one small thing

A friend sent the following poem to me today.  It lists many of the labels we use to introduce ourselves. I began listing mine but stopped counting at around twenty.  The poet asks us to consider suspending usage of the labels in order to focus on the beauty of the present moment.

And just now, looking out the window I saw my son-in-law and grandson digging for worms in the vegetable patch.  As I watched the father and child feed worms to the chickens I knew that this was what Susan Glassmeyer is guiding me toward as the  "one small thing that cost us nothing but our attention."  

The photos capture the "something simple that nourished my soul"  today. 

 

Fredrick showing me the worm his dad  has unearthed.

 

Introductions

 

Let's not say our names

or what we do for a living.

If we are married

and how many times.

Single, gay, or vegan.

 

Let's not mention

how far we got in school.

Who we know,

what we're good at

or no good at, at all.

 

Let's not hint at

how much money we have

or how little.
  Where we go to church
or that we don't.
What our Sun Sign is
our Enneagram number
our personality type according to Jung
or whether we've ever been
Rolfed, arrested, psychoanalyzed,
or artificially suntanned.

 

Let's refrain, too, from stating any ills.
What meds we're on
including probiotics.
How many surgeries we've survived
or our children’s children's problems.
And, please—
let's not mention
who we voted for
in the last election.

 

Let's do this instead:
Let's start by telling
just one small thing
that costs us nothing
but our attention.

 

Something simple
that nourishes
the soul of our bones.
How it was this morning
stooping to pet the sleeping dog's muzzle
before going off to work.

 

Or
yesterday,
walking in the woods
spotting that fungus on the stump
of a maple
so astonishingly orange
it glowed like a lamp.

 

Or just now,
the sound
of your
own breath
rising
or sinking
at the end
of this
sentence.

-- Susan Glassmeyer

 

 

action shot of Fredrick offering the worm.

Chickens and small boys move fast!

happy chickens

Chilean Magnificat

I wish I knew where this art came from.

I discovered it on Pinterest and it’s

presently my favorite “Lady of Guadalupe” image.

Then to discover a Chilean woman’s interpretation of

Mary’s Magnificat? Turned out to be a fine pairing.

 Magnificat

“With pride and dignity I sing my song of joy

when I feel the Lord’s presence;

I am poor and very ordinary,

but one day the Lord looked upon me

And the history of the poor will give witness to my joy.

God is unfettered and unpredictable,

He is called our great friend.

And throughout our history He has favored those of us

who are weak.

His triumphant force shows itself each day

when He exposes the foolishness of the powerful.

He uncovers the feet of clay of those in power,

and nourishes the yearning of the poor.

To those who come hungry He gives bread and wine.

And to the wealthy He exposes their selfishness

and the emptiness of their ways.

This is God’s desire: always to favor the poor.

Now finally we can walk.

He is faithful to His promises.”

- Chilean Woman

from “Soul Weavings” A gathering of Women’s Prayers”

edited by Lyn King, 1996, page 21

stillness

Stillness is what creates Love
Movement is what creates Life
To be still
Yet still moving -
That is everything.

Do Hyun Choe

"Stillness" by Aijung Kim

visit her website here.

Jonah in a seashell

Spent most of this week studying the Book of Jonah.

to prepare for a sermon. 

Maybe it was the effect of this week's  snow,

but I started condensing

the story into whatever this is..

Jonah in a nutshell?  Or perhaps a seashell. 

"God called,  but Jonah stalled.

Then Jonah split, and a mighty storm hit.

The sailors cast lots, and Jonah?  He lost!

Then the whale swallowed, while Jonah?  He wallowed.

Soon the whale spewed, after which Jonah stewed.

God said, "Get up!"

But Jonah felt set up.

So Jonah spoke of spite, but they became - contrite.

Those Ninevites repented!

And Jonah's God relented!

And Jonah?  He pouted and lo! a bush sprouted.

But soon the bush died, and Jonah?  He cried.

Then God did the talking and Jonah the balking.

And while God accused, Jonah excused.

So God discussed, but Jonah remained...

nonplussed!"

Roberta Hiday

artwork by Scott Erickson

from here

wisp of thread

“Life may seem inexplicable.

But, always, somewhere,

there is a narrow filament of meaning,

like a spider web.

Hold it between the thumb or finger or your heart.

Follow its invisible trail through the labyrinth of your life,

until it leads you where it will.

This is the walk of faith,

this blind stepping in the darkness,

with only the invisible, resilient wisp of thread

that leads to God.”

- Gerda Crake

photo by Jane Manzer

on the way to Bethlehem...

Yesterday's Pain

 "Some of us walk into Advent

tethered to our unresolved yesterdays

the pain still stabbing

the hurt still throbbing.

It's not that we don't know better;

it's just that we can't stand up anymore by ourselves.

On the way to Bethlehem,

will you give us a hand?"

 

Ann Weems, from her book,

Kneeling in Bethlehem, p. 14

copyright 1980, Westminster Press

watching autumn

This poem is from Joan Chittister's e-newsletter, Vision & Viewpoint.

It reminded me of a recent camping trip to Dosewallips during which

I sat silently with my husband in the forest on this bench,

watching and listening to the falling leaves.

A Leaf
by Bronislaw Maj

A leaf, one of the last, parts from a maple branch:
it is spinning in the transparent air of October, falls
on a heap of others, stops, fades. No one
admired its entrancing struggle with the wind,
followed its flight, no one will distinguish it now
as it lies among other leaves, no one saw
what I did. I am
the only one.

 

This photo is the trail we walked upon.

Such a lovely Autumn day it was.

Such an honor to be there to watch the leaves falling.

 

spring garden poem

A TRACE

"You that give new life to this planet,

you that transcend logic, come.

I am only an arrow.

Fill your bow with me and let me fly.

Because of this love for you

my bowl has fallen from the roof.

Put down a ladder and collect the pieces, please.

People ask, But which roof is your roof?

I answer, Wherever the soul came from,

and wherever it goes at night, my roof is in that direction.

From wherever spring arrives to heal the ground,

from wherever searching rises in a human being.

The looking itself is a trace of what we are looking for,

but we have been more like the man who sat on his donkey

and asked the donkey where to go.

Be quiet now and wait.

It may be that the ocean one,

that we desire so to move into and become,

desires us out here on land a little longer

going our sundry roads to the shore."

Rumi: The Big Red Book

by Coleman Barks, p. 316

photo is of The Hermitage Cottage Spring Garden in Saintfield, Northern Ireland

"Hyancinth with dome-shaped hacquetia and early red tulips behind; along centre path"

A lovely photo in homage to "from wherever spring arrives to heal the ground"

Haiku - The Sacred Art

Yesterday I had the joy of joining my friend Margaret McGee at Seattle University's 3rd Annual "Search for Meaning Book Festival." Margaret provided a workshop on her book, "Haiku, A Spiritual Practice in Three Lines," and I spoke briefly on the use of Haiku in Spiritual Direction.  There's something about spending the night in the big city where people are actually eating dinner after 9pm that does a rural woman's soul some good.

There were 2 keynote speakers: Anne Lamott, author of fiction and non-fiction was excellent and funny, and Tariq Ramadan, professor of Islamic studies at Oxford, was intriguing to say the least.  It's also great to run into people you haven't seen in a few years, and to end the day engaged in great conversation with a dear friend during the 2 hour drive home.  Did I mention that this Book Festival is FREE.  Yep...So mark your calendars for next February. 

So I leave you with a couple of quotes from Margaret's book and several Haikus:  "A haiku expresses the heart of a moment in a few brief lines.  Using images and senses, a haiku brings feeling to life... A haiku is a form of instant communion.  A haiku involves an exchange of sensory experience: taste and touch, bread and wine.  In haiku, the experince is shared in a few brief words, offering both the feeling of the moment and the insight that we are not alone." (p.9 Haiku-the sacred art by Margaret McGee)  And here is one of my favorites: "Haiku is a way to let God know we are paying attention."

shown a flower

a small baby

opens its mouth

         -Seifu-ni (1731-1814

a bitter morning:

sparrows sitting together

without any necks

         -James W. Hackett

Our journey into Egypt

One of the main hallmarks of Ignatian spirituality is imaginative prayer - the placing of yourself inside the telling of a biblical story. In the poem below, Antoinette Voute Roeder places herself in the second chaper of Mathew, verses 13 and 14.  Here is yet another Epiphany moment - a time for Mary and Joseph to enter unknown territory with this child who is already making their impossible life even more complicated. From the art above we can see that this must have been a harrowing journey.

I recently received news that the path I thought I was on is no longer the path that I am on.  This has led to deep lament, anger and sadness - i.e. the process of grieving.  And with it came a huge desire to chuck God in the bin.  Of course that desire must have passed because here I am once again talking about my desire for God.  Sigh...So like the Holy Family, I'm packing my knapsack and heading towards all the unknowns that Egypt may hold, choosing to focus not on what might have been but on what is and is to come.

journey (in the way of Ignatius)

"We watch them until they are mere specks

on a wide and vacant desert:

woman huddled in her shawl

jouncing on the donkey's back,

man beside her, walking tall,

into Egypt.

I say to you, let us go too.

Let us start upon this journey

into unknown lands and future

where we have no friends, no home,

no kin waiting, no work to perform.

At our feet I see two backpacks,

royal blue, festooned with straps

of leather and with shiny buckles

Bulging with their contents,

they are equal size and weight,

heavy with the same provisions.

As I hand one on to you

and look into your eyes

I know you pack no miracles.

I can expect no angel bands

or acts of God along the way:

just all things needed for the journey

and your priceless company

until we reach that other country,

an extraordinary banquet,

that long promised feast.

Mathew 2: 13 & 14

Ignatian prayer:  St. Ignatius of Loyola left us a prayer practice which involves

the use of one's imagination with scripture passages."

This passage is from Antoinette Voute Roeder's Weaving the Wind, p. 101,102

If you would like to learn more about Ignatian Spirituality please click here.

If you are interested in receiving spiritual direction drop me a line at

robertahiday@gmail.com

artwork by James J. Tissot taken from here

Cana Wine

Today's Gospel reading is the familiar story of Jesus turning water into wine as recounted in John 2:1-11. Antoinette Voute Roeder captures the intensity of the mother-son relationship in this poem from her book "Weaving the Wind"....Enjoy!

"He was dancing with the bride,

when he became aware of her,

unobtrusive at his side.

They have no more wine she said.

And the dance came to a halt

as he looked into her face,

saw her eyes speak worlds of love,

cosmic beckoning in the deep space

of Creation.

Filigrees of fear, of wonder,

plucked like fingers at his heart.

Lady, (and it sounded like

he was addressing royalty),

it is not my time.

His gaze remaining locked with hers,

he saw within the wet depth

of her woman's tears, himself:

upwelling, surging, and emerging

in a second birth.

Is it? was his whisper

and it hung between them, quivering

Then he caught her, strong embrace,

and turned to seek his Father's face

before opening the door

to the beginning of his life,

the outpouring of himself,

in this, the first of many signs.

Cana wine.

                                 John 2

Hints and Glimpses

"All we have

are hints and glimpses,

something seen fleetingly

as in peripheral vision,

a shadowy shape

beyond the drape,

the voice that whispers

behind the grill,

the merest murmur

of Elysian melody,

a prickling of the skin

which might be

but a draft

from an open window.

But it is the window

opening on eternity,

seen now darkly,

but then

face to face."

Bonnie Thurston

artwork:

A Corner of the Artist’s Room in Paris (with Open Window), Gwen John.

Life is filled with such moments of almost seeing something, almost touching something,

not knowing with certainty, but comforted by the experience.



forgive again

Forgiveness

Is a thousand pains

Placed one by one

In small boats

Kissed tenderly

And sent out to sea

Sometimes a few float back

The exquisiteness of the pain

Remembered

Kissed yet again

Then placed in its boat and sent out

As many times as it takes

Will they ever stop coming back

I can’t know

I can only send them out again

One by one

-Laura S. Walters

one can learn a lot from little ones about forgiveness

I'm not who I was

A friend shared this poem with me today...

'Layers' by Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being

abides, from which I struggle

not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look

before I can gather strength

to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing

from the abandoned camp-sites,

over which scavenger angels

wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe

out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled

to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind

the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn, I turn,

exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go

wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road

precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice

directed me:

"Live in the layers,

not on the litter."

Though I lack the art

to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter

in my book of transformations

is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

photo from here; while there, check out

the other 'bits of verse' on FreeVerse: Poetry in the Wild

A Colt's recollection of Palm Sunday

A Colt, The Foal of an Ass

by Robert Siegel

"Contemplating the dust he stands

in the direct unbearable noon, tethered

to the dead thorn. His long ears hang

down, twitch and revolve as the gang of flies

brassily land and bite and ascend

in a constant small black cloud. His hide

at each bite quivers and smooths out

like this earthquake-tormented land,

while his tail, with its bathrobe tassel, larrups

and swats too late.

His eyes, half-lidded

in the bleaching light, are fixed and still,

his plain, dull face perpendicular as a post,

his forelock hanging over it.

He does not

turn toward the stranger who stands talking

with the two at the door. Only his muzzle,

soft as silk and still faintly pink,

twitches as his nostrils catch the foreign scent,

widen, and lift his lip for half a second.

Then

lazily he turns to look, eyes glazed, indifferent,

tugs at the harsh rope once, desists,

patient with donkey patience, already learning

the rough discipline that pulled him from the grass

and his mother's side.

Now, without warning,

as if he feels a tremor underfoot,

some inaudible alarm from the world's core,

he bares his teeth and breaks the air with a sound

like a stone wrenched and crying from its center,

harsh and grating as a rusty hinge

on which the whole earth hangs.

Later

there is a moment with a crowd roaring

in surges long and hoarse as breakers crashing,

cool, green branches to tread over the hot stones,

and flowers which offer a brief fragrance underhoof -

one moment of all those in the years that are to come

of fetching and hauling for masters bad and good,

when he does not mind what he is carrying,

when a sense of joy returns, the early smell

of grass while he first stood, unsteady, in the field

with a beast's dim sense of liberty.

Still, he cannot guess what he is carrying

and will not remember this moment in all the years

until he is worn out, lame,

until the hammer is brought down on his unsuspecting head,

his hooves melted to glue, his hide thrown to the crows -

when he shall return to this now, this always,

he continues to live in,

this moment of bearing the man,

a weight that is light and easy,

celebrated in a rough, ecstatic chorus,

toward his own fatal burden heavier than the world."

taken from A Pentecost of Finches, New & Selected Poems
by Robert Siegel, Paraclete Press, Copyright 2006

Angel Filled Advent

"Wouldn't it be wonderful
if Advent came filled with angels and alleluias?

Wouldn't it be perfect

if we were greeted on these December mornings

with a hovering of heavenly hosts

tuning their harps and brushing up on their fa-la-la's?

Wouldn't it be incredible

if their music filled our waking hours
with the promise of peace on earth

and if each Advent night we dreamed of nothing but goodwill?

Wouldn't we be ecstatic

if we could take those angels shopping,

or trim the tree, or have them hold our hands

and dance through our houses decorating?

And oh, how glorious it would be

to sit in church next to an angel

and sing our hark-the-heralds!

What an Advent that would be!

What Christmas spirit we could have!

An angel-filled Advent has so many possibilities!

But in lieu of that,

perhaps we can give thanks

for the good earthy joys we have been given

and for the earthly "angels" that we know

who do such a good job of filling

our Advent with alleluias!

Ann Weems from Kneeling in Bethlehem, p. 16

"Rebirth" by Keri Wehlander

We are the locked door,
the stone not rolled away.
You invite us to cross through waters,
walk dry roads
look towards transformation
in every wilderness.

You believe we can.

We want other gods, other commodities--
depth without the daily searching.
You offer us a simple table
and the words, follow me.

You believe we will.

We choose a meager vision,
hold tight to the catch of our nets.
You tell a story that asks,
Which one was the neighbor?

You believe we understand.

We are perplexed
when you appear in our untended gardens.
You say, peace,
to all our uncertainty.
You show that new life
comes with time, with practice,
and the sowing, however small,
of stubborn hope.

You believe we will grow.

"Rebirth" by Keri K. Wehlander
from Weavings, Abide in Me, Vol. XXII,

Number 2, March/April 2007, p. 33

Just a Housewife?

This Sunday's reading from the Gospel according to John, chapter 6, tells the well-known story of Jesus feeding the 5000 from the meager offerings of a young boy in the crowd. Before reading the following piece, I had never considered the woman who must have baked those 5 simple loaves. I love a fresh perspective!

"Just a Housewife"
by Cordelia Baker-Pearce

I packed five cakes of bread and two small fishes,

Sent him off, my youngest lad,

To take his father's dinner to the field.
Came back alone he did, all goggle-eyed.

My fresh-baked bread that varmint gave away

To some young travelling preacher out of Galilee.
It fed five thousand people.What a tale!

It can't be true... but if it is,

What kind of dough did these hands knead

This morning?

She baked holy bread for holy people

change direction

AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN FIVE SHORT CHAPTERS
by Portia Nelson
I
I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk I fall in. I am lost ... I am helpless. It isn't my fault. It takes me forever to find a way out.
II
I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in again. I can't believe I am in the same place but, it isn't my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.
III
I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in ... it's a habit. my eyes are open I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.
IV
I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.
V
I walk down another street.

King John's Christmas

When I was 7 years old my grandfather gave me a copy of "Now We Are Six" by A.A. Milne, the author of "Winnie the Pooh". (I still own this book and it looks just like the one on the left though my little sister Rebecca did scribble her name in it when she was about 5.)

I loved this book of poetry to bits and memorized many of the selections. But King John's Christmas was and still is my favorite - for we are all God's children - whether our behavior is good or bad - God loves and is with us. That's what the Incarnation is all about! May you reach out to all the King Johns in your own life on this Christmas Day.

King John's Christmas
King John was not a good man —
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air —
And bad King John stood dumbly there,
Blushing beneath his crown.

King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon ...
But no one came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.

King John was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They’d given him no present now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While minstrels stood about,
Collecting tribute from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.

King John was not a good man,
He lived his life aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
“TO ALL AND SUNDRY -
NEAR AND FAR -
F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR.”
And signed it not “Johannes R.”
But very humbly, “JACK.”

“I want some crackers,
And I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I don’t mind oranges,
I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man —
He wrote this message out,
And gat him to his room again,
Descending by the spout.
And all that night he lay there,
A prey to hopes and fears.
“I think that’s him a-coming now,
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
“He’ll bring one present, anyhow —
The first I’ve had for years.

“Forget about the crackers,
And forget about the candy;
I’m sure a box of chocolates
Would never come in handy;
I don’t like oranges,
I don’t want nuts,
And I HAVE got a pocket-knife
That almost cuts.
But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man —
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And crackers, toys and games appeared,
And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly:
“As I feared, Nothing again for me!”“

I did want crackers,
And I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I do love oranges,
I did want nuts.
I haven’t got a pocket-knife —
Not one that cuts.
And, oh! if Father Christmas had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all...
When through the window big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
An india-rubber ball!
AND OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,
MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM A
BIG, RED INDIA-RUBBER BALL!