a prophetic voice-

Once again it comes, the celebration of the Incarnation… the coming of Divinity into our human world… the Manifestation of holiness in human flesh. infinity…divinity Infinity hides in plain sight. Every leaf, every blade of grass Holds a trace of, Is a cradle for, the Divine. Divinity enters life daily, Incarnate in each newborn Child, in every written word, In every celebrating note. The Sublime Holy enters At the edge of every day And dwells within the Shape of dailiness, hidden But accessible, awaiting Only a flicker of awareness To fully spring to life, To add depth & color & meaning To the everyday drabness of Routine, of living dulled by Trouble’s weight, by sorrow’s Care, by anxiety’s dark & heavy Presence. And as the celebration of Incarnation comes once more, As we prepare to kneel again at Infinity’s rough cradle, May we hear amidst the Clash of arms, the cries of pain, The wails of agony for broken dreams, The distant so

   Sometimes, sitting and thinking is about all I can force myself to do, especially on a day like today has turned out to be- sun-filled and warming and bright and blue, the grass bright green from three days of much- needed rain which nevertheless gave me the blues. I want to be creative, want beautiful words to emerge from my l atent poet’s heart, want to put loveliness and hope and wonder out there into a world which seems to need them all so much. I want to feel useful, to have a sense of having accomplished some thing with this April Wednesday. But, you see, I am still in the doldrums…still lost in the wilderness…still wandering in a spiritual desert- though I have been here before, so there is a certain familiarity to it. Doesn’t make it any easier, though, this sense of lostness…in spite of the déjà vu quality per- vading it. Wandering in the wilderness is never, ever easy.    Just ask my wandering Hebrew forebears, the ones who spent forty years lost, without

   Spent a few hours at one of my favorite places this morning, writing. For some reason, my creativity seems to find expression when I am away from home, away from the familiar places I usually inhabit. And, with pen in hand- yes, I actually put pen to paper, rather than using a computer for creative writing- I put my feelings down, surprising myself, as usual, with the results, as I bounced all over the place emotionally. And so, I' m daring to share them with you, always a risk for a writer, a poet...(deep sigh, gulp, share...) the wren singing at the top of its voice each morning tiny wren mighty voice daring to sing     its own sweet song welcoming the day daring to be freely,     fully itself no holding back no second guessing warbling an invitation to this often-reluctant human- be yourself! lift your voice! be daring! make the most of it, no matter what what baggage am I STILL carrying? You would think, at age 75, that

   I think NYC gets a bad rap- and I don't know  why. So often when I hear folks in North Carolina- and elsewhere- talk about New  York, they refer to it as unfriendly, the people  as pushy and impatient- and perhaps some  are. But those are not the folks I have been  encountering on these 9 days so far in  the Big Apple. On every subway ride, I have b een offered a seat by someone younger  than myself, that seat generously given  with a smiling response to my expressed thanks. Doors  are held open, with one young man even apologizing w hen he failed to notice me and hold the door.     When I smile- as I do often- people smile back.  When I make a comment or ask a question,  I receive a friendly response. Today, I  had four lovely conversations- no, five- with a young woman  at the bagel shop, caring for her 6-month-old nephew  while her sister is in the hospital;  with a tall, handsome young man at the table to my left , eating a beautiful salad, when what he really wanted, he s

"... the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day."  So sings Dr. Seuss,  celebrating the truth  of a life lived fully  with arms open wide,  of having a feeling  deep down inside  that something is coming.  Something lovely and grand.  Something just waiting to take hold     of my hand.  Something to whisper into    my listening ear,  "This is It! So say yes.  Say yes without fear. " It's coming. I know it.  I just don't know what,  but I'll know when it gets here,  right down in my gut And I'll shout and I'll dance  and I'll give all I've got,  Because this is called LIVING,      Believe it or not. 

I haven't been writing very much lately. Well, actually, I haven't been writing at all. Words which make sense just won't come. In fact, words a nd ideas tumble over one another in my brain like those little balls in a bingo cage. Unlike in that handy little mechanism, however, one ball doesn't drop, but several, sometimes many. Ideas which conflict; emotions which confuse: for all of which I seem to find no adequate expression in words. There are days when I cannot, absolutely cannot, watch the news, listen to the talking heads. There are other days when I immerse myself in it all, trying to watch and listen to conflicting sides, to be as fair as I can be in personal news-gathering. But I remain in the dark, stuck in a quagmire of muck and mud and misinformation, uncertain if what I'm hearing is really what I'm hearing, unsure if I have taken leave of my already-battered senses and have truly fallen down the rabbit hole into a kind of whack