Category Archives: niggling quandaries

those mind-worms that eat my mind and sometimes feed my soul

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

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

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

To fix … or to bless

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morning 2.jpg

Too often I start my day
With a list of things to do …
Or to do better.

I wake to ‘the first day
Of the rest of my life,’
And immediately try to remake it
In the shadow of yesterday’s errors.

I thrum my soul
With guilt or regret
For what was done poorly
Or not done at all.

I look to the future
But the windows are coated
With a film
Of leftover shoulds.

Guilt, you know,
Is really a poor motivator,
Though it is often the whip
Of first resort.

What if,
Instead of trying to fix,
I could learn to bless?

What if I could learn
To focus on the beauty,
Rather than the flaws?

What if I could wake
With a heart that is grateful
And hopeful
And full of blessing?

Now, there’s an idea.
Maybe I should fix that flaw …
Maybe I should add ‘gratitude’
To my list of things to do better.

AAAUGH! Another should!
But it makes me chuckle
And that might just be enough
To break the spell.

Satan is the Hebrew word
For ‘the accuser.’
True for me.

Today, at least,
I leave his curse behind.
And enter this day
With the blessing of beauty.

And I am grateful.

morning.jpg

[photo is by James Walsh per cc 2.0]

learning to dance

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dance steps.jpg

It’s such a silly dance I dance,
Trying to decide if its you or me
Who takes each step, within the flow.
So, thinking too hard about the steps,
I stumble.

I forget that dancing is less about my feet,
And more about the music.
My focus, once again, awry.

Only, on occasion,
The beauty takes me from myself.
I find that I am whirling in your arms,
Alight with joy, full of you,
And … fully me.

I do not lose myself.
I loose myself,
When I turn my attention
From my feet
To your embrace.

Then, I find the music
And I can dance.

 

[photo by DrewToYou per cc 2.0]

a question for God

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Are you befuddled, like I am?
Were you caught off guard
By the once-again willfulness
Of these, (of us) your dear children?

Are you saddened by
Our angry rejection – each of the other
As we each try to be right enough
To gain your approval?

When will we wake up to the love
Already wrapped around our shoulders?

When will we learn to giggle together
Under the blanket of your grace?

giggling together

[photo by Christine Mahler per cc 2.0]

sit, sit, sit, sit …

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cat in the hat 2 3.jpg

Hands on the keys,
Head trying to focus,
I wait.

For too many days
I’ve let my eyes be distracted
By swirling circumstance.

My head is spinning.
I am befuddled.
The world is just not right.

But angst will not fix it
And consternation leads nowhere.
I think, ‘This just can’t be!’

But it is.
It is . . .
So, where are you?

‘Well,’ I think I hear you whisper,
‘Not in the eddies of befuddlement
That cloud your brain.’

‘Not in the tiny corners
Of consternation,
Or of fear.’

‘Not in any careful arrangement
Of concepts or creeds.
All those are too small.’

‘You will not catch me here or there.
You will not catch me . . .
anywhere.’

Are you now the Cat in the Hat,
Dancing amid the chaos of toys
Sent flying by Thing One and Two?

There is some truth in that story.
Some twinkle of sense
Amid the wry phrases.

And one of those twinkles
Lodges itself in my heart.
Stories catch the truth better than concepts.

Stories are grounded in life.
Stories don’t have to tell the truth for all time.
They just have to ring true in that particular embodiment.

‘But,’ I hear myself argue from the corner,
‘Isn’t truth true for all times and all places?
Why does it take a particular embodiment to show itself?’

‘Because its just that big,’ you whisper.
‘Its just that big. Its just that expansive.
You cannot hold it all.’

‘But where it touches your life,
You can glimpse its passing.
When it nods at you, you can nod in return.’

‘The trick, of course,
Is to get out of your head,
And into your life.’

‘Live your story
And keep an eye out for me.
You can’t miss me, if you are watching.’

‘The hat gives me away every time.’

 

[image cropped from photo by Daniel X. O’Neil per cc 2.0]

true

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those hands.jpg

It is the experience of God that holds us true,
That truly holds us.
Doctrine merely opens the door, if it, indeed, is true.

The closer we can get to clearing the dross from our preconceptions,
The clearer we can see.
But seeing is not enough.
It takes the deep embrace to truly know.

For me, it is a bit of a catch 22.
I try to clear my head, to make way for my heart.
Yet, my head is not up to this too-big challenge.
I must learn to lean into the embrace from the start.

And that may be the heart of faith,
The faith of the heart,
Learning to trust God’s embrace, rather than my own.
It is God who does the holding.

I cannot grasp; yet, I am held.
True.

[photo by Timothy K Hamilton per cc 2.0]

woe to you

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accusation.jpg

 “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith. It is these you ought to have practiced without neglecting the others. You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel!” – Matthew 23: 23-24

Woe to you, lawmakers.  You seek easy answers to hard problems and produce sound bites which trivialize our turmoil, placing blame and responsibility on anyone but yourselves.

Woe to you, self-righteous do-gooders, who make a show of what you give, who see money as the way to buy righteousness and avoid relationship.

Woe to you, silent watchers, who love to complain and lift not a finger to correct.

Woe to you, televangelists and false prophets.  You prey on the vulnerabilities of people who need God, offering them yourselves instead, and at a high price.

Woe to you, vain mirror-dwellers, who place all value in appearance and outward style and fail to reflect any inward substance, having none to offer.

Woe to you, spewers of religious fervor – all froth and uproar – and with no promise of peace, for peace belongs to the prince you do not serve.

and, that said,

Woe to me, filled with shiny plans and golden schemes, I leave undone the humble work before me.  Too easily, I drop a project when it first is marred by my inevitable mistakes, not willing to recognize those failings as innate to me.  So, dreams prevail but do not accomplish good for anyone but the dreamer.

To long for perfection on my own, to think that it is possible within myself to be perfect, is to usurp the place of God.

Woe to me. My particular risks and temptations are my own, sculpted from the clay I have wrested from God’s hands. I make a false self in a fancied image of goodness, as do all the woeful souls that shout and thrash around me.

Teach me to release myself, flawed and loved, into your hands.

Teach me that all other souls are there, beside me, held in those same loving hands.

 

[image edited from photo by M.V. Jantzen per cc 2.0]