us home. It does not know the way.     

"Full of trust you left home,

and soon learned to walk the Path—
making yourself a friend to everyone
and making everyone a friend.

When the whole world is your friend,
fear will find no place to call home.

And when you make the mind your friend,
you’ll know what trust
really means.

Listen.

I have followed this Path of friendship to
its end.

And I can say with absolute certainty—
it will lead you home."

~ Mitta

From The First Free Women: Poems of the Early Buddhist Nuns

   

image:  Lake Chabot   

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

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
  

 

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

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.