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

Of forests and trees

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Sometimes, so they say, ‘you can’t see the forest for the trees.’ 
As of late, I think I have the opposite problem.
I need to look, really look, deeply look
At a single tree, a single branch, a single leaf.

I’ve been trying to figure it all out.
But the forest is much too big for me. 
One tender leaf, with veins outspread to touch each cell
Is, perhaps, the correct perspective for me
At this one, perfect moment
In your universe of time and space. 

I’ll leave the forest to you, just now.
And reach my tiny veins to those cells near me
 -
The ones that I can touch.


[photo by eltpics per cc 2.0 hosted by flikr]

What my mother remembers

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My Mom turned 97 this year and her memory for daily interactions is tenuous. Sometimes when I visit, she asks me five times about something I brought. We write our comings and goings in her guest book as a memory tool. 

But here’s the thing: when I walk in the door her face lights up. When she speaks of my dad, her voice is full of gratitude even when it holds some grief. When she mentions my sisters or my aunt, she is quick to say how much she appreciates their care. The other day, she told me that she woke during the night and could not go back to sleep, so she decided to count her blessings. She had a long list. 

Her life has been lived with an emphasis on relationship. She consistently chooses the path of love. Rules are important, but love comes first. If you don’t deeply love, you don’t have the authority to impose a rule. 

It’s not a Pollyanna view. She has buried two husbands – one when she was 27, one last year. She always believed that it was best to face things head on and to talk about them, truthfully, quietly and with grace. Hers has been a life of determined joyful gratitude. 

This is not an accident. 

It is a practiced pattern. 

So well-practiced, that she doesn’t forget it.

the hound of heaven returns

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Fear keeps me from you, my holy friend 
Not fear of you but fear of you seeing me, knowing me
Fear of your disappointment and your deep sigh
Fear of the recognition of myself within your eyes
Ashamed and sad.

How can I flee the love that would bring me to life?
Why turn my heart from dear embrace?
Like a small child, covering my eyes so you can’t see me
I plug my ears and hum, forgetting that every molecule is sourced by you. 

Oh, hound of heaven, chase me down
Until I turn at last to find you dancing in delight
Until you lick my face in joy
Willing, again, to humble yourself in incarnation
Whatever form it takes to free my love.

image from flickr by Elizabeth per cc 2.0

December Blessings

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I receive the blessings of December
•	Deep cold and warm sun, scattered across my days 
•	Baking cookies with my mom and sisters 
•	A fire in the grate and the warmth of family beside it
•	The true gifts of presence – of hugs and smiles and openhanded generosity 

And offer this blessing in response
•	May your heart receive the gifts that come your way with joy. 
•	May you spill your own gifts into the world with abandon - and there find even deeper joy.