Had I not stopped

Had I not stopped,
stood still and listened,
surveying the snowy hillside,
I would not have seen the four deer
quietly stand, sniff the breeze,
look at me
and placidly prance into the brush.

Had I not stopped,
stood still and listened,
and given in to peripheral distractions,
I would not have seen the golden-crowned kinglet
cautiously creeping out from the base of the oak,
flutter to a seed pod
protruding through the white-blanketed ground,
scrounge for winter morsels,
hopping from stump to stalk,
unconcerned with my still presence.

Just a brief winter hike.

What, in all of life’s busy race
through each day
have I missed
because I did not stop?
If I had stopped more,
stood still and listened,
what might I have seen and heard and known?

Perhaps,
there is still time.

(Watercolor by Angela Tracy
at the Hermitage)

The Bent-over Woman

Note: What follows is an example of modern Midrash, a story about a story that invites wondering and perhaps encountering THE STORY in a new way.
Read Luke 13:10-17

I am Annah, Bilhah, Calah, and Dedan.
I am Naomi, Ruth, Shiphrah, Tamar, and Zilpah.
I am every woman who has been bent-over, pushed down, suppressed, turned inward upon herself
from inner or outer origins that bind one up,
that bend one over
keeping one from experiencing the fullness of life,
and the freedom of possibilities that life can bring.

I call myself, Mara, that is “bitter”.

I had thought my life would be full of possibilities.
I had hopes that something grand was to unfold for me.
But oh, how surprising the twists and turns that come our way.

'They say' it is a spirit of evilness that has me in its grip.
It owns me. It possesses me and destroys the true spirit that is me.
I wonder if it is true that an evil spirit has invaded me, bending me over,
or is that which is called a spirit of evil is actually my own spirit
that has been crushed and pressed down so many times,
squeezing all that is good right out of my life.

'They say' I should stay away from the community, outside,
for fear that this spirit might affect others, be contagious.
And so I am bent-over, oppressed with the pain of being cast out
from relationships.
This condition makes me imperfect, unclean, unacceptable
in the great congregation.

Both my spirit and my body are cast down.
My eyes see only my imperfect feet and few steps
ahead where my feet may take me.
My heart is doubled over.
All my life’s possibilities seem a crumpled heap before me.

For 18 long years now….can it really be? Has it been that long
since I was able to look up
and see the sky?
to laugh, to smile?
to feel the sun’s radiance on my face?
to hear the bird’s song?
What was it that twisted life so?
Perhaps my crippled stance comes from years of tears
bent over in prayer for God’s help.

Did it begin with the end of my marriage 18 years ago?
Was it the abuse? the violence? the pain? the divorce?

Were those because of the devastation of the war?
Lack of work for my husband? little food? no security?

Was it the death of my baby? the spite of my sister whose
life seemed perfect? my son’s running away from home?

Perhaps it was that my brothers no longer felt any obligation
fro a sister cast off from their friend, my husband.

Was it a sense of powerlessness in the legal realms that offered no help
nor assistance to a divorced childless woman?
and no pity from the charity relief workers?
and no opportunity within our community to help myself?

Certainly one crippling blow was my father’s death,
who had managed to be some support after
mother’s illness and death. Now his secret help is gone as well.

Is this pain in my stomach, doubling me over,
caused by the deep grief over the poverty
of material goods and security?
or my poverty of spiritual goods and community?

These loses have hammered me, body and soul.
They force me to my knees over and over again.
I am not sure if my spirit is cast down, or cast out.
My spirit had been one of hope and life.
Now, this spirit, with me these long 18 years,
is an alien spirit within me.
I cannot stand straight any more.
I cannot look life, or neighbors, or myself in the face.
So empty, so powerless and hopeless am I.

Yet, yet,
the faith of my mother and father remains rooted
somewhere deep within as I hold on
like a shriveled leaf
that clings to spider’s web in the wind.
With my ancestors before me,
and even with the community that shuns me, I will still pray:
O Lord,
my heart is not lifted up,
my eyes are not raised to high,
I do not occupy myself with things too great
or marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul
like a weaned child with its mother;
My soul is like a weaned child
that is with me.
O my soul, hope in God,
from this time on and forever. (Psalm 131)

I had hoped for something, for someone,
for anything to free me from my bitter bondage.

My one remaining friend, who lives outside of town
in the caves of the lepers,
called to me her thanks for the meager meal
I shared with her.
The she asked me to go find the Rabbi who heals the sick.
She heard he was in town
and asked me to find out if it was true
that he had power to heal.

Ah, this was the same Rabbi that I heard was teaching that
“the poor in spirit would inherit God’s household”;
that “those who mourn would be blessed and comforted”;
that “those who were hungry for righteousness and justice
would be filled with satisfaction”.
Perhaps I could give this Rabbi my poor, downcast, alien spirit,
my tears of mourning, my hunger for goodness.

Perhaps this day, the Sabbath day, I will go and offer my weakness
to God and see what this Rabbi has to say, if he has power to heal.

Perhaps this Sabbath I may find rest for my crippled body and
bent spirit.

O my soul, hope in God.

Practicing Resurrection- Stones, Doors, and Fish

(reflection of the accounts from Gospel of John 20-21)



Listen for what the Spirit is saying….

Like Mary, what stones
do I anticipate
and regard as immovable?
What stands in the way
of life
in the midst of uncertainty,
loss or grief?
Are there large and heavy
rock solid certainties
with in me that already
do not present a problem
but I chose to dwell on them-
anticipate them-
as barriers to experiencing
the fullness of life?
Do I look for the obstructions
or can I practice resurrection
moving with trust
that way will open…
every day.

Like followers huddled
in fear
behind locked doors,
cutting off ventilation and light,
what doors have I shut
for fear of what might enter?
What doors have I shut
out of fear
so no one else hears the
thoughts of my heart
or the wondering questions?
When have I believed
and acted more
in the reality of fear and death
than in the possibilities
and power of life?
When have doubts
diminished life by
squelching trust,
faith, and hope?

Like Peter and his pals,
when am I ready to
go backward instead
of forward;
back to the familiar
the comfortable,
the predictable
even if the results
may be empty?
And if the backward lure
proves bountiful
can I let it go for
what the Spirit is saying?

What do you love most?
stones? fear? boundaries?
community? uncertainty?
mystery? the past?
the Church? ministry?
friendship? success?
the backward glance?
even life itself?
“Do you love these more than me?”
Have these been the tools,
the gifts, that have led to Christ?
What is the first love that calls
for practicing resurrection?
Who or what am I looking for and seeing?
“Do you love me more than these?”

Mary and Thomas and Peter
and all, practiced resurrection,
practiced seeing and living in
the One they love most,
practiced the living presence of
God with them.

Listen for what the Spirit is still saying.

My New Pond

Nearly 3 years now,
a fissure, shift, stirrings
prodding change
watching summers come and go
migratory seasons
cleaning, speculating, refilling,
still uncertain
Occasions for learning, encouragement-
moments of dreaming, creating-
standing still, wandering, pondering-
Deciding.
Planning,
yet the pond remains intact
apart from the hairline reminder
that it no longer holds
the water for which it was made
and needs change.
Nothing to fix, only change will do.

This old pond was a first,
the only one ever shaped by hand,
by my hand.
Sentimental and slow to let go
of quick-crete.
Why such resistant for change?
Memories of shared life, of course;
all who passed and lingered,
who played and
grew up here together,
with me:
warblers, doves, tanagers, buntings,
hawks, owls,
frogs, snakes, and fish
racoons
the dogs and kids
having touched and drawn life
in this pond’s waters
making it a sacred space.

But,
its old ‘wine skins’ now.
Something is leaking, failing to hold.
It needs greater depth.

You have the plan
You have the wisdom
You have the skills
You have the materials
You have the encouragement
Now
gather the courage
take heart
make the break
stop holding back
hammer or chisel does not matter
let the separation be complete
let go of what it was
in order for the new to be.

Dig deeper for the wellspring,
tend the circulation line
add new layers,
let it bubble, pool, gurgle, retain,
attract, nurture, sustain
unconstrained by season
Function and foundation will remain.
A sacred space will not depart.
Reclaim the quick-crete
in heeding transition’s growth
and the collected precious stones,
algae covered rocks and the old stump.
Refashion an oasis for life;
augmenting depth
raising height
suiting surroundings.

Take heart and take the next step.
Break and build.
Let a new pond emerge.
It will be well.

December 26

The Feast of St. Stephen
 
Day after Christmas.
day after a holiday…
a feast day remembering the birth
            of one called holy,
            of one called ‘the true Light’,
            of one called ‘the Life’.
 
‘Boxing Day’, another day off
            in Canada.
Frenzy day of exchanges and sales
            of big spending in the US.
Day when the battle resumed
            for soldiers in WWI where
            (at least they took leave from
            killing one another for a day.)
 
Fighting and death take no holiday.
Children are born and die
            without regard to dates.
Holy scriptures tells of
            insane old King Herod’s
            massacre of the innocents
            in fear of ‘God-with-Us’.
A voice was heard in Ramah,
            Rachel weeping for her children
            that were not.
Some remember the
            St Stephen day murders;
            death after celebration of birth
 
Angel song of peace on earth,
            good will toward all
            with whom God is well pleased-
                        -ridiculous.
Earth proceeds living and dying,
            birthing and killing,
            creating and destroying.
The martyrdom of Stephen,
            stoned for believing
            in life, in one called, Jesus
falls this day,
            a day after the celebration of birth.
 
Paradox abounds.
Divine becomes human.
Life leads to death leads to life.
Spirit and flesh are one.
God births human and human births God.
Giving birth, taking life.
Dare we acknowledge this
“feast” of St. Stephen come
            on the heels of Christmas?
                        Dare we not?
 
May we find the grace born
            within that we might
            live, together, in peace.

Always Some New Delight

September 2009

 
I know this pathway, having
marked its beginning,
cleared brush,
trampled fern,
widened and pruned passage.
I know its distance
and have watched its woodland grow
through changing seasons.
I know this pathway
yet still it
catches me unaware.
 
Adorned as if
commemorating
some grand festivity,
like miniature balloons
and graffiti
strewn in celebration,
the mushroom families
threw a surprise party
inviting a share in
their joy:
  tiny, tenuous red caps,
  fat stalked white torpedoes,
  wide roofed browns and spotted
  burgundy toadstools,
  sheltering wouldbe gnome and fairy celebrants;
  brilliant yellow clusters,
  bunches of fluted gelatinous cones,
  creamy, coffee, caramel, and
  chocolate dyed sprouts
  akin to ocean’s forested sponge and coral,
  anemones surfacing together,
soft firmness pushing through
hard packed footfall and
mossy mantles
joining in the great parade of life
for their brief moment to offer their
gift of being.

  
Was this a planned affair
of perfect timing
invitations sent to
unknown recipients?
or simply serendipitous eruption of
season, temperature, moisture,
and light?  All things together
in the right now
exploding in merriment?
For whom this exhibition? For what purpose
all these colors, sizes and textures?
Why this almost arrogant display of
fungicidal frivolity that
fades within few days?
 
We three are all who see
the grand exposition;
2 frequent walkers and
an oblivious, dancing, prancing
retriever delighting just to be.
Might there be other unseen
delighters in this festive fete?
I know this pathway having
walked here a thousand times yet
never before quite arrayed like today.
 
May the surprises of the journey
always hold some new delight.
In the assumptions of knowing,
may mysteries open spaces
for wonder and amazement,
gratitude and grace.

Almost Time (Cardinal Wisdom)

She waits
peacefully, silently.
They found and
built the nesting place
together, but
the incubation is her task.
It was her task to
bear the eggs,
to warm and watch,
to wait.
Nestled upon fragments,
woven sticks and leaves,
held secure by branched support,
beneath the canopy
of the Japenese Maple’s red leaves,
she remains hidden and at rest.
Shaded from the sun’s heat
and sheltered from hard rains
she waits.
Peaceful.  Silent,
yet alert to every
sound and movement.
She listens and
pays attention.
Always her mate is near.
Always his nearby song
reassures her she is not alone.
From his own hidden places
he calls to her
and she hears.
He comes to her,
she need not move.
He feeds her and retreats
only to come again and again,
in song,
gently, carefully,
offering food for sustaining,
keeping watch over his
mate and brood
day by day until
it is time.
And then…
 
Come, mate of my soul
and feed me as we wait together.
Protect me with your vigilance
for the time is coming near when
outer shells must crack open
for new life, new flight.