Dry Houses Are a Good Thing, But Maybe Not for Otters

Absolutely one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems.  I am grateful to Panhala for sending it this morning.        

We, too, have trouble with vowels, because we are convinced that we must live our lives as stately nouns.   Today, I shall try to be more lively.  

Alas, I have no pictures of otters.   A lovely scene from Los Osos 

(September 2015) will just have to do!   

 

Almost a Conversation

 

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.

 

He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.

 

Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression —

 

he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.

 

Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.

 

He has no words, still what he tells about his life
is clear.
He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don't jump in.

 

~ Mary Oliver ~

 

(Evidence)  

 

Noticings

Yesterday, I found myself admiring a small flower garden that is growing in front of a house I really have never paid much attention to, partly because when the neighborhood school is in session, I tend to walk in another direction to avoid the traffic.  As I took in the beautiful shapes and colors, I noticed that this modest grey house has a very nice front porch. I found the simplicity of this one story house quite inviting.  Later that morning I drove down a street lined with high density housing after taking over an hour and a half to make my way through about 36 miles of high density traffic.  I could see no flowers. The cost of living and working in this area is very high indeed.  

   

I found this poem in my drafts this morning.  Always good to have a poem around, waiting to be shared.  Always good to notice and remember what brings us peace.      

 

To Look at Any Thing
 
To look at any thing,
If you would know that thing,
You must look at it long:
To look at this green and say,
"I have seen spring in these woods,"
Will not do - you must
Be the thing you see:
You must be the dark snakes of
Stems and ferny plumes of leaves,
You must enter in
To the small silences between
The leaves,
You must take your time
And touch the very peace
They issue from.
 
~ John Moffitt ~
 
(Teaching With Fire, edited by S. M. Intrator and M. Scribner)   

shared by Panhala  

 

photographs:  San Leandro, July 2019 

#keepingamericagood

  

Sightings

I moved from flu land to allergy land pretty quickly.  Some of that is my own fault.  Can't stay out of the neighbors' front gardens.  I call this picture "The Beast among the Roses."  Don't you think he has fine ears and a good looking tail?  My thanks to Panhala for sending this poem today.   I fell somewhat short of my poem a day goal in April, but that happens.  At least for now, the world of poetry, and surprises can still be found among the flowers.   What a relief.     

Starting with Little Things

 

Love the earth like a mole,
fur-near. Nearsighted,
hold close the clods,
their fine-print headlines.
Pat them with soft hands --

 

Like spades, but pink and loving; they
break rock, nudge giants aside,
affable plow.
Fields are to touch;
each day nuzzle your way.

 

Tomorrow the world.

 

~ William Stafford ~  

Morning Song

I love this poem.   Yes, trouble is always messing about, looking for a place to take up residence.   I will also say that the photograph makes me smile.  I see it and hear Elton John's "Tiny Dancer."  My apology if that song gets stuck in your head.  Sing something else really loudly; that should do the trick.  Maybe even dance around the living room and be the envy of the neighborhood.   

Air out your glorious soul today.  We need the light.     

    

Any Morning

 

Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.

 

People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can't
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.

 

Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People wont even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.

 

Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.

 

~ William Stafford ~

 

 

(The Way It Is) 

Panhala    

     

Under One Small Star

This poem came to me yesterday via Panhala.  I sense it as one long bow, and came to me at a perfect moment when I was feeling that words were becoming more and more elusive.  A beautiful reminder that, no matter what, each of us is  called to live our own life.  Im the grand scheme, that seems insignificant.  Yet, also so encompassing. 

Szymborska  (1923–2012) lived her whole life in Krakow.  No doubt she saw, and felt much, both large and small.   

Under One Small Star

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all.
Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May my head be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don't pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.

Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man.
I know I won't be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.


~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
 

(Poems New and Collected)  

         

photograph:  San Leandro, Feb. 4, 2019.  I walked around the corner, and there it was. Oh, goodness, the scent.  

   

Today's Interruptions Have Been Brought to You by...

I am tempted to say the interruptions were brought by a printer not printing and no hot water.  One by one those were addressed, and yet I still have a sense of unease.  Therefore, I think the interruptions are rooted in  the prayer/poem that I received this morning from Panhala.  As you know, I love Wendell Berry's writing, but this post seemed to strike an ever deeper chord with me.  Perhaps because I love porches.  Perhaps it is the word forbearance which I almost never hear used, and lately it seems so seldom exercised that I had to look up the meaning.  Merriam Webster defines forbearance as "patient self-control; restraint and tolerance."  Oh, for the day...

However, I think my sense of disorientation lies in the first lines, "To care for what we know requires care for what we don't..."  This is where my sense of stirring lies because to me it speaks of that mystery that is worship - that experience we understand, but then again, we cannot. 

This week, I led a simple service in a skilled nursing community. Rita was there, taking time off from work as she always does to spend time in worship with her mother.  Her steadfastness moves me because her mother does not acknowledge what is going on around her, and has not for years. Our rhythm after worship was as it often is: first I greet her mother, and then Rita and I talk.  Both of us regularly spend time in private morning devotionals, yet, we both acknowledge that coming together in community deepens our time spent in community as well as in our solitude with God. This week we talked about how meaningful it would surely be if a community could come together every morning and every evening for worship and prayer.  I have experienced that rhythm in seminary, particularly in my time spent in the spiritual direction program.  For three years, we came together for three weeks every January to study and to practice listening to one another and how we are experiencing God in our hearts and lives. We also came together to pray and sing every morning and every evening.  Once that rhythm settles into your bones, and it does not take long, you are never the same.  You will long for it; just as many of those we serve in long term care long to worship at least once a week.   

 

Interruptions are important to pay attention to for they are often tangible moments of knowing that Spirit is up to something, and that something is generally a response to a yearning deep within us, a yearning that we might not have yet acknowledged.   At this altar, aka a porch in the wilderness (or in the activity room), our hearts kneel and pray at the knowing.  

A SMALL PORCH IN THE WOODS

9.

To care for what we know requires
care for what we don't, the world's lives
dark in the soil, dark in the dark.
Forbearance is the first care we give
to what we do not know. We live
by lives we don't intend, lives
that exceed our thoughts and needs, outlast
our designs, staying by passing through,
surviving again and again the risky passages
from ice to warmth, dark to light.
Rightness of scale is our second care:
the willingness to think and work
within the limits of our competence
to do no permanent wrong to anything
of permanent worth to the earth's life,
known or unknown, now or ever, never
destroying by knowledge, unknowingly,
what we do not know, so that the world
in its mystery, the known unknown world,
will live and thrive while we live.

~ Wendell Berry ~

(A Small Porch - Sabbath Poems 2014-2015)   

   

A Solstice Stroll

While my four footed companion has long been accustomed to a walk in the morning, lately Jack has started asking for an evening walk as well. I try to accommodate him when possible for I think it does us both good.  Yesterday, we were out a little later than usual so when we came across these callas, I did not think there was enough light to photograph the dark flowers. However, their color and shape intrigued me.   Last night I thought they looked like heralding trumpets announcing summer; this morning I think of birds who might be doing the same thing. 

I also received this poem on the first day of summer, and the line "small silences between the leaves" has stayed with me. Yesterday morning I took a few minutes to pause between the leaves of a tree I walk by twice a month. People were waiting for me, so I could not linger as long as the poet wisely prescribes, but long enough for a smile to come to me as I walked on.  
  

This morning I am reminded to never underestimate the available light. It is always enough to guide our journeys at least a  little further on. 

To Look at Any Thing
 
To look at any thing,
If you would know that thing,
You must look at it long:
To look at this green and say,
"I have seen spring in these
Woods," will not do - you must
Be the thing you see:
You must be the dark snakes of
Stems and ferny plumes of leaves,
You must enter in
To the small silences between
The leaves,
You must take your time
And touch the very peace
They issue from.
 
~ John Moffitt ~

(Teaching With Fire, edited by S. M. Intrator and M. Scribner)

Panhala 

Untrimmable

This poem from Panhala came to me this morning.  I fell in love with the phrase, "untrimmable  light."  I know our paths often seem to be taking us through lonely,rough terrain.  Let us remember to pause often, and let the eyes of our hearts see this glow on our close horizons. 

Untrimmable: that which can never be lessened or extinguished. This I experience as the love and light of the living Christ, and I give thanks for this love that can never be earned, but only accepted and shared. 

 

Blessings on your journey today.   Please remember we do not journey alone. 

Mindful

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant - 
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

~ Mary Oliver ~

 

(Why I Wake Early)

Hope

"Unison Benediction" is one of  the most touching poems I have read in awhile.  I particularly love the image of stiff hands learning new ways to serve. As I begin to settle into a new role of associate pastor for a small community here in the east bay, I find myself experiencing some moments of deep joy as I learn new ways of worshiping and being present to others.  Yes, at times I do feel my stiffness. However, it is my belief that as long as people continue to come together in communities rooted in trying to live in love, we can find healing. Then we can be a healing presence. A first step, however is needed.  We need to show up.    

Yesterday afternoon, I talked with an elder in a retirement community. I found her sitting in the activity room with a single rose in her hand. Staff members had been passing them out to the female residents in the spirit of Mother's Day. She looked quite forlorn, and I learned that all of her adult children had died.  We talked some, and I offered her a song sheet. She refused it, but she did not leave.  By the end of the service she had decided to snip off the end of the rose's stem, and put it in some water.

 Hope.  It is always there, waiting for us to come around. 

Unison Benediction

 

Return to the most human,
nothing less will nourish the torn spirit,
the bewildered heart,
the angry mind:
and from the ultimate duress,
pierced with the breath of anguish,
speak of love.

 

Return, return to the deep sources,
nothing less will teach the stiff hands a new way to serve,
to carve into our lives the forms of tenderness
and still that ancient necessary pain preserve.

 

Return to the most human,
nothing less will teach the angry spirit,
the bewildered heart;
the torn mind,
to accept the whole of its duress,
and pierced with anguish…
at last, act for love.

 

~ May Sarton ~ 

Singing the Story

Yesterday when I arrived at the skilled nursing community, the worship team was already in full voice. I was not surprised for they are not shy in expressing their love of the Lord, and of worship and the pianist has a style that is quite lively. This month we have been singing of Jesus, and the frail in particular have been responding with enthusiasm.   

While this particular dining/activity room is really too small for the size of this community (not uncommon now as most skilled nursing communities are dedicating more and more space to rehab), I always give thanks for the floor to ceiling windows along two walls, even if one window does overlook a parking lot. However, the other provides a view of the street so one can see all sorts of comings and goings as the seasons change.  I am convinced that natural light and a view beyond the walls is good for the eyes, including the eyes of heart.  As I joined in the singing (who could resist?), the shy activity assistant who must wear a mask because she did not get a flu shot, did a modest little dance as she moved through the room tending to the patients. One of the old old, raised her thin arms, smiled a beautiful toothless smile, and waved.  The momentum of love could not be stopped even if we had wanted that; it simply swooped in and carried us all.  Ten years into the ministry, I am still deeply moved by how much some residents and patients yearn for and respond to stories and hymns that tell of Jesus' love. In those moments, I believe people are reminded that love is for them, and we come often enough to keep that message alive in their hearts and ours.  I do love to tell that "old, old story of Jesus and his love."*  

   

Above Everything

I wished for death often
but now that I am at its door
I have changed my mind about the world.
It should go on; it is beautiful,
even as a dream, filled with water and seed,
plants and animals, others like myself,
ships and buildings and messages
filling the air -- a beauty,
if ever I have seen one.
In the next world, should I remember
this one, I will praise it
above everything.

~ David Ignatow ~  

* "I Love to Tell the Story," words by Katherine Hankey (1868) and music by William G. Fischer, 1869. According to Wikepedia, this hymn came about while Ms. Hankey was convalescing from a serious illness she contracted in Africa.       

  

A Poem for a Neighbor

The moment Sunday's football game was over, we heard a neighbor, who lives several doors down from us, roar a victory cry. He has been a fan of the Philadelphia Eagles all his life, maybe even from when he was still in the womb. Laughing, we went out to meet him in the dark street.  The following morning I received this poem.     

  

  

Today

 

The ordinary miracles begin. Somewhere
a signal arrives: “Now,” and the rays
come down. A tomorrow has come. Open
your hands, lift them: morning rings
all the doorbells; porches are cells for prayer.
Religion has touched your throat. Not the same now,
you could close your eyes and go on full of light.

And it is already begun, the chord
that will shiver glass, the song full of time
bending above us. Outside, a sign:
a bird intervenes; the wings tell the air,
“Be warm.” No one is out there, but a giant
has passed through town, widening streets, touching
the ground, shouldering away the stars.

 

~ William Stafford ~

 

(My Name is William Tell; contributed by Beth Atchison)  

Listening

The poem of the day from Panhala. I pray this child, even if this poem was written a long time ago, continues to listen.  I pray this for the world.  

​Waiting in Line

 

When you listen you reach

into dark corners and

pull out your wonders.

When you listen your

ideas come in and out

like they were waiting in line.

Your ears don’t always listen.

It can be your brain, your

fingers, your toes.

You can listen anywhere.

Your mind might not want to go.

If you can listen you can find

answers to questions you didn’t know.

If you have listened, truly

listened, you don’t find your

self alone.

 

~ Nick Penna, fifth grade ~

 

(In Poetic Medicine by John Fox)

 

www.poeticmedicine.com