Running Out of Time?

In the Middle

of a life that’s as complicated as everyone else’s,

struggling for balance, juggling time.

The mantle clock that was my grandfather’s

has stopped at 9:20; we haven’t had the time

to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,

the chimes don’t ring. One day you look out the window,

green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,

our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn

again how to love, between morning’s quick coffee

and evening’s slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,

mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies

twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between,

his tail is a metronome, ¾ time. We’ll never get there,

Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging

us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,

sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh

of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up

in love, running out of time.

~Barbara Crooker

Crooker, Barbara. “In the Middle.” Good Poems for Hard Times. Ed. Garrison Keillor. NY: Penguin Books, 2005. 265.

it’s 3:23 in the morning
and I’m awake
because my great great grandchildren
won’t let me sleep
my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the planet was plundered?

what did you do when the earth was unraveling?

surely you did something
when the seasons started failing?

as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying?

did you fill the streets with protest
when democracy was stolen?

what did you do
once
you
knew?...

---by Drew Dellinger (spoken poet)

One More Day

It is hard sometimes to drag ourselves

back to the love of morning

after we’ve lain in the dark crying out

O God, save us from the horror. . . .

God has saved the world one more day

even with its leaden burden of human evil;

we wake to birdsong.

And if sunlight’s gossamer lifts in its net

the weight of all that is solid,

our hearts, too, are lifted,

swung like laughing infants;

but on gray mornings,

all incident—our own hunger,

the dear tasks of continuance,

the footsteps before us in the earth’s

belovéd dust, leading the way—all,

is hard to love again

for we resent a summons

that disregards our sloth, and this

calls us, calls us.

"The Love of Morning" by Denise Levertov. Text as published in Selected Poems, edited by Paul Lacey (New Directions, 2002).

Wait Quiet Like This

Psalm 131

You know that my heart is not haughty
Nor my eyes lofty
Neither have I reached for things
Too great and too wonderful for me

But I have calmed and settled my heart
And it is contented

Like a child surfeited on a mother's breast
Like a suckling child is my heart

Let those who question and struggle
Wait quiet like this for you
From this day forth
And always

Fischer, Norman. Opening to You: Zen-Inspired Translations of the Psalms. NY: Penguin Group, 2002. 160.

Lean Into the Darkness

Advent Longing

In the darkness of the season, in the silence of Mary’s womb,

          new life waits and grows.

          Hope is shaped in hidden places,

          on the edges, in the depths

          far from the blinding lights and deafening sounds of consumer frenzy.

In the darkness and silence of my own life,

          I wait,

          listening for the whisper of angel wings,

          longing for a genuine experience of mystery,

          hoping for a rekindling of joy and the establishment of peace.

I lean into the darkness

         and silence.

         Expectant.

                                                            ~Larry J. Peacock

Dark then Bright

Assuming this is the last day of my life

(which might mean it is almost the first),

I’m struck blind but my blindness is bright.

Prepare for what’s known here as death;

have no fear of that strange word forever.

Even I can see there’s nothing there

to be afraid of: having already been

to forever I’m unable to recall

anything that scared me, there, or hurt.

What frightened me, apparently, and hurt

was being born. But I got over that

with no hard feelings. Dying, I imagine,

it will be the same deal, lonesomer maybe,

but surely no more shocking or prolonged—

It’s dark as I recall, then bright, so bright.

                    ~Franz Wright

"The Wave" by David Whyte

You arrived as a ripple of change emanating
from an original, unstoppable,
memory, a then made now,
entirely yourself, found now in the world,
now as creator of that world.
You were a signature written in sand
taken by the ocean and scattered
to another wave form, your disappearance
only made more beautiful
by the everyday arrival of a tide
where my voice can still join yours,
hungering for the fall of water,
so that walking the reflected sand,
I set myself to learn by your going,
knowing across death’s wide ocean,
the ultimate parallel to friendship.

(In Memoriam: John O’Donohue)
From Pilgrim: Poems by David Whyte
©2012 David Whyte

Remembering

Flowers from daughters AE and KA!

We Remember
from the Gates of Prayer
Reform Judaism Prayerbook

In the rising of the sun
and in its going down,
We remember them;

In the blowing of the wind
and in the chill of the winter,
We remember them;

In the opening of the buds
and in the warmth of the summer,
We remember them;

In the rustling of the leaves
and the beauty of the autumn,
We remember them;

And in the beginning of the year
and when it ends,
We remember them;

When we are weary
and in need of strength,
We remember them;

When we are lost
and sick at heart,
We remember them;

When we have joys
we long to share,
We remember them;

So long as we shall live
they too shall live,
For they are now a part of us as
We remember them.

 I am remembering my mother who died 22 years ago today.  I am appreciating friends who have birthdays today, as well as my family still with me.

Pledge Allegiance

At church on Sunday, our wonderful choir sang a "Growing Allegiance" written by Paul Priest. 

It is quite lovely and one that resonates with me:

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of these United States, and to the founding principles its pattern celebrates: that as the stripes and stars combine in unity more grand, so my allegiance has to grow beyond my native land.

"And as a tree grows ring on ring in ever widening girth, I love my family, town, and state, my country and my Earth. And soaring on beyond the sun, beyond the galaxy, I find my home in endless Love that has its home in me."

The Art of Losing: Maundy Thursday

As I googled "stripping the altars" for Maundy Thursday, I came up with a link to a good article "Stripped Bare: Holy Week and the Art of Losing" in the May 16, 2012 issue of Christian Century. It was so good that I posted it on FB, which seems to be looked upon more frequently than this blog. I hope you'll read it.

The author of that article, Richard Lischer, pointed to a poem by Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979), a new poet for me.

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.SpPvsGvI.dpuf

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.SpPvsGvI.dpuf

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.SpPvsGvI.dpuf

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.SpPvsGvI.dpuf

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.SpPvsGvI.dpuf

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212#sthash.SpPvsGvI.dpuf

Our Lord of Flaked Paint

Our Lord of Flaked Paint freckling
sallow skin and emerald robes,

Our Lord of Mudpuddle Eyes
that look away in weary irritation,

no one can touch your loneliness,
God cut off from God.

You who flamed a world into being
with only words, stood

in the midst of bickering men,
fig trees dying, and sparrows

falling to the ground.
Were there days when heat and dust,

the smell of stale crowds
pushing you from place to place,

asking for one more resurrection,
food for thousands

or withered hands healed,
made you want to slash the canvas,

fly back to heaven and start fresh
on some new world far away?

Days where your head ached
from sun on sand and water,

where your throat scraped raw
from shouting Blessed are. . . to men

who would go home, forget, and return
to nail you to a piece of wood?

No one understood your stories,
could grasp that you would trade

legions of angels
for nine ungrateful lepers,

the friend who turned you in,
and never enough sleep.

Our Lord of Omnipotent Frustration
with your halo like a setting sun,

your hand is raised as if to bless me,
though I can't imagine why.

~~Jana-Lee Germaine

Christian Century, November 3, 2009.

Keeping Quiet

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

Pablo Neruda

Source: translated by Alistair Reid in Extravagaria

From Inward/Outward. Subscribe here.    
 

This Lenting

This lenting
 
is a longing, looking,

isolating and locating process,

a passing of the time between

what has to be, what may become,

a late, last, solitary lingering

among the soiled and crusted snowbanks

of deep-drifted hurt and disappointment

seeking out those tender-tough new shoots

that pierce the calloused surface

of all losing with the agony

of life becoming green again.

by J. Barrie Shepherd.

More Death Poems

More death poems by Japanese haiku poets:

Joseki (died July 21, 1779, age 85)

This must be

my birthday there

in paradise. (207-208)

Shoshun (died April 24, between 1660 and 1672, less than 90)

Flowers bloomed yesterday,

today winds blow--

what but a dream. . . (302-303)

Chiyoni (died Sept. 8, 1775, age 73)

I saw the moon as well

and now, world,

“truly yours. . . “ (152)

Chiyoni, one of the best-known women haiku poets, became a Buddhist nun at the age of fifty-two. In her death poem she creates a metaphor of life as a letter. Kashiku is phrase used by women to end their letters.”

Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death. Ed. Yoil Hoffmann. Rutland, Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, Co. 1986.

Poem of an Introvert

I am not a person to say the words out loud
I think them strongly, or let them hunger from the page:
know it from there, from my silence, from somewhere other
than my tongue
      the quiet love
      the silent rage

—Keri Hulme, 

from “Against the Small Evil Voices,” in Strands (Oxford University Press, 1992)

An Excellence to be Ignored or Lost?

When I was at Lebh Shomea House of Prayer last week, I consulted their card catalog frequently. At the same time, there was a young man sequestered in a small anteroom, who was using a laptop computer to list (catalog?) the books in the entire library, which spans the entire first floor of the former Sarita Kenedy mansion.

I looked up the sub-category "Death" and found many resources in books and periodicals. It was impressive to find specific articles in both books and magazines pertaining to this subject, especially theologically. In old issues of Parabola,  which are bound by years 1976-2006, I found decades-old articles about death by both David Steindl-Rast and Cynthia Bourgeault, favorite authors of mine.

I realize "actual" card catalogs in libraries are disappearing for the ease of computer access. However, through using the card catalog at Lebh Shomea, I realized the scholarship and thoroughness of Father Kelly, who maintained the library for the past 40 years. The third floor of the mansion has shelves of bound periodicals, all of which have had their individual articles cataloged. This is amazing!

Of course, what will happen to bound periodicals (AND libraries in general)? For years one of the core members of Lebh Shomea, Sister Maria Meister, bound books and periodicals with a special machine. As indicated by the years of bound Parabola magazines, she bound items at least from 1976-2006. Since she succumbed to Alzheimers, no more items have been bound and the machine stands ignored in a storeroom.

Will all this be ignored and discarded?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Perhaps this goes along with a book (surprisingly, still in print) that I was directed to while there:

Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death. Ed. Yoil Hoffmann. Rutland, Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, Co. 1986.

It was an old tradition for Japanese Zen monks and haiku poets to write poems on their deathbeds. 

“In Japan, as elsewhere in the world, it has become customary to write a will in preparation for one’s death. But Japanese culture is probably the only one in the world in which, in addition to leaving a will, a tradition of writing a ‘farewell poem to life’ (jisei) took root and became widespread.” (27)

They are unique and interesting. Here are a few I particularly liked and copied down at Lebh Shomea:

Dairin Soto (died Jan. 27, 1568, age 89)

My whole life long I’ve sharpened my sword

And now, face to face with death

I unsheath it, and lo--

The blade is broken--Alas! (94)

Kozan Ichikyo (died Feb. 12, 1360, age 77)

Empty-handed I entered the world

Barefoot I leave it.

My coming, my going--

Two simple happenings

That got entangled. (108)

For A New Beginning

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,

          where your thoughts never think to wander,

          this beginning has been quietly forming,

                    waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,

          feeling the emptiness growing inside you,

          noticing how you willed yourself on,

                    still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety

          and the gray promises that sameness whispered,

          heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,

                    wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,

          and out you stepped onto new ground,

          your eyes young again with energy and dream,

                    a path of plenitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear

          you can trust the promise of this opening;

          unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

                    that is at one with your life’s desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;

          hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;

          soon you will be home in a new rhythm,

                    for your soul senses the world that awaits you.

~John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us

The Gap

God woke, but the nightmare

did not recede. Word by word

the tower of speech grew.

He looked at it from the air

he reclined on. One word more and

it would be on a level

with him; vocabulary

would have triumphed. He

measured the thin gap

with his mind. No, no, no,

wider than that! But the nearness

persisted. How to live with

the fact, that was the feat

now. How to take his rest

on the edge of a chasm a

word could bridge.

                              He leaned

over and looked in the dictionary

they used. There was the blank still

by his name of the same

order as the territory

between them, the verbal hunger

for the thing in itself. And the darkness

that is a god’s blood swelled

in him, and he let it

to make the sign in the space

on the page; that is in all languages

and none; that is the grammarian’s

torment and the mystery

at the cell’s core, and the equation

that will not come out, and is

the narrowness that we stare

over into the eternal

silence that is the repose of God.

~~R. S. Thomas (1913-2000)

Thomas, R. S. Poems of R. S. Thomas. Fayetteville: The University of Arkansas Press, 1985. 110-111.

Why I Read

Today is National Literacy Day!

Why I Read

“I read because one life isn’t enough, and in the page of a book I can be anybody;
I read because the words that build the story become mine, to build my life;
I read not for happy endings but for new beginnings; I’m just beginning myself, and I wouldn’t mind a map;
I read because I have friends who don’t, and young though they are, they’re beginning to run out of material;
I read because every journey begins at the library, and it’s time for me to start packing;
I read because one of these days I’m going to get out of this town, and I’m going to go everywhere and meet everybody, and I want to be ready.”

Richard Peck, Anonymously Yours

With thanks to Diane for posting this on Facebook. It is from here. 

Listening Is Loving

When someone deeply listens to you
it is like holding out a dented cup
you've had since childhood
and watching it fill up with
cold, fresh water.
When it balances on top of the brim,
you are understood.
When it overflows and touches your skin,
you are loved.

When someone deeply listens to you
the room where you stay
starts a new life
and the place where you wrote
your first poem
begins to glow in your mind's eye.
It is as if gold has been discovered!

When someone deeply listens to you
your bare feet are on the earth
and a beloved land that seemed distant
is now at home within you.

~~John Fox