HOME

The gift of brown clay
sun-baked; we share creation,
a body - a home.

LISTEN

I walked a path through fallen leaves,
dragging my feet along the ground,
hearing God's voice in every shuffle,
holy laughter as we played.

NIGHT SWEATS

I begged for sleep to come seduce me
but she scowled, passed me by.
Lessons to learn, she mocked;
delivering panic, my weak human
heart raced; closing my eyes I prayed
to live, to die, then live again.
Maybe this time I might get it right.

LISTEN WITH THE EAR OF YOUR HEART














ears listen, eyes look,
hearing, seeing below ground
to the sacred source

- Christine Valters Paintner
(www.abbeyofthearts.com)

SUMMER SOLSTICE

As sun scatters dark
She asks me to awaken
To the light in me.

-Christine Valters Paintner (http://www.abbeyofthearts.com/)

BROKEN BODIES

Broken bodies moan in darkening streets,
the spectre of death surrounds me.
Shaken to my core, my voice is stilled
for words cannot express the heart
better than silence. A haunting wind pierces
my vain heart, clouds gather, while dirt
blinds my eyes, collects on my tongue,
stopping me cold; I listen. Choking
on tears that well up from my toes
I revel in the glory that lets me feel, really
feel I belong to this world today.
Young angels flock to my side.
I join them on their journey home.

HONORING PACHAMAMA

Dancing firelight in bright moonshadows
Releasing pain long held within.
Singing songs of ancient people,
All my relations crying out to the sky.
Holy ground provides a safe place
For smoldering fires within deep hearts
Demanding truth, trust and faith
Engendering respect for ourselves and others
This shared experience of joy and celebration,
Renewal and blessing, returning to roots
Where wisdom lies beneath our feet
Ready to burst forth in rebirth.
Heralded by holy geese

greeting the dawn of my new day.

THE UNFATHOMABLE DEPTH OF A LONG-DISTANCE FRIENDSHIP

About 5 years ago, I began an adventure, a friendship, unlike any other. I’m not a novice at friendships. Perhaps the earliest was a nearby one I developed as a toddler with another toddler who lived next door. She spoke baby Lithuanian and I spoke baby English and we seemed to get along famously, or at least that’s what our parents told us.

About a half-century later (why do I insist on going for those big poetic phrases?!), John and I met in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We were attending a weeklong workshop on Spiritual Writing. During registration, I found myself as the rare man in a maelstrom of people. I quickly scanned my class registration sheet and my eyes alighted on John’s name – whew! Now burned into my brain, I began my crusade to find the “Hello, I’m” tag that matched that name.

Tall, Ken-doll good looking with a Southern drawl – nothing, absolutely nothing in common with me, except that glass of Merlot he had in his hand. Noting his home town as being in Colorado, I sidled up to him interrupting a conversation already in progress, introduced myself and
quickly exited with a brief… “See you in class tomorrow.”

Some form of energy shifted in me about 10 years ago replacing a shy introverted guy with a sometimes loud extrovert. Seems that extrovert is encouraged to reveal himself when traveling to places where there’s a good chance he’ll meet people he’ll never see again in his life and who won’t be able to embarrass him with their remembrances of his past indiscretions. And so the table was set for the literal and figurative “bigger than life” Rich to take the stage.

Despite my “over-the-top” antics, John and I found some common ground. We took meals together, had long conversations, discovered some amazing commonalities and generally laid the foundation for a friendship that would last long after we left Santa Fe.

God Bless the Internet! There is hardly a workday that goes by without John and me checking in with one another in one fashion or another. It could be an item in either of our blogs (or even an embarrassing revelation from John’s wife’s blog, like the one where his daughter talked about his sexy butt!). We just feel the need to touch base. Sometimes corresponding about some silliness or other; other times confessing things that we can only confess to one another. Despite our infrequent face-to-face conversations, I always feel as if I am always just picking up the conversation wherever it was just left off. There is an ebb and flow, a natural rhythm that has taken over that just feels organic.

Recently, John had a business trip to Chicago that provided him with a little downtime that we could share together over a meal and a drive around the city. During our time, I was a little concerned about big silent places in our conversations. It seemed as if we’d run out of things to talk about. After a little silent reflection, I came to realize that silence is the deep place where friends let friends rest in each other’s company.

ENCOUNTERS - SOUNDS

…while my head was gently placed by purposeful hands on an overstuffed down pillow. His hands softly brushed over my eyelids, encouraging me to close my eyes for a while. I listened closely for a clue to what would happen next. But the thief of time abducted my sense of place. I neither saw nor felt, neither heard nor smelled. When I eventually opened my eyes, he was still there sitting next to me on the bed – still buck naked – with one hand on the bed to prop himself up while with the other he stroked my hair, finger-combing the ash-colored shock that covered my now wrinkled forehead. Once again, I gazed upon his face and then I focused on his eyes. For the first time I sensed that we were both ready to speak.

My lips parted and I surprised even myself when I quietly asked, “Why naked?”

He answered by asking, “Why clothed?”

I slightly shrugged, then nestled in, as I heard another voice, this time inside my head say, “Welcome home!”

Those were the last words I heard.

Those were the first words I heard.

The End

ENCOUNTER - SMELLS

Lifting my hand, he placed it firmly against his cheek and closed his eyes. This moment gave me the opportunity I’d hoped for as I deeply searched his face. His skin appeared thick and well-weathered, perhaps you’d call it leathery. But yet, my hand sensed a softness that belied my first impression. My sneak peek was over as quickly as it had begun as he slowly opened his now glimmering moist eyes. As he let go, my hand gradually dropped from the side of his face and landed in his lap where it soon found a home in his left hand. His right hand then reached for my left which he hefted over his right shoulder. He smiled. And so did I. Suddenly, my head became heavy and my neck felt unable to bear its weight. I let my head fall against that shoulder where I took a whiff of his red, goose-fleshed neck. We held one another once again, but this time I felt enveloped in a familiar world of touch and smell where I longed to stay a long time. My head shifted slightly with each breath and fell again into a crook worn down, I was sure, just for me. The smell of freshly laundered sheets that had been dried in the sunshine overwhelmed me. Soon I found myself wrapped in the luxury of that smell while my head was gently placed by purposeful hands on an overstuffed down pillow.

(to be continued...)

ENCOUNTER - HANDS

And then he looked into my eyes…His eyes were youthful, no, that’s not right. His eyes were ageless and they looked at me with a focus that told me I was the only person he cared about right then. But, they were not intense – that would have concerned me. Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of care. Words are not usually a problem for me but they felt so shallow compared to what I’d just sensed. Not knowing what to do next, I averted my eyes for a moment and looked at the bed. He glanced between us and we both slowly sat. Firmly seated, my eyes returned to his face, no, not his face but very specifically his eyes. The skin at the corners of his eyes began to crinkle, so I let my eyes wander in time to see a radiant smile appear on his face. I had no choice but to return the look for I felt compelled to accept and return this gift. I’ve no idea how long we sat like that. Neither of us seemed to have anything else to do but to be with one another. After some time, he slowly lifted his left hand and reached over to take my right hand in his. He looked at my hand as if he had never seen a hand before. He turned my hand over so that it was palm up. The lines in my palm were another source of interest as he traced the lines with a sturdy finger. Lifting my hand, he placed it firmly against his cheek and closed his eyes.

(to be continued...)

ENCOUNTER - EYES

I went to Jesus’ house yesterday. No, not the one you’re thinking of. He gave me his address over my cell phone. I knew how to get there. I had to drive through some dicey neighborhoods, but I didn’t mind. Parking was at a premium, but I managed to find a spot. I spied the house – a little rundown. I saw the Palestinian flag in the window and a sign that said, “Stop the Killing.” Yep, this must be the place. He told me to just come on up when I got there – 2nd floor, take 3 flights of stairs – huh? Well, there wasn’t a doorbell and the door was locked, so I called him on my cell phone. “Come ‘round back, watch your step, 2nd floor, take 3 flights of stairs.” Again, huh? He said he’d be in the shower, so just come right in and make myself comfortable. Sure, enough, 2nd floor, 3 flights of stairs. I reached for the doorknob and it turned easily. I stepped in. I shrugged off my coat, placed it on a woven wicker trunk and since there weren’t any chairs, I sat on the edge of his bed. Before long, I heard the shower being turned off. The bathroom door opened and out he walked – buck naked. He wasn’t embarrassed and neither was I. He came over and opened his arms wide to share a hug. Seemed like the most natural thing in the word to do so I wrapped my arms around him. And then he looked into my eyes.

(to be continued...)

SPRING

Winter’s thin days give way to spring’s plump buds,
Dark moist soil speaks to me, “Are you in love?”
I lift my face, to greet a new warm sun
and hear bright bird songs, falling from above.

Enveloped in the arms of the season
my heart responds by opening deeper,
prepared for rites demanded by nature
my dreams shall form freely and soar steeper.

The possible reigns as new days lengthen
becoming reality’s new vision
of a world where light can transfigure one’s life,
strengthening resolve to complete love’s mission.

TRUTH

In one of the kingdom’s royal castles,
falling out, my soul separates
from my body, unwilling,
unable to move,
but light flowing, holding fast.
Cracked windows patched with tape,
dull blue-gray skies,
hills in the distance,
bare trees seen through mottled glass.
The black shoed,
blue jeaned,
white shirted messenger
with cocoa skin and darker eyes
who helps me;
to touch my pain,
live in the light,
walk at the edges.
Slain in the spirit
my body quakes with karmic release.
In unison with myself
once again,
I awake and find rose petals
covering my eyes.
The scent of kindness
resides in the truth.

WORDS

I revel the travels I make in the world of words. When asked why, in particular, I am so fond of poetry, I usually reply that it's the "economy of words" that draws me to that writing style. But there are other aspects of poetry that appeal to me.

Just this past weekend, I picked up a very slim paperback of writings by Robert Bly titled "A Little Book on the Human Shadow." Robert Bly first came to popular fame with his book, "Iron John," which launched what in common vernacular is known as the "men's movement." The general public (at least those who have heard of him) usually associate him with an exaggerated vision of men going off into the woods together, screaming primally, dancing naked and banging on drums. All in all, exactly the type of person with whom I long to be associated!

I had the distinct honor and pleasure of attending a reading by Robert Bly a few years ago at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Oak Park, IL that was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Bly's reputation had preceded him and he didn't disappoint. This man does not suffer fools gladly. My Dominican friend, Brother Joe, had always entertained us with an impersonation of Robert Bly that was completely over-the-top and had us falling on the floor in laughter. The moment Robert Bly opened his mouth, I realized just how understated Brother Joe's impersonation really was. If it is possible to be a tender, wise, gruff, comical curmudgeon, than that person exists in Robert Bly.

In the Foreward of this recently purchased collection of Bly's writing, his editor, William Booth captures in a single paragraph the transformative nature of reading Robert Bly:

"What Robert Bly's poetry readings say in effect is, 'You must change your life.' To hear serious poems and resist all change is worse than a waste of time; it is dangerous. We can remember the warning from Jacob Boehme: 'Boehme has a note before one of his books in which he asks the reader not to go further and read the book unless he is willing to make practical changes as a result of the reading. Otherwise, Boehme says, the book will be bad for him..."

Think about it. Just sayin'.....

FRIDAY’S FEAST PRAYER

Good Morning, Wisdom's Child,
I feel gluttonous with the glory of your words.
I am having trouble digesting them
as they are "too rich"
(as if that were possible).
I revel in their presence
as they perfume the air I breath.
You are a Master of words
as they spring forth from your heart
and explode through your lips.
I want to bathe in your words
until they reach every crevice of my skin
and absorb them through my pores
in an alchemical osmosis.
You make me crave more
as I don't think I can ever be satiated.

Amen.

WINTER NIGHT

Winter crescent moon,
Pulsating stars, frozen tears,
Waiting for answers.

RAW DOUBT

Tentatively asked,
“Do you think you could love me?”
Softly answered, “Yes.”

ONLY KNOWN PHOTOGRAPH

OF GOD by Thomas Merton

This photograph, posted previously, has long spoken to me. Perhaps the season of Lent has brought it to mind yet again.

Consider...

LEAVING

Dead from the neck up,
Not so bad a place to be.
Living in my heart.

(Poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with kind permission of Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com. Join Christine's Poetry Party now!)

MIDWINTER

Twelve billion year old stardust
seeds, imbedded memories
remember. Tightly wound
paperthin heads poke through
the fertile ground of being
seeking sunlight with an instinct
born in ancient swirling cosmos,
dancing to the songs of angels,
stretching their faces to the heavens,

singing, praying “Adoramus Te.”

(poem inspired by and photo taken by

and used with kind permission of

Christine Valters Paintner. Join Christine's

Poetry Party every other Monday at

www.abbeyofthearts.com)

DREAMCATCHER

Rearview mirror dreams
Catching hope as the wind blows
Mind the speed limit

WING

Melting snow reveals
Single broken robin wing
We fly in circles

WINTER VISION

A gray winter sky releases gentle snowflakes,
silence arriving on the edge of Sunday morning.
Sitting in my old red chair, I consider the fire
burning without, burning within.

The brush of an angel’s wings against my face
recalls the holy touch of one no longer near.
Closing my eyes, I deeply drink the vision
living well, dying whole.

Purple sunset celebrates the freely given day,
I stutter step as I near the marble sentinel,
unsure if a mere kiss will be enough to pay my fare
home , forever home.

(poem inspired by photograph taken by
and used with kind permission of Christine Valters Paintner.

Join her Poetry Party every other Monday at www.abbeyofthearts.com.)

DANCING WITH ANGELS

I danced with angels this weekend
and now I’m paying the price.
These geriatric feet are dry and wrinkled
and a crack or two on the soles
are making me crankier than usual.
But when angels appear,
take your hand,
and lead you out onto the dance floor,
I dare you to say, “No.”

NEW YEARS EVE

It seems particularly dark tonight. To me, this seems altogether fitting and proper for the last night of the year; it is as if the year has been fully spent. Light has recently become an ever present thought that I have carried with me throughout the past few weeks. But it is a deeper sense of light that has stayed with me - it is the light of friendships I've held in my heart - the light that carries us through difficult times and walks with us along our various paths. I just changed my profile statement for the first time since starting this blog to include the light of friendship as a force that accompanies me on my pilgrim path.

Very few of us have escaped 2008 unharmed in one form or another. Some of the pains have been economic, others spiritual, and still others emotional. During the just past holiday season, it became apparent to me more than ever that our connections to one another are what will hold us together in 2009 and beyond. Deep listening and deep care are the new currency of the day. They will see us through this difficult year ahead. Sometimes it takes a year like the one just past for us to realize that they have always been the only things that matter.

With gratitude for the lessons you have taught me, with joy for the laughter you have shared with me, I wish you, dear friends, the deep peace of the winter darkness with confidence that we share a common light within our hearts that will lead us to the eternal hope of a new day.

Fondly,

Rich

FEW WORDS

In the end, that is what this season is all about...

those unplanned, unexpected moments that sneak up on us

and remind us who we really are.

WINTER SUNSET

Light is the absence
Of darkness,
Darkness is the absence
Of light,
Via negativa
Opens our eyes
To see the bundle
Of colored pencils
God grasps each night
To color the sky
One last time
To fill our hearts
With awe
Before we begin
To illuminate
Our own dreams.

(poem prompted by photograph taken by
and used with kind permission of
Christine Valters Paintner
@ www.abbeyofthearts.com.
Join Christine's Poetry Party every other Monday!)

EARLY WINTER DREAMS

Moonlight streams through shutter slats
delivering seeds of dreams
harvested by nascent spirits
yearning to be free.

I yield to sleep atop warm blankets
heated by my lazy felines,
conspiring with the otherworld
to seduce me into slumber.

Where do these pictures rise up from
of far’way lands and strange events?
But still a part of who I am
although I may not think so.

Dark words and darker stories strike
when I can least deflect them.
Their echoes during waking hours
can put a heart to test.

Truth and dreams, in early hours
meet to sear into my heart
lessons my mind won’t recognize:
experienced and learned.

(photograph taken by James Melnychuk)

HOME TONIGHT

You asked if I’d be home tonight,
but I’m not sure how to answer
for the dreary chill of morning
and dank dew seeped into my head,
making a stew thicker than an early winter fog.
Although the noonday sun has cleared
the skies, my memory escapes me.
Hijacked by some thought pirate
for a ransom I can’t afford.
I’m not sure if I really even care.
Will I be home tonight?
Will I be?

HOME

My body formed of clay from earth,
my bones from random rocks.
I yearn to feel the blush of sun,
the soaking rain, upon my face
and deep within my desert soul.
The love inscribed upon my heart
lies too within imperfect bones.
Hidden to protect weak flesh
from daggers of a mortal love.
I look to nature for eternal solace
for there I’ll find my rest,

my home.

(poem prompted by photograph taken by

and used with kind permission of

Christine Valters Paintner

@ www.abbeyofthearts.com.

Join Christine's Poetry Party every other Monday!)

A PERSONAL ACCOUNT OF AN HISTORIC NIGHT FROM SOMEWHERE VERY CLOSE TO GROUND ZERO

I live in Chicago. Last Friday night, upon leaving work, I drove over to Lake Shore Drive, headed south on a gorgeous fall evening and exited at 57th Street. I passed the beautiful example of classical architecture, The Museum of Science and Industry, and continued heading west into the den of one way streets in the neighborhood called Hyde Park. This Chicago neighborhood is home to the prestigious University of Chicago and a collection of Divinity Schools and Theological Seminaries. It is also home of the Seminary Co-operative Bookstore of which I am a member (shareholder). Later that evening, I had tickets for a performance of the Guarneri String Quartet at Mandel Hall on the campus of the University of Chicago. Prior to the performance, I would share dinner with my former pastor at a wonderful Italian restaurant in Hyde Park named “Picolo Mondo.” But, since I arrived in Hyde Park early, I took a pleasurable stroll through the warren of narrow aisles of bookshelves deep in the bowels of a gargoyle-festooned brick building. All this is to give you a feel for the neighborhood where our President-Elect Barack Obama currently lives.

Last night, I had to attend my Old Testament class at Loyola University on Michigan Avenue until 6:45pm. In some ways it was good to be isolated from all the hoopla connected with the Presidential election. However, at 6:30pm, a “whoop” from one of the other classrooms down the hall piqued the curiosity of the entire class. Nevertheless, we continued plugging away at the lesser prophets.

I’d made arrangements earlier in the day to meet some friends at a bar on the north side of Chicago to drink, eat and watch the votes roll in. On my way to the bar, a friend of mine who had decided to “stick close to home” sent me a text message that read “I am getting nervous.” Despite being tuned in to National Public Radio on the drive over to the bar, I was convinced my “stick-close-to-home” friend had access to some private poll data that would eventually result in my having to find a new country to call home.

As is the case just about any night of the week on the trendy north side of the city, parking spaces were at a premium. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, combined with “parking” if not “road” rage, caused me some extreme distress. By the time I got to the bar, I was in need of major calming down. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness in the bar, I glanced up to the television screen only to see that no states had been “called” for either candidate yet. (Note to self: do something about the drama queen friend who gets nervous without reason.)

Finally some states with minimal Electoral College votes began falling into the red and blue categories. There were no discernable trends except that black suits on grey haired CNN anchormen look very good. Soon the watch on my wrist began moving closer to 8pm CST (it’s REALLY dark out!) and yet more polls would close. WOW! Minutes later, about 12 states were projected with a slight edge of 7 states going for Obama. However, those 7 states had much larger electoral vote totals than those for McCain. I texted “stick-in the-mud” to see if he felt any better. (He did.) It would be a long stretch until the next poll closing at 9pm, so it was time for a burger and a coke and a lot of jokes at the expense of Julie’s Irish boyfriend, Tony. (He claims the only word I spoke last night that he understood was “arse.”)

Soon 9pm rolled around and a disappointingly small number of states closed their polls. It seemed we were destined for a long night, yet again, even though Obama had a substantial lead in “called” states and electoral votes over McCain. Obama had just over 200 electoral votes. I spotted a newspaper section on the table where we sat and noticed an electoral map of the United States. Determining that California, Washington and Oregon polls would close at 10pm and that their combined electoral vote totals would put Obama over the top, I breathed a half-hearted sigh of relief.

Tired and distracted, I barely noticed when my watch neared 10pm. In what seemed like seconds, however, CNN’s explosive graphic “Barack Obama Wins Presidency” appeared on the television screen. All 3 western states had been “called” for Obama! A major “whoop” and a sustained round of applause erupted from the bar patrons. Soon pictures of celebrating Americans at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, wildly ecstatic supporters in Grant Park in Chicago just a few miles away and citizens of Kenya jumping up and down in joy meshed into one joyous view of a world well-pleased with this result.

Modern political courtesy (if one can use those two words in the same sentence) dictates that the victor should not make an appearance until after the losing candidate concedes. John McCain, et al soon appeared on a stage outside the Biltmore Hotel in Phoenix, Arizona. I listened intently. Who was this man speaking these words? This was not the erratic, awkward, spiteful man who had campaigned and slurred and “that-one’d” Barack Obama. John McCain spoke words in a manner befitting the strong, patriotic, service-rich public servant that he is. I figuratively wept that the political campaign season had morphed this man into such a caricature. It was simply one of the most moving concession speeches I’d ever heard.

In what seemed like an interminable wait, my friends and I sat in mostly silence in the middle of a rowdy bar, taking measure of what had happened with the election of Barack Obama. The television screen filled with images of a diverse crowd of people in Grant Park. At one point, the camera settled upon the image of a very worn, much older Jesse Jackson with moist eyes and tear stains down his cheeks holding an American flag. Could he have ever dared to dream that 40 years after standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee seconds after Martin Luther King, Jr. had been shot to death that he would have the opportunity to stand among tens of thousands of fellow citizens stunned speechless by the election of a young African –American man to the office of President of the United States?

Obama’s speech was yet to come. My mind turned to my friend and neighbor, Lance, whose job as a sergeant with the Chicago Police Department involves, to a significant degree, security, crowd control for major public events. This would be the largest and most important event he had been assigned to since moving to that area of the Police Department. I worried for him and the burden he carried to make tonight’s event appear as relaxed and natural and carefree as possible.

Soon Barack, Michelle, Sasha and Malia appeared on stage and everyone in Grant Park and at the bar erupted in applause. Barack began speaking and while his words were well-considered and deep and true, they also gave me pause, even while listening to consider the significance of what I was seeing. It was as if I was watching two television channels at the same time. Despite my joy at his words, the harsh reality of my concern for his safety, exacerbated by my knowledge of Lance’s work, wished for him to cut his speech short and to go home and enjoy his victory. A definite shift had occurred in the evening. While still joyous at Barack’s victory, the old History teacher in me was taking stock of the perspective of time, as well as realizing the major work we all have ahead of ourselves.

Julie and Tony had left a bit earlier, so only Brian, Philip and myself were left. It was getting late; we all had work to go to in the morning. Brian had ridden his bike over to the bar, so we said our goodbyes with sincere hugs. Philip had taken a cab, so I offered him a ride home. We began walking toward my car. I took one last look back at the bar where we had lived through an historic night. The bar’s name was simple, and one I’ll always remember. It was: the Bar on Buena. It's all good!

ANCESTORS

Grief long past, only memories stir,
enhanced as I sit before a mirror.
My pale blue eyes, a heritage,
along with paler skin. Visions
of dark waves, an immigrant ship,
crossing wide miles carrying
a mother, father and two sons.
Buffeted by waves and fears,
comforted by dreams and hopes,
promises of a new land.
War was over, a chance to start anew.
Searching for familiar faces,
open arms of welcome;
a man’s feet began to dance,
a woman’s cackling laugh erupted.
A joyful warm reunion
on foreign soil that became
an eternal place to slumber,
while a bright blue bird bids
them rest with a lullaby.

(Poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with kind permission

of Christine Valters Paintner - be sure to visit Christine's Poetry Parties at

www.abbeyofthearts.com)

HONORING THE INNER VOICE RETREAT

CAMP RONORA

WATERVLIET, MICHIGAN

OCTOBER 17th - 19th

OM MANI PADME HUM

"GOLDENGROVE" by Francine Prose

I do a lot of cruising around the various web pages of NPR these days. Their news is good and the reporting solid, but considering the state of the presidential campaign (not to mention the economy), I find I'm spending most of my time on the books and music pages these days. Very few books make it to the top ten list and even fewer are noticed by Oprah. NPR manages to find some buried treasures every once in a while and that's what keeps me coming back.

Just last week, I stumbled across the NPR story about a book titled “Goldengrove” written by Francine Prose. Briefly, it is the story of a family suffering through the loss of a teenage daughter/sister due to drowning. The author conveys subtle as well as obvious emotions through a masterful use of language. I won’t reveal much more of the story. I recommend going to the NPR site as linked above for more information.

The story is told from the viewpoint of the drowned girl’s younger teenage sister. Now, as a more than middle-aged man, one might question how I’m coping with this point of view. Just fine, thanks for asking. You see, I picked up this book with ulterior motives. Don’t tune out…stick with me here.

Thirty-six years ago, when I was twenty, my adult brother drowned. It would take too much time and too much space to convey all of the information surrounding this time, but suffice it to say, I felt and still feel that I was never allowed the time to grieve that loss. Those of you who have seen a therapist will be familiar with the phrase, “work through a wound.” I have yet to meet a therapist or anyone who has been in therapy that can precisely tell me HOW to “work through a wound.” I have asked if it is enough to simply “touch” that loss. The non-answer I get is: “We all have our own ways of working things out.” I’m guessing this is what they teach therapists to say as an alternative to shrugging their shoulders.

I haven’t been to a therapist in over 4 years. I decided this particular therapist had taken me “as far as he could.” (You see, we, as patients, have developed our own nonsense language!)

But, after having read the review of the book as well as an excerpt, something resonated in me. There was something about the language and phrasing that made me feel at home; it made me feel as if this author had an understanding of what it feels like to be a surviving sibling, a surviving child. Grieve comes with many masks and only experience tells us which masks are required at which time with which people.

I’m only 100 pages into this book right now, but I felt it important to share this discovery with others. The sooner we learn that masks only work for so long, the better we will all be.

DUSK/COMPLINE

At dusk when earth
releases colors
to the sky,
and trees and homes
fall into shadows,
our eyes rejoice
in bursts of grace and glory.
Softly birds sing compline
hymns to call us
to great silence.
On our knees
we pray for sleep
and easy death
to sooth our weary,
earthly bones.
The heavens release
some scattered drops
of rain from wispy clouds,
a baptism
as we enter night,
returning to our sacred womb.
A pillow prepared
to hold my head,
lies on the ground
to beckon me.
In morning I’ll awake
to see the colors
of Eden’s dawn.

LIBRARY OF HEAVEN

Snuggled up close, to one another,
cover to cover, page to page.
Word to word, cloistered together,
ever ready, wisdom to engage.

Birthed in light and fertile air,
a dream to every willing heart.
A never, but ever, changing vision
to each eager guest impart.

Yellowed pages comfort fingers
longing for a sense of time,
smells of ancient ink arise
lifting words and prayers sublime.

O hear, the sound of one book closing,
as an accent to new thought,
freshly given to the world,
consider what God hath wrought.

(poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with kind permission of Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com)

THE FALL OF THE LABYRINTH OAK

Inside, outside,
upside, down,
memory of growth,
longing for renewal,
stones, flames,
shadow, sun,
wide oak tree arms embrace and shelter.
Hanging chimes, a swinging monk,
torches, candles, acorn shells.
Leaves crunch, weeds prosper,
distant birds call us to prayer.
Dappled sunlight, breathing deeply
Earth’s music settles over me.
Far winds cause leaves to chatter,
speaking names, butterflies leap,
searching for unspent blossoms.
Sagging limbs grip dying leaves,
grand old trunk, moss-covered bark.
Dead leaves caught in summer’s spider webs,
dancing, longing to fall to home.
Filtered light slashes through forest timbers,
rage against cruel winter’s return.

MEN WHO SHARE

Gently flowing shallow water

passing by the river banks

where fifteen solid men have gathered

to share their secret souls.

At sunrise, a primal fire rages

awakening our deepest desire

to tell our stories, to make them part

of our private weekend’s legend.

With talking stick, we honor silence,

listening for the spaces where

each man encounters private dreams,

praying for some recognition.

Learning how we share our journeys,

we gather strength to walk alone

knowing now in hidden hearts 

that others share our glory and pain

OLD MEN SINGING

This Sunday morning, I’ll sit up close
and listen to the old men sing.
These high-pitched hymns weren’t written
for those sweet baritone and
thick, rich bass voices.
Maybe they could reach those notes
when as boys their voices squealed,
letting go of the tire tree-swing
as they pitched into the river.
But those days you couldn’t get a pair
of Sunday shoes on those calloused feet
that ran all summer barefoot.
Once they realized the pretty girls
got gussied up with lacey gloves and
tiny white purses, the boys struggled
into starched white shirts and fancy ties,
craning their necks to catch a peek
at the new girl in town. But now I’m content
to remember those days as a smile
breaks out on my face each time I hear
“How Great Thou Art” sung by old men
auditioning for Saint Peter.

OLD WOMEN SINGING

This Sunday morning, I’ll sit outside
and listen to the old women sing.
Falsetto voices mix with raspy croaks
to tell a deeper story. In their voices,
I hear the whoops of young girls
skipping rope, giggling when
a cute boy passes. The soft lilt
of the first words of flirtation
turning to scorn when suitors
turn away. The breathy excitement
as “I will” becomes “I do”
and a voice that quickly sings a gentle lullaby.
The 3am whispers that plead for rest
while another life grows in her belly.
Tears of joy and anger when it all
becomes too much. A hushed prayer
to lift this burden if only for a while
answered by the cries of an infant
child of her own daughter. Sitting in a pew
on Sunday morning, holding this new
life about to be washed in the water, smiling
as together they listen to the old women sing.

GARDEN OF EDEN

Blue moon casts a shadowed glow
over ground that young ones tread,
seeking truths, binding their hearts
to stories yearning to be lived.

Two lovers breath at the edge of the world,
arm in arm, they pledge devotion
sharing one heart eternally.
Bright stars nod their assent.

Each evening they return to sleep,
renewing vows in barren fields.
Consecrated by a holy leaf
shed from the tree of life.

Poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with permission of
Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com

NO POETRY YET,
JUST SOME GUT WRENCHING HONESTY

When do I round the corner and start finding that I have fewer things to do...or is death what happens when your body just can't keep up with the continually increasing number of tasks at hand? My body is ready for the tasks to lighten up, but my ego isn't. I am home after a whirlwind 3 day business trip to Carmel, Indiana which included, at the hotel where I was staying, the arrest last Friday morning of someone for allegedly being a pimp for an Indianapolis woman. Amazing.

Anyway, on Saturday morning I had lunch with Rick, one of the fellas from the Male Spirit group I belong to that is led by Brother Joe. Rick isn't going to this weekend's retreat but he is thinking of going to the Cleveland retreat in January (as I am). It was a good time being with Rick. We formed a very quick bond about 6 years ago at the first retreat I attended. Even though months can go by without contact with one another, when we DO hook up, it is as if we'd just seen each other the day before. Rick is a really sweet gentle guy who is a wonderful listener. I think I serve the same role for him. It’s good.

Sunday was a strange day. Very overcast and about 15 degrees cooler than Saturday. I think my seasonal affected disorder kicked in and it took me forever to get motivated. I had about 9 loads of laundry to get done and I wanted it done as quickly as possible so I took everything to the Laundromat. Laundromats are always a depressing place for me. After I had all my machines loaded, I began people watching. There was a large young Hispanic mother sitting with her 8 year old son as he was practicing his reading. Apparently he wasn't doing all that well because I saw his mom all up in his face which he refused to lift up as he was crying so hard his shoulders were shaking. This took me back to some painful moments in my childhood and remembering what it felt like to not be able to do something your parents thought you should have been able to do. In a few moments I saw the boy lift his head as he saw a glimmer of hope that there was something he could say or do that would redeem him in his mother's eyes. I remember well grasping at those straws. They just reinforced a sense of hopelessness and futility. Fortunately, I was near the end of my time at the Laundromat and I got to escape fairly quickly, but not without seeing the title of the book that caused the tears. It was "Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets." My God, I couldn't get to my car quickly enough.

So, I got home and started putting the clean laundry away. Then I sat and mindlessly watched some television. I have no idea what shows were on. All I remember is that within a 10 minute period there were 3 IAMS pet food commercials with incredibly cute dogs and cats doing incredibly cute things that brought tears to my eyes once again. A phone call from a not-quite-so-sympathetic friend confirmed by misogynistic sense of being menopausal. And then it hit me. Due to rushing out of the house on Saturday morning for breakfast and a lazy Sunday morning, I had inadvertently forgotten to take my medications (which include an anti-depressant). I quickly reached for the pillbox and went to lie in bed. I woke up an hour later and found that the train to Weepyville had apparently taken off without me. I was feeling much better.

It kind of felt good to be able to cry. I wasn't ashamed by it. I just didn't like the sense of feeling sad. I'm at work now. Sad, but in a different way. That's OK.

LOST AND FOUND

A stone falls
on the ground
at my feet.
Unsure of its source,
I pick it up
and hold it
in my hand.
Rounded, grey and white
with specks of pink and black,
I roll it around,
feeling its smooth surface
well-worn by rain.
Even as I toss it in my hand
to gauge its heft,
I feel connected to the earth.
Rubbing it against my face
the coolness soothes me.
Lost boy home
dances in his barefeet.

MUSIC

For a while now I’ve been convinced that somewhere in the ether is a constantly playing soundtrack that, if we’re lucky, we get to tune it to every once in a while. There is a particular well-known singer whose performance I was fortunate enough to catch on television about 10 years ago. When she completed singing, despite my being home alone, I spoke aloud the words: “That, is the Voice of God.” The singer was Aretha Franklin. She had just finished singing “Nessun Dorma,” a short operatic piece at the Grammy awards. Ms. Franklin was asked, at the last minute, to step in for Luciano Pavarotti who, as he did so many times in his life, cancelled his appearance. The Queen of Soul serenely walked on stage, captivated and stunned the world with her incredible talent, bowed and gracefully walked off to riotous applause.

But, there are other times when I’m sure I’ve also tuned in to the eternal soundtrack. They are bittersweet moments when I am in awe of beauty and the sound of music feels as if a horsehair bow is being drawn across my heart. Usually, there is no voice; there is simply the sense that what I am hearing is a gift from a perfect world. Perhaps I am fortunate enough to be in one of those “thin places” where the sacred easily comes to us.

I just used the word “awe.” In current world politics, this word has been stolen and its meaning twisted, but I redeem the word now and restore it to its proper context. A couple of weekends ago, I was blessed to attend a concert of Sacred Music. The event was held at Unity Temple in Oak Park, IL, a beautiful standing tribute to the work and life of architect Frank Lloyd Wright. This special night began with a short introduction spoken by author, Caroline Myss. During the introduction, Caroline explained the reasons for her involvement with the Bellissima Opera Troupe who were performing this concert. During this brief talk, she offered the explanation that there is a unique quality in humans that drives us to search for awe. These were the perfect words to lead us into the evening’s music. But, they have stayed with me as I revelled in their gift.

Mystics are well-acquainted with awe resulting from their direct personal experiences of God. However, awe is not reserved for a chosen few. It is available to all of us. Through the gift of recognizing the presence of God within each other, we are prepared to be awed by one another, when we pay attention.