Abundance

Astonishing,
isn’t it,
that a single seed
can bring such abundance to life?

Yes, it takes good soil,
strong rains,
warm sun...
But I provide all that:
All you have to do is bloom!


* * *

Essence

I need not become a bird,
flying up to heaven
in search of the scent of You.
Nor must I become a fish
diving into the depths of ocean
hoping for a taste of the Divine.

That Reality lives:
not just below the whisper of a fin,
or above the caress of a wing,
but in every heart that beats;
in every seed that dares to put out roots.

No need to look elsewhere:
You are always here,
floating on the waves and wind
like light,
piercing the sky, the ocean, the night --
and my heart --
with the sweet pure music of love.


* * *

Labyrinth

Just when I think
I’m almost there,
the path turns back
and I am forced to see again
how far I’ve grown from you,
how shallow my roots,
how high the weeds,
how thick these thorns
have grown around your head.

Yet still you bloom
and cast your seeds
from the center of my being,
Laying clues along the trail
so I may find my way back home to you


* * *

Assuaging that winter-borne thirst

It's Spring,
and the busy daffodils
with their small capable hands
rise early, to milk the new sun
and wave the scent of hyacinths
into the garden breeze
so passers-by --
lured to a stop by this sweet perfume --
will drink in the bright lime greens
with their winter-parched eyes.





* * *

Resurrection

Imagine this!

You are here with us again,
washing over us,
lapping at our feet:
a wave of pure joy,
bursting with bright flowers
wells up in our hearts,
equal parts
terror and remembrance;
anticipation and confusion.

Stand back,
catch your breath
and take a running leap
into the sea of love.


* * *

Mary's lament

Some look at me,
my outstretched hands,
and think I am some teenaged tramp
wearing a t-shirt that says
"Whatever,"
totally uninvolved,
shirking responsibility...

What is it
about "Let it be"
they do not understand?
I'm standing here,
pregnant with your love,
filled with your presence
and they expect me to get to work,
or feel some shame
for only being,
for not doing something about it.
What's up with that?
Only You;
Only You.


* * *

Say What?

Umm...
Could you run that by me again?
I thought I heard you mention --
just under your breath --
(you do that a lot,
don't you know) --
That maybe,
just maybe
you thought I was a little out of line,
galloping off that way in mid-sentence,
just before you made another one of those useless pronouncements
about your important job and your important life?
Don't you get it?
It's all supposed to be
about ME!
Oh.
I see.
You were trying to say you loved me.
Could you say that again?
I guess I just wasn't listening...


* * *

Dirty laundry

Some days
you just have to put it all out there,
hang it out to dry,
and hope you didn't let it sit
damp
in the washer for too long;
that it doesn't smell,
or,
if it does,
the sun and the fresh air
will dry it out,
impart a fresh new scent.


* * *

Meditation is like a walk on the beach...

I walked the beach today,
after I got home:
the dog is being groomed,
so I could take my time
without him tugging on the leash;
could walk right by the water
(which he hates)...

And as I strolled there,
looking for the blues,
I realized
that this feeling that I have --
that if I find a piece of blue glass,
God is with me --
is not unlike what happens in meditation.


A sit is like the beach:
you show up, day after day,
hoping for
that one brief moment of glory.
Sometimes you find one --
most times you don’t:
those blue ones,
the God moments,
are rare:

That’s what makes them special;
it’s part of why I keep showing up --
that and the undeniable fact
that it’s good exercise!

* * *

Untended nest

Taking our guests
on a stroll through the yard,
we found this nest of eggs
bathed in sunlight near the end of the boardwalk,
no mama goose in sight:
You can imagine our concern
at her departure.

Imagine, then, my delight --
looking out my bedroom window
later that evening --
on seeing that question mark of a gooseneck
poking out above the weeds,
where I knew the nest should be;
Know my joy on hearing her mate's honk,
and her answering response.


* * *

Enlighten me

Enlighten me.
Help me to understand
that though I am unique
I am still just another leaf;
that though I am one
I am still one of many
and together we are One
even as You are One.

Remind me
that through this stalk from which I stem
runs the lifeblood of energy
that feeds us all;
which, when it cycles into me
then cycles back again
enriching all.

Keep me open,
that this pure divinity which is love
may flow freely.


* * *

Haiku blessings

My good friend Chris brought her family to visit us this weekend, and it turns out her brother Dana -- whom I haven't seen for over 20 years -- loves to write haiku. So with permission from Dana Wilson, and in honor of his daughter who just went home from the hospital today after cancer surgery, I hereby post all the Haiku he wrote while visiting with us this afternoon. I have promised to provide a photo for each; I invite you to offer up prayers for his daughter's healing in response.



I see you again
My eyes are now awakened
Divine images










I pray all day long
but God never answers me.
Shut up! and listen








A walk through the dunes:
Weathered memories of walks past --
a road less traveled.









Student or master?
The roles will switch back and forth.
Open to learning?










If I point out spots,
I show you my human-ness.
Will you still like me?









Unexpected dogs
Like unforeseen pregnancies...
Holy shit! What now?










Family and good friends:
This is the church that feeds me.
God dwells within love.









Catching fireflies
Floating -- Flying -- Dreaming BIG!!
Cancer can't beat me.











On Bainbridge Island
Cancer seems so far away.
Thanks for this present.




* * *

Hold out your hand

We are all bozos on this bus,
seals on this floating raft:
there is no shame or anguish you have felt
that someone else has not felt, too:
Hold out your hand, or paw, or flipper my friend,
and feel my own grasp yours:
we're all in this together,
floating on a sea of love.


* * *

At the intersection

It is night
and though the city sleeps
there are those who lie awake
and stare unseeing through the windows
reflecting on the darkness within.

Your lamp
illuminates the page
and these blank walls
but cannot seem to touch
the deeper recesses of the heart.
I feel my way down these familiar streets
groping for the walls
and, finding none to touch,
instead of turning right,
or left,
exploring other possibilities,
I freeze in panic and despair
crying out for safety
when light could always be
just around the corner.


* * *

It feels divine

I love the way --
when I have so much on my mind,
and am so focused
on what was
or is
or might have been
or could be --
this way you have
of nudging me out of my doldrums.

The tenderness of it:
the way you lift my chin and raise my sights;
the feel of your warm breath against my neck;
your touch --
so gentle
despite the discrepancy in our sizes --
never fails to move me,
to shift my focus
away from the barriers in life
and back to you.


* * *

Three part harmony

Morning,
and another day begins.
I stroll beside this pool and wonder:
swim here, in warmth and safety?

Or take the risk
and walk down to the wilder beach
where loud waves roll and tumble at my feet
and unseen currents can upset my careful balance,
upturn my status quo...

As parent/Self
how can I urge this wild one to be free,
encourage trust and flights of fancy,
pat his careful older brother on the head,
keep my arm around his waist
and send the younger off with joyful wave
to pursue his passion, and upon return
infuse these parts that stick so close to home
with fanciful, rash and reckless love?


* * *

Mirror aversion

It's hard, sometimes,
to be grateful to those angels
who kindly come along
to stand between
our carefully erected barriers to truth
and raise the mirror
in which we once again behold
our own emptiness;

hard to see
the pretty wrapping
that surrounds
the unpleasant present
of self-awareness;

hard to remember
that we cannot answer
your "who do you say that I am"
until we come to grips
with our own response
to that eternal question.


* * *

Behold, O God

Behold, O God,
our protector,
defender;
she who shields us from the storm
and guides us to that invisible shoreline,
past the rocky shoals
and shallow tideflats
that threaten wrecks
before we reach the goal.

Guided by her holy light,
and lifted o'er the waves
on angel's wings,
we hope someday
to wear her crown of glory;
to know her Spirit as our own
and so to climb unbattered from the waves
to bask in sunlight on the sands of time
and sip the nectar of your peace,
in peace.


* * *

Easter

And so,
having stepped into this cavernous abyss
and finding you not there,
I emerge from contemplation
of the emptiness within
to find you waiting on the street --
to see your penetrating gaze
in the eyes of each fellow traveler --

and then at last
the angels who have walked with me
into and through the darkness
tip their baptismal font
and I am bathed in light.

Blinded by your glory
I stagger forth into the world
to love,
to love.



* * *

All the books in the world

And now I see that I am Mary,
waiting at the cavern of my heart
for Jesus to appear.

And all the books in the world
will never make it happen --
no magic from these written words
unlocks this gate in which Self lies entombed
and as I wait,
stare blindly at this page,
no angel will appear,
no false gardeners
to prune the rose that climbs this rugged fence.

It's time for me to rise
from this numb death and firmly grasp the bars,
to throw aside the bonds that separate,
and boldly step into the heart:
Only after I have dared to seek you there
will you accost me on the road
and calling me by name enfold me in your arms.


* * *

Art's Passion

What would it feel like to carve this figure;
to first construct the mahogany cross,
to lay it on a bed of tiles,
and then,
having procrastinated long enough
to begin with my chisel
to pare away the wood -- or is it stone? --
knowing this is what awaits inside --
these hands and feet will be pierced;
this head will be crowned and bowed,
this ribcage sliced,
just here,
and painted blood --
Would you relive that painful day,
be haunted by harsh dreams at night,
and feel each scrape of the blade on your own skin?


* * *

And so it begins

Emptied,
readied,
waiting for the pageant to begin:
the supper,
the promises,
the washing of feet,
the long vigil of the night
awakening to loss and grief,
the ache of forgiveness that only God can give.

And then,
again,
the silence
as we wait,
emptied,
readied,
for the healing to begin.


* * *

Quiet time

Here,
alone in this room,
I am still:
your presence fills my space with light;
the music of your voice
awakens in every cell the resonance of longing;
the incense of your love
sends a rush of jasmine through my veins
like a spray of lilacs
beside my open kitchen window
on the first warm spring day.

Thank you for making time for me today.


* * *

Restless

This lizard's tongue --
my mind, never still --
darts here and there,
always looking for some fresh new bug
while I
behind the dark and watchful eye,
would so prefer to be a chameleon;
to have the luxury
of a slow fade into my surroundings:
you'd never know
where the sidewalk ended and I began
and then there'd be that one misstep,
the crunch and slide --

then we'd be One,
forever.


* * *

Up for a good row

If I am light,
you are the still water,
showing me another way
to see myself.

If I am blue,
you are my orange light preserver,
brightening my picture of the world,
a promise of security.

If I am a little green around the edges,
you complement me anyway,
though compliments have never been your style.

And when I lose my way,
you always have a handle on things.


So how shall we be together today?
Are you up for a good row?
Or shall we just dive into it?


* * *

Unchosen

Take me, I cried,
Take me!
She doesn't know
another road into town;
take me!

I'd have gone another way,
no pomp and circumstance for me
I'd have shied at the blaze of trumpets.

And if I thought he'd come this way again,
I'd weave these waving grasses into palm fronds
and set them at his feet in welcome.

But it's too late now:
she never saw
the crucifixion in their eyes.


* * *

Divine complements

What Divine Artisan
constructed this branch
to follow the exact angle of the roof;
carefully positioned its dark stroke of charcoal
at a 90 degree angle from these benches?

Who saw that opposites,
red and green,
you and I,
might be softened
by a season together
into pink and jade --

one so delicate and fragile,
the other so solid, so enduring --
a perfect combination,
that even on a cloudy day
finds balance,
peace,
serenity.


* * *

Golden Idols

We who worship
the Shopping Gods
know:
Baal is insatiable.

That vacant stare
bespeaks an inner thirst
that never can be quenched --
Imelda Marcos
with her shoe-filled closet
would barely fill a tooth
of this empty-headed monster.

There are, he says, so many shades of blue!
Why not buy a purse to match each shade?
Surround yourself in luxury,
silk, satin and furs,
and still the void persists,
the insane grin that calls for more, for more...

These golden idols
cross-eyed with impatient greed,
possess the infinite allure:
Buy, and ye shall be whole.


* * *

Incoming

As the days grow longer
and winter deepens into spring;
as the daffodils sparkle
along the edges of the forest road
and birdsongs brighten up the mornings,
I wish you a host of blessings,
floating down upon you like yesterday's snowflakes
or tomorrow's cherry blossoms;
like the multitude of angels
that descended from the heavens
to celebrate that first amazing birth
which is being reborn in each of us;
that wellspring of hope and wholeness
that surges to life with the first scent of lilac:
Soon, they sing, soon it will come --
Rebirth, and resurrection --
whether sliding in to caress your beach
without disturbing a stone or shell,
or plowing through everything you know,
a tsunami of love --
Easter's on its way.


* * *

Magnificat

Centuries later,
we're all still listening
to your proclamation;
still waiting for the proud
to be scattered in their conceit,
for the mighty to be deposed,
the lowly to be raised,
the hungry to be filled,
the rich to be empty.

When, we ask --
When?

And still your response guides us:
Let it be
According to Your will.

We keep these things --
ponder them in our hearts --
and wait.


* * *