gift

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hand holding flower
What does it take 
To receive a gift
Graciously,
Fully?

It takes attention
And an open heart.
It means suspension of judgement,
Looking away from my gain
To your generosity.

The object in your hands
Is not the true gift.
It is the offer of your attention
Calling to mine.

It is your heart, whispering …
‘I want to connect.
I want to honor 
Your presence in my world.’

It is the open palm,
The heart extended,
That whispered longing,
That holds the beauty. 

And to give a gift?
You must release it, tenderly. 
It is an offer
Not a consummation. 

When a gift is truly given
And received fully in return,
Two hearts are exchanged.

photo by Eva retrieved from Flickr per cc BY-NC-SA 2.0

enough (again)

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Enough!
I can no longer watch the news.
Reporting catastrophe 
And catastrophe to come.

My heart is worn out 
With borrowed distress 
And requisite panic
And inevitable dissolution

And the ones who claim to save me
Only send me further into the abyss
Feeding me fear and guilt
And hopelessness

The monster has come out of the closet
And seated itself beside me on the sofa
It is picking its teeth,
Having fed itself upon my soul

The powers that be 
Seem all too powerful ...
But are they?
The whisper of that very question
Brings a breath of hope.

When I think that I must save it all – 
Democracy, my nation, my community
And, of course, my privileged place within it
My arms are much too small.

But when I remember 
That my friends are here beside me, still
Their presence holds my heart
And their eyes speak tender affection.

They remind me that the furor around me 
Cannot steal my capacity 
To share beauty and laughter and love
Or even to share comfort and grief

And it is 
Enough.

Image by Jeremy Brooks retrieved from Flickr per cc 2.0

Comeuppance

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Are we getting our 
Comeuppance?
Or is it a 
Comedownance?

Are we finally understanding
That ‘exceptionalism’
Was just another way of saying
We’re better than you?

And can we finally let go
Of the myths that are destroying us
And find, instead,
A home within a community?

‘Above’ is a lonely stance.
‘Greater’ is not so great.
‘With’ holds a bit of hope
And a more flexible strength. 

It lets me, too, 
Off the hook
And back into 
The stream of life.

I am not required to be
Exceptionally good 
Or exceptionally brave.
Perhaps, now, I can be neighborly.

photo by byronv2 retrieved from Flickr per CC BY-NC 2.0

tribute

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2 
There was a woman 
Who lived her gift fully
Whose fingerprints on the world
Helped to create the picture
Of light
Holding one sweet edge in place.

Whose breath 
Still brushes up against my heart
Though she
Herself
No longer breathes. 

There was a woman
Who did not let 
The voices of disdain
Stop her gift 
Even when her own doubts 
Too often echoed 
Those false frames.

She gifted her presence
Flaws and all.

There was a woman 
Who gratefully accepted 
The gifts of a broken world 
And counted them sufficient 
To sustain the fillagree 
Of glistening life
For just a while.

Counting her own brokenness 
Enough to offer 
In return

A reedy pipe 
With holes enough
To let the tune.
Sing through.

This is the anniversary of my mother’s death. She would have made it to 100 had she lived two more years but 98 was quite enough for her and she left us with a wink and a smile. The photo is my own.

Atlas

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The earth, it was said, 
Rested upon the back
Of a giant turtle. 

That turtle, in turn, 
Rested upon another,
And another,
And another -
Turtles all the way down.

Others said it rested 
Upon a succession of elephants.
For others, it was 
The shoulders of Atlas
That held it firm. 

But, of course, 
Now we know better. 
It is held by myriad attractions
And by movement.

And my own particular world
Is held by its own attractions,
And repulsions, 
And mutual beliefs and stories. 

We tell ourselves
That there is such a thing
As corporation, or school, or alliance
Or country.
We build walls around that idea -
Actual walls of brick and mortar
Or even steel. 

We think those walls will hold it firm. 
For they rest upon the earth. 
Which rests, of course, 
Upon a giant turtle.

Or is it the shoulders of Atlas
That will keep us from falling forever?
Surely there is some strong man
To whom we turn to make it all secure. 

...
I’m grateful that my kids
Watched Ninja Turtles 
Rather than a Mighty Mouse,
Who comes to save the day.

Turtles, seeking wisdom from a rat
Working as a team, finding allies, 
Without a single hero -
It’s the start of a better story.

Not so much turtles 
All the way down
As turtles all around.
Not perfect, 
But a step into a better myth.

photo by Wally Gobetz from Flickr per CC 2.0

together together

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… this is one of those moments when the strange and beautiful reality of the human condition rises in the face of what would deny it. – Kristi Tippett. 

Below the loud and clamoring voices
Beyond the angry fury
Even beneath the clubs and pepper spray
And bullets
Runs the urgent 
Wistful
Steadfast 
Song of community.

It is not about me.
It is not about you.
It is about us.

When I cower alone
I find myself bereft 
Of courage, strength 
And hope

I am not enough
Alone. 

I cannot be me
Without you.
I cannot hold to hope
Without your candle.

And yet 
I can see its flickering light.
In Minnesota,
In Ukraine, 
In Gaza.

This little light of yours.
You let it shine. 
I dip my fragile wick
Toward your flame.

Photo by Steven Train   uploaded from Flickr  per CC BY-NC 2.0

a word trip

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You don’t ever know where a sentence will take you, depending on its roll and fold.   -Mary Oliver
I’m truly surprised 
That I can surprise myself.

My fingers on the keyboard,
My eyes closed,
In that safe space 
I can let myself go.

I usually start with some word or phrase or image.
I take a moment to embrace that kernel
And then I drop it to the earth
And let the soil blow over.
The soft rains come.
The sun’s warm cuddle
Holds it close. 

And I wait.
It takes time.
It takes release. 
(Ok, it takes time to release it.)


But, after a bit,
It starts to grow.
It pushes tiny leaves 
Above the earth’s crumble. 
They lift and expand
Searching for the light
That will touch
The life within themselves.

That tiny seedling
Grows within the soil 
Of who I am.
It seeks a light 
To lift my life
And connect it all:
The earth, the sun, 
The tiny leaves of hope. 

And so, it is surprising
To find my thoughts 
Have gone somewhere unexpected
And discovered 
Also, a surprise,
That they are back
Where they started
But somehow richer
Fuller, more complete. 

I follow my words
Down the path of my imagination
And find myself
At the end of the loop
Smiling in surprise
At a tiny seedling
Growing 
Here
Within.

Quotation from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver (p. 257). Kindle Edition.

Photo by Samuel hosted by Flickr and used per CC BY-NC 2.0. 

love is a balm

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Love is a balm.

Pull it up to your chin 
Like a blanket.
Even the memory
Of its smile
Can keep you warm.

And when you get the chance
Wrap it around the shoulders
Of a friend.
One tender touch 
Is enough to bring a softness
To their day.

Photo by jameliah e. posted to flickr and used per cc 2.0

a thread

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In all this hubbub, I find that
I’ve folded my small world around me
Drawn in tightly
Hunkered down.

My protective stance is to withdraw 
Rather than strike out.
Yet that, too, is hurtful.
A withdrawal from life diminishes 
More than just me.

I think of myself as too small.
What use am I among the vastness
A silly, mistake-prone, appendage, 
An intrusion in the flow?

And so, I discount myself.
I think that any contribution I make
Must somehow be perfect
Or it is useless.

I forget that ‘perfection’
Is a process.
It never starts at its culmination.
Growth, itself, is one of the beauties of life.
The unfolding is, itself, 
A slow and stately dance. 

There is, you see, 
A humility that withdraws
Ashamed of its very self
But there is also quite another - 
A humility that offers itself
Even knowing it is not perfect.

That is the gift of vulnerability.
And mine invites yours.

My own thread
Does not add much
To the tapestry of life
But I do love 
The flawed and nubby
Pattern we make together.

Photo and tapestry by Fiona Dix posted to flickr and used per cc 2.0

opening dance

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It is not about winning
Nor forcing the world into your frame
Nor fixing another’s broken ideology
Nor being right
Or even figuring out what’s wrong.

A tight fist can never hold
The true wonder of the world.

Only when you release 
Your hold,
Your fierce determination,
Your very self
Can you let the dream begin.

Only when you release your breath
Into the greater sigh
Can you hope to notice 
That you are a tiny part 
Of something vastly more. 

It is within the interplay of your desires
To be both apart and a part
Where you begin to dance
Where the hand that is yours
Can touch the hand of quite another

And wholeness begins
To knit your soul to life.

photo is my own