to the morning

(When I was in middle school, my parents owned a little house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.  We went there to get away when we were able, and I spent hours wandering in the woods, writing poetry and picking up orange salamanders...)

 

 

the path

is spongy

beneath my feet

from morning dew

 

moisture enclosed

by walls and a

ceiling of trees

housing the dawn

 

it's as if I

crossed a threshold

between

here and there

 

a field of dreams

and an ordinary

backyard

or

 

an antique wardrobe

that opens out

onto

a snowy pathway

 

in the woods

 

but it's not winter here

the trees whisper

their greeting

a chipmunk says

 

"good morning"

 

I sit on a rock

brush my hand

over the carpet

of moss

 

catching a salamander

organe and soft

its tiny claws

bearing no weight

 

on my hand

 

I dip my toes

in iced water

flowing over

slick, mossy stones

 

fishes darting away

from my giant feet

distrubing their

morning routine

 

it is quiet

still

a world innocent

and fresh

 

a place

to believe again

in new beginnings

in goodness

 

and a God

who keeps it all

together

 

it is here

as a child

I became a poet

a connosseur of beauty

 

where I learned

to meditate

before I'd heard

the concept

 

it is here

among the salamanders

chipmunks

and feet-numbing brooks

 

that I learned

to worship

sing silent praise

to the morning

 

and

be

whole.  

ageless

Bingo and Rummikub
on today's agenda
exercise in the morning
kicking the giant beach ball

an elderly pastor sits
Bible open
white and purple-haired ladies
huddled close

listening for the Word

my host, voice shaking
her head jerking slightly
from a Parkinsonian tic
leads me outside

to brag about her musk melons
growing like an epidemic
in the resident garden
ripe for the picking

sweetness waiting
to be broken open
indulged
like ambrosia of the gods

there are peppers and
onions
tomatoes
and cucumbers

tilled faithfully
harvested and shared
giving slower days
the pleasure of accomplishment

I see the images of my own
many fears
of "me, someday"
the slow deterioration

uselessness of body
and often mind

a woman glides by
leaning on a walker
shoed with tennis balls
to make the trip smoother

she smiles at me
her wrinkles rearranging
around the relentless
sparkle in her rheumy eyes

then there's music
my host brightens
and grabs my arm
with arthritic fingers

leading me toward
the joyful sound
coming from a far corner
as if in another dimension

an old man slouched
over the keyboard
absorbed
fingers dancing on the keys

a distant smile
on his aged face
remembering, perhaps
a dance, a woman, a different life

tunes far too old
to be of my memory
perhaps WWI or II
a pub in France or Germany

a time, a moment
away from guns and bombs
romance amidst the ruins
joy amidst the sorrow

my host sways and claps
with delight
and I am taken with the music
the absolute joyful abandon

on the old man's face

so much joy amidst decay
dancing, at least in spirit
amdist arthritic joints
and edemic ankles

the little old ladies
on the couch,
resting from the journey
from dining hall to "home"

smile dreamily
feet tapping, heads
keeping time with the music
that takes them back

the old man
oblivious to an audience
playing for life
playing for relief

for not only remembering
but experiencing again
as if no time had passed
so cruelly upon his body

experiencing grace
love eternal and romantic
life against all odds
in defiance of death. 


(I learned later that the piano player just turned 101).

Angel Girl

Little Girl
don't you know
you're beautiful?

There are so many
stars in your eyes

as you dance to music
in your own soul

oblivious to judges
with ratings in their hands

a 4, a 2, an 8
it doesn't matter

because you move,
like you know you're a "10"

pudgy cheeks
piercing blue eyes

hair that doesn't curl
for nothing or no one

oh my god
I can't believe

the world goes on

people do dishes
watch the evening news

as if there is no
extraordinary love-angel
in their midst

how could they miss it?
your light would have blinded them

made them turn aside
to revel in your wonder

but you danced anyway
and stored that freedom away

as your feet got bigger
and you folded in on yourself

lived in the shadows
terrified to be seen

lest someone ransack
your treasure chest

yet little by little
you began to whisper

no

took one more little step
into the light

and you remembered the words
to your own song

and Boom! Baby, Baby
those big feet found their rythem

that sweet voice
started to sing

your whisper became a shout!

and others came out
of the dark too

(if SHE can do it, maybe I...)

and the music got richer
the angelic choir got fuller

and the light grew bright
from within your soul

oh, my Dear One
you didn't come here to hide

you are Here
to sing your song

to add your voice, your line
to the Poem

Angel Girl,
you came here to

Shine.

Shine on...

Being Quiet

      It's not a disease.  It's not a character defect.  It's not a maladjustment.  It's not abnormal or immoral.  It just is.  Sometimes it's even a gift.  It took me about 40 years to figure that out.

      It's a very talkative world we live in.  When I was in elementary school and the teachers wrote comments in those boxes  on your report card, I always got the comments:  "Susan (my childhood name) is very quiet.  Doesn't talk much."  I "played well with others."  I even "worked well with others."  I got a lot of Outstandings in my schoolwork, and no UNSatisfactories.  But still, it was if they had to say something, find some concern.  "Susan is very quiet."  Year after year.  Or those adolescent-nightmare moments when the teacher called on me and said,  "Susan, you're very quiet, what do you think?"  and I wanted to melt right into the linoleum. 

       As I got into high school, college and even seminary, it was still apparently a problem.  "Why are you so quiet?"  I was asked repeatedly by teachers, students and friends.  It only caused me more anxiety to try to be something I wasn't:  talkative.   Of course, in college and seminary especially, part of my grade was based on class participation, and so no matter how smart I was or how well I did in the coursework,  I always got graded down because of my lack of speaking out.  I was terrified of speaking in front of large groups, especially without a script!  And I was never really encouraged to think for myself growing up, or to have an opinion worth sharing, so I wasn't ready to share anything that I thought, lest it be torn apart.  On a high school choir trip, I was voted "Quietest Member on the Trip," and given a whistle as a prize.  I was mortified.  At church camp, I was asked to lead a prayer group and my first night, I simply froze up.  Couldn't think of a thing to say, and was therefore ashamed that I couldn't be a good Christian example.  Fortunately, in that case, I had a very kind, gracious pastor-camp counselor who understood that my gifts lay elsewhere, and he assigned me things to do more in accordance with my personality.  He assured me that being quiet was not a character defect and certainly didn't make me less of a Christian or beloved child of God.  He was probably the first adult in my life that made me feel truly accepted and valued for who I was.  His name is Ed.  We still keep in touch, 33 years later.  You just don't forget something like that.

     Obviously when I became a pastor, I had to start speaking.  I clearly remember my first sermon 23 years ago.  I was trembling, nauseous, sweating profusely, my hands were ice cold and I could barely breathe.  But I made it, and got a lot of praise for that first sermon.  That gave me confidence, and I went on to preach for 20 years.  It became one of the biggest gifts that brought me more out of myself and made me feel strong.  I loved preaching!  It was a high.  It was a chance to step out a little more, be more verbally expressive, even use a little drama and flair.  It wasn't that I was being someone else;  obviously preaching was a big part of me, it was a gift.   But outside of the pulpit, I was less expressive.  I was still quiet.  I still felt more comfortable with people one on one rather than big groups.  I wasn't one to "work a crowd."  I'd sit down with a few and visit.  Some people thought I was snotty.  Some accused me of being rude, or "she talked to so-and-so but didn't talk to me..."  I gravitated toward kind faces. 

      I have never been good at small talk.  Being in the ministry for 20 years I had to cultivate some skill at it, mind you, but I still don't like it.  I'd rather be honest, real, talk about things that are important to me or the other person.  I still don't like big crowds.  I'd much rather visit with a small group of friends, play a game, have a nice dinner, or play badminton or something.  Even if I did drink more than an occasional glass of wine, I wouldn't feel comfortable in a bar scene where it's noisy and people get loud.  I tried karoake once when it was still a new thing, and I may as well have stood up there in my underwear for how comfortable I felt.  I let a guy get me drunk once just to see what the fuss was all about, and I didn't get it.  I never felt so sick in my life, and I didn't understand why anyone would do it on purpose. 

     My idea of a good time is a Friday night at home with my family, or a couple of good friends, talking, dinner, maybe a game.  We watch a lot of movies.  I could spend hours reading, sitting outside.  Spending a whole weekend with my husband and my daughter is pure heaven for me.  We don't even have to do much.  Home is my refuge.  There I can let it all out.  I can be myself completely and know that I am loved for who I am.  I can be goofy and silly.  If I'm mad, I can express that, or I can cry and complain.  I can curl up with one or all of my three cats and experience pure bliss. 

    Call me boring.  Call me weird (many people have over the years).  I still get accused of being a snob, or "hard to get to know" (I hate that one-- ask me anything, I might just tell you), or just the tiresome old one, "too quiet."  How can one be "too quiet"?  I usually only speak when I have something to say, which I have found to be a very wise practice.  Too many people talk for the sake of hearing themselves talk, and usually say a lot of dumb things-- even hurtful, painful things.  If you talk less, you tend to listen more.  You notice more about what's going on.  It's taken me till the middle of my life to realize that being quiet is just who I am.  Because of it, I'm also known as a good listener.  People trust me, for the most part.  I don't like to be around a lot of talkative people for too long, I get a headache and I need to go someplace quiet and breathe.  I am very uncomfortable in loud, noisy, crowded places.  I don't fit in in most places.  But I've realized, I'm not meant to fit in, I'm meant to be me.  And I am quiet.

      I don't dislike loud people or talkative people.  Some of my closest friends are talkative.  The word of the day is Extrovert, and I am Introvert.  It's Yin and Yang.  You need both of us.  One is not better than the other.  We're just different.  You can go to your party and dance on the tables if you enjoy that, but don't be offended if I'd rather have a quiet dinner with my family or friends or spend hours reading a good book, or listening to fabulous music.  I am not "too quiet,"  Mrs. Grade School Teacher,  Ms. Cheerleader or Mrs. Class President.  I am me.  I'm a Poet, a Writer, a Singer, a Reader, a Good Friend,  a Thinker, a Muser, a Mystic, a Pray-er, etc.  There's even a Preacher/Public Speaker lurking in me if you wake it up in me, but the Poet is bigger.  So I'll have my glass of wine at home in my living room and tell you a fun story about the time I sang "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" after several beers many years ago with a guy I barely knew and didn't need to know after that, but I won't relive it.  Though I may write a hell of a story about it.

Between the Veils

her head

popped up

amidst tall grass

gentleness incarnate

 

large ears antennae

searching for

danger

cause for alarm

 

eyes like marbles

deep, brown

eyelashes of a starlet

her whole body taut

 

 I think

how dangerous

the world

for gentle souls

 

how harsh the landscape

for passionate artists

always on alert

forever aching

 

for understanding

 

Rocky Mountain Highs

not easy to ascend

proven to be that lost horizon

for the courageous pilgrim

 

those gentle souls

walking a labyrinth of violence

open wounds in rivers

of antiseptic

 

run, my heart says

to the creature

in alliance

run, protect yourself

 

it is sometimes hell

for dreamers

a battlefield for those

who don't want to fight

 

this world burns up

the passionate

those who stand

between the veils

 

but they sing

their songs

and leave us

their poetry

 

their burnt offering

their firstborn

on the altar

as they go down

 

in the flames

still hoping to rise again

from the ashes

to the world of their dreams.

 

 



test

 

 

sitting in my car

waiting

they want to

"take another look"

 

"density"

"shadow"

on the picture

'probably nothing'

 

meanwhile

i work on the border

between life

and death

 

i walk people

to the line

over which

they can only go

 

alone

 

and i always

wonder

what do they see?

what do they feel?

 

i see people walking

toward

the big white cross

over the door

 

welcoming them

to the Place

of Life and Death

of No Denial

 

some bring flowers

some bring overnight bags

some young

some old

 

eyes down

in a hurry

flags fly at full mast now

some distance from

 

the Most Recent Horror

 

the helicopter

perches on the roof

ready for action

awaiting emergency

 

a dark spot

on a film

and i am thrust

from observer to participant

 

reminded

again

that life, if anything

is personal

 

mortality

the great equalizer

 

some stranger

will push, mold

cram my breasts

 

between two

metal plates

 

as if

they are just flesh

to be screened

and not

 

the most intimate

source of memory

that forever bonds

my child and i

 

as if they are not

miraculous

sources of nourishment

and raw need

 

sacred

 

an old man

waddles forth

burdened by

aging bones

 

a pregnant woman

moves forward in the

direction of her belly

equilibrium challenged

 

birth and death

arthritic joints

and new pliable bones

being formed

 

in the dark

 

shadows in pictures

revealing only mystery

contemplation

uncertainty of forever

 

we are all

 

Here

Walk A Mile

     One of my favorite Elvis Presley songs is "Walk a Mile In My Shoes":  "Before you accuse, criticize or abuse, Walk a Mile In My Shoes...."  Fitting for him, but fitting for every time and place. 

     Most of you know about my daughter Sarah's class project for her "Intro to Ethic Studies" class in which she dressed up as a Muslim for a few days, did the prayers and rituals, ate only what a Muslim would be allowed to eat, etc.  She did this on a college campus that prides itself in diversity, as they have a large international population.  I was of course concerned for her safety, warning her to not walk anywhere alone at night, stick with crowds during the day, etc., but I thought I was being overly worried.  Then on the third day, she was pushed into the salad bar, yelled at to "get the hell out of our country!" and three boys dumped a large bowl of cottage cheese on her head.  No one came to her aide.  No one admonished the boys or stopped them.  Sarah wiped off the excess cottage cheese from her head and walked out.  You can read her reflection at:  www.thisisall19.blogspot.com

     I grew up in New Jersey, which today is extremely diverse.  Growing up in a pastor's house, though, I was very protected and sheltered.  I trusted the world to be safe and ok.  I felt safe.  My friends and I fixed up a clubhouse for ourselves in the backyard of our house in Red Bank, NJ, decorating  it with carpet samples, wallpaper samples and furniture from the attic or someone's curb.  It was a cozy little place to hang out for a 9-year old.  But one day, when I went to the clubhouse, I discovered that it had been vandalized.  There was red spray paint all over the walls and carpet, spelling out what I could do to myself but which is anatomically impossible.  The wallpaper was shredded, my posters were ripped into pieces, my notebooks and books were torn apart and strewn throughout the room.  I remember feeling terror, of course.  The world had attacked my own backyard.  I was suddenly aware that the world wasn't necessarily a friendly place, that people could hurt you without even knowing who you were, for no reason.  I was innocent.  I didn't understand.  I suddenly didn't feel safe in my own backyard. 

     I still don't understand.  Why do people hurt people at all, much less people they don't even know?  Why, when someone is hurting inside, do they decide that it's a good idea to hurt someone else?  To share the pain?  I waver between being cynical and deciding that it's safer to just not expect anything better from people, and being optimistic and hopeful.  I want to believe we can do better.  I want to believe the best about people, despite so much evidence. 

    When I gave birth to my daughter, I felt like my heart was now thrown out into the world, vulnerable and exposed.  It's still a hard world for women.  We've come a long, long way, but we have a long, long way to go.  Extremists always attack women and women's freedoms when they want to win votes.  Women don't always support but undermine other women.  Women are still blamed for all the sin and problems in the world.  The other day, after I'd heard about my daughter's assault in the dining hall,  I pulled over and just had a good cry.  As I was sitting there,  a man came up to my window and knocked on it.  He'd read my bumper sticker that says,  "Eve Was Framed."  He pointed to the back of my car.  "I don't believe she was framed at all,"  he said.  Then he walked away.  He apparently needed to defend man-kind for some reason, but it was very bad timing.  I still ache that my daughter will continue to face sexism and ridiculous, hateful attitudes in this world.  I want to throw my body in front of her and protect her from all that.  However, she proved to me this week that she can handle it.  Not only can she handle it, she has the passion, nerve and confidence to speak out against it and try to make a difference.   She is not afraid like I was when these realities started occuring to me in my young adult years.   She'll be ok. 

      I pray for all our daughters and sons in this world that can be so hurtful.  I have seen Muslim women in WalMart, in the library and grocery store.  I am more inclined now to greet them, look them in the eye, and maybe get up the nerve to ask them what it's like for them to be here in Central Nebraska, or the United States.  I know Sarah will go out of her way now to talk to the female Muslim students on campus.  Her world has expanded, grown, deepened.  Her story is spreading around the community; friends are passing it on to their friends.  I pray that we can all take the energy and time to at least imagine what it's like to walk a mile in someone else's shoes, whoever they are, and refrain from hate. 

     And so it is.