Leap of Faith

"It's time for a leap of faith," he says,
without knowing that
today is a day when
every single step is
a leap of faith.

Every breath is drawn in faith
every heartbeat echoes with faith
every blink, every touch
every tear.
falls, in faith.

lunar eclipse, december 21, 2010

We could have slept
right through the solstice miracle
but we set the alarm
and woke up at 2:29.
It was winter cold and the clouds
were flying, blowing, blocking
the light of the diminishing moon.
We were not particularly impressed.
And then the sky cleared.

I learned that diminishing can be lovely.
Shadows can define.
Brightness is not everything.
Loss is gain.

The moon is not flat as we see it.
It is round, and full,
on the longest night of the year.

And the stars looked brilliant,
as if they were happy to be free
from having to live up
to someone else's expectations.

Heaven's Floorboards

The bare tree sways, and it moans,
pulls at my heart. It's like an unoiled door,
or more like the ancient floors of
grandma's house,
like unavoidable step on the staircase to
her bedroom.
In the dark, windy backyard
I hear the sound of God's footsteps.

sons

Bits of me, bits of you
join with bits of heaven never seen before
in our two sons,
the ones
we love as life itself.
He’s strong, he’s kind.
He’s brave. His mind is filled
with dreams which mirror
yours or mine.
But his dreams are new to him.
God drew to him
our hearts,
our bodies,
our lives,
our boys. Our joys.

Sanctuary

My heart and mind are blown with winds
of chaos. And the storm begins
to batter deeper yet, my soul.
Oh, peace of God! Come make me whole!

The air is full of noise and strife—
the makings of our earthly life.
Those forces drain and then they kill
my dreams. And make me lose my will.

I woke today with thoughts and plans
of what I’d do for God. I can
not hold intentions in the flood
of wild creatures without words.

I draw alone into Your room.
The nourishment of Spirit’s womb
revives me and awakens deep-
held convictions from their sleep.

This sanctuary of Your House
holds me gentle as my mother’s arms
when I was yet a tiny babe.
You led me here. And I will stay

until You say it’s time to go.
Then You’ll leave with me. That I know.

circa 2000

Exercise

In 1999 the writers group I was a part of at the time joined together for a writing exercise. We were given a fortune cookie phrase, and asked to elaborate. Here's what I was given, and what I gave back:

“Depart not from the path which fate has you assigned.”

The path has always been a long one, and I knew from the beginning that however far I walked, I would die without seeing the end of it. My feet, nevertheless, were wings, and words my playmates in those early years. I traveled the path, and waved to those I saw along the way. They smiled and waved back, their lips moving with unheard words. Unheard because I was singing too loudly. “This is my way! I know it!” I sang to the birds.

No path to anywhere real is all straight, or all easy, and I learned to know the clouds by name as I gazed up at their dark, full bellies. There is Distraction, there is Hunger, There is Despair. Many a morning I awoke wet and cold and stiff, but the way lay wide open before me. I picked up my dull mind and plodded on.

Now for some years, I have danced in the meadows, cried in the branches of the trees, picnicked in the grass, and looked at the dirt on my feet and wondered how long it would take until my memory of the journey simply faded into the yellow pages on my notebook.

I’ve imagined myself satisfied, paralyzed, mystified, but nothing I imagine can take away the longing to put my feet in motion again. It’s time to walk, again, old woman. Walk until you fly.

To my neighbor who is probably dying

Bill next door
told me that the man I see walking
is walking toward death’s door.
Cancer.
of the esophagus.
He no longer speaks or eats,
but he speaks with his eyes,
and eats up the things he sees
as he walks through the neighborhood, memorizing
his life here. Dreaming of his next one.
The man who is walking and dying
has grown thin this year.
But see how straight he stands,
and how bright
shine his eyes
even through the misty rain this evening.
It’s like the hollows around his eyes are the receding night
and the light in his eyes are the sun rising.
He knows things I want to know.
What it feels like to be letting go
of one’s body,
and taking hold of God’s hand.
He smiles more now than
he did before he grew ill.
What kind of magic does that?
He knows things I want to know.

Tuesday, Late Afternoon

Waking them up is a possibility,
those two young boys
stretched wide on bed and blanket on the floor.
Is the silence too full for me any more?
Missing them? That can’t be it.
I had eight hours of a wet cloudy day
with them before we all fell asleep.
Now I’m awake, but immobilized by dreams
that are not sleeping dreams.
They’re life dreams.
Of what ought to be,
could be,
might have been.
Dreaming isn’t changing anything.
My heart races with a need to change something.
So I will let my children sleep
and try to rouse myself.

His Trembling Hands

My father’s hands are purple
and shake like
birds hiding in a bush.
Why are you hiding
from us, Daddy?
When the doctor told you
he was nearly certain
your hands signed the
coming of days worse than this--
you would not have told us.
But Mother shook the bush
and your hands told
my brothers and me
that the list was growing
longer. Your heart, by-passed,
kidney removed,
blood too sweet,
and now your trembling hands.
I don’t wish you gone, but
it is painful to think of you
going this way.
If I hold your fingers in mine,
can we together ward off
the fear, or will I start to
tremble, too, with you?


(written several years ago after Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's. He is presently in a nursing care facilty, with little hope of ever getting home again.)

Sons and Daughters

We’ve created something--
this is called procreation.
These children dance upon our beds,
upon our dreams,
and around and around our days and nights.
I wonder what it means to
“raise ‘em right”.
We wake up every morning
with their voices in our ears,
their crumbs on our chairs,
and their names on our hearts.
No one will love them as we do.
No one will love us as they do.
These children of ours
recreate us.

Candle's Song

You and I
sat in the shadows of the shining flame,
speaking of visions and sleepy night dreams.
Candle sparks lighted the side of your face.
Silence was only in our minds,
far from the life in our eyes, as we leaned forward.

Voices stopped dancing. The moment’s break sang
a soft splash of candle wax onto the floor.

(circa 1982)

Go Gently

My heart pounds, I feel
the tension in my shoulders, I bear
the weight of the night,
but the world begins to whisper,
Go gently through this day.

The low clouds drifting past
the sunrise, the whirring wings of
the morning doves who fly
and the quiet calm of the one who doesn't, the
soft brown, smooth shell of the chicken egg, the
way the sun evaporates the cold, the
chickadee and the titmouse dancing
in celebration of the once-again
full feeder, the way the
corners of my mouth have fallen down
as of late, all say to me
Go gently through this day.

The dry leaves, lying dead and beautiful
on the lawn, the memory of
soup steaming on the stove, the memory of
your laughter, the memory of it all
says peace. peace.
Go gently through this day.

10.19.2010

Otherwise

On a Friday that’s not a payday
the otherwise friendly mail carrier
delivers the bill from the Rehab Hospital.
I read it, with only partial understanding
of my benefits and liabilities,
as I wait for the plumber with
a too well developed sense of humor
to come and clear the clog
in my otherwise fine kitchen sink.
Dark clouds fill the sky’s stage
and I let clouds darken my mind
with worries about tomorrow
on this otherwise peaceful today.
Thunder rolls, and the sky spends
some time talking to itself.
Rain falls, faster, faster
a lovely light percussion
as steady as the sea. I watch
it fall in sheets, with rhythm
like waves. And waves of gratitude
pound in my heart. I would not
trade away this modest shelter
with a safe roof for
a mansion with no open porch.
I had forgotten I am rich.

5-7-04

Pink Tree

What is your song,
you, tree,
who dripping pink with blossoms, wave
your branches to me
through my dirty little window?

Are you singing?
Do I hear you saying
I am also
pink and flowery, as you,
though the ones
who know I am
are few?

Dancing with Grief

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Without Gravity

I want to sleep without gravity
it would be like dancing
on the clouds
with the moonlight as my partner
I could move, I could swing,
it would all be smooth and cool and
everything would be comfortable.

I want to dance without gravity,
it would be like sleeping
and dreaming I was flying
with the stars
never tiring, never stopping
never waking.

The Return of the Tiger

He is nearly seven, but my mind holds clear
the memory of when I offered him the tiger,
the striped, stuffed beast, almost
shiny in its newness.
It had been a birthday gift to me, but
when my son was seven months old,
I handed him the toy.
Tonight Alexander Jon handed him back.
Tiger is aged and flattened and
deformed from passionate clinging.
His nose is rubbed raw, and his eyes
are scratched, his whiskers have
been gone for years.
Do all the dreams from a sleeping child’s head
drip into the tiger-pillow which lays under him
for hundreds of nights?
I shall sleep with Tiger tonight, and
see if my suddenly old woman’s mind
finds a dream to fill the emptiness that’s left
when a baby becomes a boy, and a
boy somehow tells his mother that he
shall become a man.

the peach

To smell the peach
I must inhale,
bring in the scent
on living air.
When I exhale,
I do not smell a
thing. My memory
of the sweetness
makes me desperate
for one more breath.
I keep breathing.
I keep living.

6-13-04

birthday

I am a vain, middle-aged woman
who delights to hear surprise and
denial when at her 45th birthday
party, those who don’t know her well,
and those who, indeed, hardly look,
protest the sum of my years.
Impossible, they say,
that you have lived that long.
And inside I am shaken to the bone
to think I may live again
this many years.

My only comfort is that
they fly. The years do fly.

2007

prayer

Break my heart,
oh, God,
and piece it together
in such a way
that
the puzzle of it
shall never fall apart
again.

Waiting For Morning

The door and window were closed
at midnight so now the air is stale and warm.
Out of a dream of green and dogs
I waken. I pray for stars
as I step from the casita.
They are there, the stars,
but the Big Dipper, pouring
grace, is nowhere to be found.
I step into the grass
and squat upon the ground, then
make a stream of
last evening’s sweet wine
that let me sleep but
now has left me
wide awake.
Will the stars ever speak to me of
such love again?
Knowing that the door of
the morning leads me
both home and away from home,
I’m ready to step through it.
But morning in Abiquiu
is yet hours away.
Leaving the door wide open
I crawl back into bed
with a head
full of questions.
The handkerchief is out of reach
and my fingers search
the bags and bottles on the shelf.
My ribs press hard against
the wooden rib of the bed frame.
My fingers find cotton softness
And I blow—to blow away
the fears and doubts of a turning point.
I lay the crumpled white hankie
like a white, holy flower
on the altar of the windowsill,
my body cools
while
my heart burns.

(August 1999)

light

Why do the insects swarm to the light?
Does some inaudible voice
call to them as the sun sets,
as the cool sets in?
Do they gather because the
night is filled with emptiness,
because they imagine predators
beyond the boundaries of the
glowing porch light?
Does the music of their wings
demand they find partners
for the dance?
Or do they sense, in their tiny,
nearly brainless frames, that
life is too short to spend it
in the darkness?

There is No Silence

There is no silence deep enough
to bury a mother from the glaring
light of involuntary love
so completely
that when the firstborn cries,
she can imagine it was
only the wind outside
the window of her heart.

No, even in what could be called silence
she hears his voice in the
movement of the air in a winter-stale house.
She strains her eyes in the darkness
to see the light of his dreams.

There is no silence long enough
to soothe a mother into
healing sleep after
day-long bleeding out her love.
And when the baby stirs,
she runs to the cradle
to cover him with her warm, dripping life,
as she gives again
more than she possesses.

There is no silence.
No, none.

Heat

The heat today was like a stone
which had set under a week of suns.

This stone lay under my pillow,
putting in my head pictures of
long ago Junes spent
hopscotching down cracked sidewalks
and skating on scalding blacktop.

The rain came tonight, and
felt like the tears cried over
skinned knees and broken
pieces of white, dusty chalk.

heartbeat

Have you ever held
a wounded bird in your hand
and felt its heart
beating against your pulse,
racing the moments,
heart flying though its wings cannot?
I am a bird, afraid of flight,
looking for courage in the clouds overhead.
How can a creature forget to breathe?
But I do forget for long moments.
Then gasping, I face the
wind head on, waiting for it to lift me.
Hold me in your hands.
Feel my heart beating against your pulse.
Hold me to the wind and
whisper in my ear.
Fly, fly, love, fly.

The Secret

There is a secret I haven’t heard yet

But I will recognize it when I hear it.

The sound waves of belief will reveal

The face of truth, the anonymous, timeless

Hidden reality of “Who”

I may be blind, but I can hear

The echoes in the hallway. The feet are beautiful

And I tell the Who to walk into my center.

The Family Tree

We bought the house

next to the one my

great-grandfather built.

Property lines have been created

since the farm was sub-divided, so

in my backyard stands the ninety-year-old

white pine he planted when

his children were as small as

mine are now.

My sons cannot reach the lowest branch.

I wonder if they can see the highest?

An ice storm glazed the tree and

all its needles,

Weight strained against its strength and

then cracked a limb,

broke it off at the trunk, and

down it crashed across the alley.

My sons dance around the fallen

arm of the tree as

Great-Grandfather’s children may have

danced around the sapling one May.

It smelled like life, green and piney,

but isn’t it death?

Bleeding from its wounds?

Saw in hand, I walked to the still

beautiful green thing and,

failing to move the whole,

hacked away at the parts until

I could drag the main limb

off the road.

My feet were soaked, my hands sticky

with the remembrance of a

man I never knew.

Mountains, Water, Birds

Mountains of rock

crash into the sea.

Your shoulders are

the new mountains to me.

Water spreads wide

as far as I can see.

Your eyes are all the

world’s oceans to me.

Birds lift their wings

and soar away free.

Your smiles are the

wild eagles to me.

Sunshine dances

on the mountains,

shines on the sea,

warms the flying things,

like your love

which

gives life to me.

11-12-98

Jigsaw

The card table stands in the

center of her room, puzzle pieces scattered over

like pebbles thrown at the sand.

The border is finished, the edges are

holding together, but big holes

gape, mocking her.

Grandma turned ninety-six last month.

The winter’s snows are lovely to her. But

in her eyes and in the words she doesn’t say

I sense the puzzlement

of too long a season

in one place.

She sits as though crippled,

staring at the mystery

beyond the jigsaw.

Once she put two pieces together

but she could not believe

they fit. I hear her saying

nothing fits anymore.

This body is too small.

The shadows are long and dark

and she wants only to

sleep in the bed

Jesus has made for her.

My heart is full of questions.

I wish she could tell me answers.

But I hold my tongue and

wish I could hold her hand.

Then I slip another piece in place

for Grandma.

tuesday morning

sound sleeping
greeted by sunrising
awakened by chilly
dew. black bird
cawing
from high dead tree.
hot shower.
hot coffee.
and just a little
poetry.

a beggar

Yes, I am a beggar, too,

though I don’t stand as they do

at the corner in the morning, looking

for an open purse

from which a dime or quarter falls.

I stand in shadows of my own,

awaiting your response to

the silent cries

my heart hears echoes of.

There is no bottle hidden in

the bag I carry close,

no empty cans or apple cores

or things from sidewalks gatherd.

But I walk the same path every day,

and all that really matters is

will the sun shine light into my darkness?

He and I? We are the same.

Yes, I’m a beggar too,

with a different name.

Cain and Abel

Brothers formed from perfectly created parents. Adam and Eve lay together and made these boys. God surely smiled when the babies were born. At what point did His smile fade? Was it the first time Abel pulled on Cain's hair in the his attempt to stand upright? Was it the first time Cain bared his teeth and with them scarred his brother's back? Was it the first night when Eve cried herself to sleep because these two boys she loved with all her heart found it hard to love each other?

How many times did God stay the hand of brother against brother, preserving their lives against the wrath, the jealousy, the fury?

When Cain finally killed Abel for real, it was the realization of all his violent dreams, all his darkest longings. Was it because God finally wearied of protecting brother from brother?

Believing

There are things I believe.
There are things I want to believe.
There are things I used to believe and
things I simply cannot believe.
There are things I'm pretty sure I believe
but things happen which make me wonder.
There are things I believe with my head
but not with my heart,
and visa versa.
There are things I talk myself into believing.
Or out of.
And there's a world of things that other people believe.
What does God believe?

Falling

Life is the sun coming up,
the birds flashing wings at the feeders
and crumbs on the placemats.
Life is a smile, an embrace,
the chords of a guitar up the stairwell
and bugs in the shower.
Life is eating and drinking, drinking
and being merry and weeping,
remembering and trying to forget
and forgetting and holding on.
Its the snowfall, and the leaves falling
and my heart falling when
I tell you goodbye.

Joshua Farm, an urban farm

Unlikely borders,
chain link fences
surround the garden.

Eggplant, tomato, potato,
herbs and onions thrive,
are alive in the dirt
in the city. Gritty workgloves
shared by novice farmers
stroke the soil, massage stalks
as the harvest nearly falls
into our hands.

God grows stuff everywhere.

The Last Hour of Sleep

After letting the dog out and
standing for a few moments in the cold air and
wet grass under a fresh August sky
the pillow feels even more welcoming,
the sheets more like my own skin
as I crawl back in.
Dreams have run their course and so
the last hour of sleep is
truly void of consciousness.
Full of restfulness.
Acceptance of another day.

Perspective

When I saw them
white, many, light, lithe,
i called them
beautiful, bright, divine.

When I saw their eggs
black, uncountable, menacing,
I called them
unwanted, evil.

When I saw the leaves
eaten, lacey, holey,
I called you.

Beauty is fickle.
Vegetables are fragile.
We are in this life together.

Twenty-six

One man. One woman.
Three apartments. One townhouse. Two houses. All home.
One trip to England. One trip to Mexico.
Ten thousand miles on the turnpike.
Nine vehicles and innumberable oil changes.
Three washing machines, and just as many refrigerators.
Two sons. Immeasurable laughter. Several dozen sleepless nights.
One million kisses. Two million hugs.
Seventy thousand knowing smiles.

Twenty-six years, and
I'm still
counting on your love.

Imposter

It was an August day incognito.
I joined the charade and laid
prone
in the hammock my husband hung
in the heat of July.
Swung
with eyes closed
and the sun didn't even
warm my skin.
Sunk in to a dream of a different day.
The way the clouds blew across the sky
was a lie. It said, I am October.
The birds turned their heads
unwillingly,
prematurely to the South.

Presumption

Pardon, me, Mother,
I know I am asking too much.
You're tired. Worn out.
You have nourished us for months, and satisfied us
with all good things.
But I'm presuming now on your good graces.
Asking for more from your secret places.
The end of the summer has come.
I stroke you with my hoe.
Wound you with my spade.
And pray for a full fall harvest.

Ways She is Not Gone

How is she not gone? Let me count the ways.

Well. Perhaps tomorrow I will say
One. I see the flowers she planted twenty-five years ago just down the road.
Two. Her phone number still flies off my fingertips.
Three. Her picture is my desktop background.
Four. The friends she introduced me to still remember me.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight....

But tonight, I cannot get past zero.

For all who grieve

You have heard it said. Consider the lilies.
But I say to you
consider the potato.

Two months ago I dug deep holes in the earth
and planted split, old, inedible potato pieces
into the garden in the appointed rows.

Today I went to the garden to grieve.
Sixteen days ago we buried Aunt Grace.
On the hill. Where I knew she would eventually go.

The weeds had sprung up,
the potato stalks were shriveled and tired.
I ripped at the weeds. Angry at their insolence.

And then one stalk bore witness to a miracle yet unseen.
The tiniest potato clung to the roots uprooted.
A minute promise.

With spade in hand and hope in heart,
I dug. Carefully. Gently.

Where I had planted half a potato I counted twelve.
Beautiful. Whole. Perfect.

I went to the garden to grieve.
And left rejoicing.

Neglected Garden

Between the heat,
the rain,
and a lethargy that accompanies loss,
the garden has been neglected.
The weeds are too happy, the zucchini too fat,
the rhubarb too old.
But the work that was done early in the season,
the close planting, the grass clippings spread,
has helped a little.
What has helped a lot is
God's sun,
God's rain,
and God's love making the soil rich.
Things still grow even when neglected.
Thanks be to God.

Just When

When there is no hope,
hope is born.
When there is no rest,
sleep comes.
When you can't feel love,
love rises.
When the night is forever,
the sun surprises.

The Sky Turns Grey

Sometimes the sky turns grey
just when you think it should.
When the dreariness, weariness inside you
escape and darken the world.
Sometimes the sun ignores your heart
and shines, shines, blinds,
insists and persists
and changes your mind
about everything.

The Colors of Grief

Blue. Like the wide open sky.
Red. Like the rose that forgot to open.
Purple. Like the grapes with sweet skin and sour fruit.
Green. Like zucchini that grows overnight.
Black. Like the dark hallway.
Pink. Like tender new flesh.
Yellow. Like the early dandelion that is bound to change.
White. Like cold snow, and the clouds against the summer sky.
Blue, like the sky....

Life's a Circus

When life's a circus
and the crowd is looking on
will I be the lion tamer full of bravado,
the freakish bearded lady full of testosterone,
or the lovely rider on horseback full of grace?

I Tell Myself

I tell myself the heat will be gone in the night and that
the season will change. And change.
I tell myself that the memory will not fade.
I sing to myself to fill the hollow,
and sleep long until tomorrow.
I tell myself that there is as much truth in a moment
as in the year leading up to it.

Many things I tell myself,
and I hear me saying to myself, Believe me.

An Old Dog

Flattened against the floor,
his tail sweeps, his eyelids raise,
but he does not lift his head.
I know how tired he is, and
how hard it is to express his love.
But I see beyond the lethargy
and know that in his heart he runs to
greet me at the door.

God knows
some days I am an old dog too.

We Tend the Living and the Dying

You
you water the flowers
you keep your eye on the garden
you pluck the weeds and watch the skies for rain

while I
I sit at the bedside of Grace
murmuring prayers and
watching for signs of pain.

We sing songs which hint at
future glory.

Soul and Body

How beautiful the ribbon that ties the human flesh to human soul,
the scarlet cord, strong and vibrant, sure and firm.
How lovely that the moon pulls on the water and on our hearts.
That the sun opens our eyes and our minds.
That the mountains support our feet and lift our dreams.

How apt that the seasons tell not only the stories of our harvests
but the stories of our lives.
How fitting that the rain washes and washes away.

No wonder it is so hard for the spirit, at the end, to fly away on its own.

On my Ceiling

It's late. And I'm restless.
It's warm, and I'm tangled in the sheet.
One last yearning look toward heaven
and an unspoken prayer with unclosed eyes.
The ceiling, a barrier of silence.
All is darkness, darkness until
a flicker of light breaks into my universe.
Suddenly the ceiling becomes the heavens
and a stranded firefly
becomes the stars.

Measuring Love

I am a wealthy woman.
Waking late to see the face of a man I've loved since I was barely a woman.
Listening to the birds sing to me while I drink a cup of coffee on the deck.
Singing with 350 fellow pilgrims and feeling connected in our need and our needs met.
Telephone calls from family across the country.
Hugs and laughter and smiles from young friends who don't care that I'm older and shorter and fatter than they are.

Despite the times my heart aches for something that seems to be missing,
I know my life is richer than I have a right to be.
How can we measure love when our hearts keep overflowing?

June 25. My Aunt Grace's 99th birthday. Yesterday I sat with her as she chattered away, happily, incomprehensibly. She is beautiful even when I don't have any idea what she is thinking or saying.

Here is a poem I wrote this morning. I wasn't thinking about her at the time. Or maybe I was.


It was a hard rain

The kind where the sky turns
dark without warning and
the trees bend to a wind that
rose without being invited.
The raindrops fell with a roar
that reminds things below that
they are, well,
below
the heavens.
It was a hard rain.

The kind where the corn, afterwards,
looks like it was in a fight
where it knew it was right
but took a beating anyway.

Where the peas that were
just past their prime
gave up the ghost and decided
they had suffered more than most
and died overnight.

Where even the potatoes in deep earth
felt the rumbling, the pounding,
the angry stomping over their heads.
It was a hard rain.

The kind that draws out
the music of the heart,
the beating of the human drum--
let it come.
let it come.