Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Getting Home...the Long Way

   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 latent 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 something 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 any roadmap or GPS or guidance other
than that offered by a wild-eyed prophet named Moses who was
convinced that his God, their God, was leading him and them to a
place of hope and home- if only they would follow the Divine
directions. It took them a long time- the afore-mentioned forty
years- and many wrong turns and detours and misadventures,
notably one centered around a certain golden calf, a god of their
own making, but finally, finally, these ancient sisters and brothers
stopped griping and complaining and kvetching long enough to
hear- and heed- the very voice of God rather than to rely on their
own self-centeredness and human certainty and hubris. And the
result? The Promised Land- God being as good as God’s own
word, offering on-going guidance and redemption and a home-
coming welcome.
    Perhaps there is a message for me in all this. After all, this is
where my creative impulse (God at work in me, after all) has led
me on this lovely afternoon, marked by the thwop-thwop of the
rescue helicopter landing at nearby High Point Regional Hospital…
by the throng of lovely young people running past my porch as
part of their track-team workout…by the noise of numerous lawn
mowers making the air redolent with the sound and scent of new-
mown grass. Perhaps this wilderness in which I have been finding
myself is part of the necessary journey to get to the Promised
Land of new writing and creativity and purpose. And perhaps I
have been lingering here because I have been creating my own
gods of sadness and discouragement and hopelessness and self-
pity in order to give me some justification for wallowing, for
kvetching, for more than a little bit of “oh, woe is me”, along with
those long-ago Hebrews kinspeople.
    All around me in my lovely old neighborhood are signs of life…
beautiful, glorious, springing-into-being life. Flowers blooming,
grass (and weeds) growing, birds nesting, squirrels scolding, kids
laughing, dogs barking. Cars go by, driven by other human beings
going about the business of living their lives. A breeze is ruffling
the leaves on the bushes beside my porch. And somehow,  it all
feels right and good and hopeful. I think my journey, my
wandering in the wilderness, may be over for now and I’m finding
myself at home, blessedly at home.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Maundy Thursday Musings...


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
there would be no more baggage

weighing me down. That the skin in
which I live would be wholly, fully

my own- comfortable, welcome,
fitting well, if a bit sagging and

droopy in places. But sometimes,
a heaviness descends, the dark,

shadowy burden of regret- words said
or unsaid, things done or left undone, a

whole plethora of should-haves, why-
didn't-I, why did I, I wish I had,

as if life offered a do-over and
each day lived were not a day fully gone,

never to return. But, at age 75,
I try to put the baggage down, at

least once in a while. Try to move
away from its overwhelming weight

and dance free in the sunlight of a
new and glorious day, content

to leave the past far behind me, for
the time being, so I can relish and

savor the NOW.

Psalm of thanksgiving
I give thanks, O Grace-Filled One,
   for this new day,
   for flowering trees, for
   singing birds, for
   caring friends, for being here.
I give thanks, O Keeper of Lost Causes,
   for cancer healing,
   for helping hands reaching beyond our borders,
   for the kindness of strangers, for the
   abundant love of friends, for this moment.
I give thanks, O Light of Lights,
   for courageous ones shining light
   into dark places, for those who dare
   to speak hard truths, for all who stand
   and sing and march for justice, for peace.
I give thanks, O Mother of All Creation,
   for sisters and brothers in many places of
   many races, whose faces reflect your own,
   for those with whom I agree and those
   whose disagreement challenges me to listen,
   to open myself, to see and hear with integrity.
I give thanks, O Wisdom,
   for books and teachers, for libraries and
   librarians, for schools and universities, for wise
   and courageous elders, for compassionate leaders
   working for justice, for the gifts of intellect
   and discernment, for love.
I give thanks, O God Beyond My Understanding,
   for life- this life- this day- this hour- this moment. 

living well
"How, then, shall I live?"
A question for the Holy One,
whose name this day is God,
but tomorrow might be Light or Flame or Wisdom.
"How, then, shall I live for
these remaining years whose number I do not know?"

"O, child, why do you ask? The answer
lives inside your heart, your mind- within the deepest
place wherein dwells your fullest self,
         wherein my Spirit dwells. The answer is to live.
   Live fully, each day filled with meaning.
   Live gently, each day filled with compassion.
   Live kindly, each day filled with love.
   Live bravely, each day filled with daring.
   Live broadly, each day filled with laughter.
   Live reverently, each day filled with thanks.
And then, when you reach that day of days
which marks your earthly end,
you'll live yourself into my arms, my light, my heart
But for now, dear child of mine,
                                  just live."

just wondering...
Who is God-
     and where and why?
How is God-
     the whys and wherefores
     of divinity the stuff of
     deep theology- or lightest whimsy...
                           or intriguing mystery.
Only one answer comes to me on this glorious, shining,
blue-skied day.
God/Life/Live is all...the
in, with, and under of existence...
the Holy Ground on which I stand.
     And for today, that is answer enough.

A friend has shared with me her sorrow-
   another friend of hers is dying,
   is very near the end of this earthly trek-
   and my friend is bereft, torn apart by sadness,
   already feeling the emptiness this departing soul will leave
   within her heart and life.
And all I could do that day was
   give a hug- long and deep and warm and
   comforting, I hope...a sign of my shared love
   tinged by the awareness of our intermingled humanity.
              I hope it was enough.

A friend has shared with me her sorrow-
   at the death of a beloved friend,
   a brother of the heart and soul, with family left behind
   to grieve, to feel the very precious loss his absence
   will impart to their lives each day.
And all I could do that day was
   send an electronic message,
   the miles separating us rendering hugs impossible
   but I hope a sign to her of my love, my condolence and
   support, an awareness of our intermingled humanity.
             I hope it was enough.

My son has shared with me his sorrow-
   problems with his stepson which go far beyond
   the usual teen-age stuff, and my son is bereft,
   filled with sadness and a sense of powerlessness
   in the face of a situation far beyond his control.
And all I could do that day was
   listen to his dear voice on the phone, hear the pain
   and sorrow, the anger and frustration...share with him my
  comfort and support and never-ending love, so aware
  as I was of our intermingled humanity.
            I hope it was enough.

                                        Is is ever enough?
How long?
My heart cries out.
My heart cries out in pain.
My heart cries out in pain, O God,
        when I see the photos of the children of Syria
        when I read the stories of immigrants drowned
           in the Mediterranean
        when I hear the news of missiles fired or
           churches bombed.
How long, O Lord,
How long?

My heart cries out.
My heart cries out in pain.
My heart cries out in pain, O God.
        when I learn of young black men shot by police
        when I read parts of this nation's history so long
           denigrated and denied
        when I hear of government plans to deny rights
           to deserving and needy groups of people, my
           own sisters and brothers.
How long, O Lord,
How long?

My heart cries out.
My heart cries out in pain.
My heart cries out in pain, O God.
        when I hear of hungry children in our local schools
        when I see homeless veterans on the streets of our cities
        when I watch my tax dollars being spent unjustly
           while helpful and positive and life-affirming programs
           go unfunded
How long, O Lord,
How long?

My heart cries out.
My heart cries out in pain.
My heart cries out in pain, O God.
                         How long?