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.
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.
… 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.
Quiet Hope 