Poems and Photos and Rain

It's the first day of spring, and we are wind-whipped and rain-drenched, and I am not complaining one whit about it.  For Lent, I have been working through a contemplative photography course, offered by Christine at Abbey of the Arts.  You can see some of the images I've been receiving and reflecting upon at Flickr.  For this week, she gave us a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye (click here to read it), and what I took away from the poem, among its lovely images, was this line:  "Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us / we find poems."  Then I wrote one in personal response.


Poems Hide




The poem today rests

in my lower back, which aches from sitting to write too much

(too much sitting? too much writing?);

in the painful vein on the back of my thigh just above my knee,

a veiny area that feels it might burst;

in my wet cat, caught in the raingale,

dabbed dampdry with a half-used napkin from dinner;

in the attractive silvering hair of our tax lady,

with her black Volvo and black laptop;

in the alto deeps of Amy Grant on the iPod

whose albums have been on repeat for two months;

in the raindrops on the louvered windowpanes,

drops oranged by the sodium streetlight just outside

on the curb in which flow rainstreams with yellow pollen edges.

Tonight I reinvent the fwump and revving of the furnace motor

as it blows warming air only to the top floor of our home,

find the poem in the cornbread from a mix,

sweet like cake and crusty brown on the edges from cooking two minutes too long,

in the whiny mournful cat who does not want to go outside and does not want to stay in,

in the cooling wind that enters my inefficient home to blow the curtains and the edge of the rug,

in the chore of laundry that affords warm time for prayers as I fold underwear and socks.

Perhaps I will even find the poem in the ungraded papers that sit atop my table

and weigh me down with guilt and self-criticism.

Somehow Spirit; and human nature

Yes, it's blurry.  It was from very far away;  I was up on a hill.  I leached all of the color out of it.  But I like it this way.  I could not tell from that far away what the bird was -- all I know is that it was white, and it was a bird of prey, and it had just left being chased by a persistent crow.  But I'm ok with not knowing, actually.  It opens the door to a more symbolic interpretation for me. 

Palm Sunday is hard, or at least weird.  It's disingenuously joyous and exuberant, because we already know our fickle ways;  we already know that in less than a week we're going to be calling for his unjust death;  we already know that we're going to give in to mob mentality, because that is the human way;  we already know that we're going to claim the consequences of our passion and our lack of foresight for our children ("let his blood be on our hands and on the hands of our children" -- What? Thanks a lot!  Speak for yourself, they say.).  So what else is new?  We keep doing this, exhibiting tragic lack of foresight, mortgaging our future generations' futures, offhandedly claiming the consequences of our actions, until those consequences start to hurt a little, and then we cry, "Yeah, but we didn't know then what we know now."  Why should we expect anything different from ourselves?  It is the human way.  And I am definitely human.  God have mercy upon me.

Delightful

Seeing Kathleen Norris at ReligBeachTownU was truly delightful, as were the fellowship and conversation with friends on the way down and back.  Got to see my favorite FeministProf, too, and ran into an old acquaintance from ImplosionChurch (knew him pre-implosion). 

I'd have to say this has been the most stimulating and learning and reflective Lent ever, and I've been observing them for over a decade now.  I am blessed beyond measure. 

Further specifics tomorrow.

It's been...

...an odd day, of convictions and of mercies, of errands and of rest, of contact and of solitude.  I did not grade this weekend, but there were more important things than grading to attend to.  I'll pay for it this week, but so be it.

Kathleen Norris's The Cloister Walk is knocking me out.  I'm going to hear her speak on Wednesday, and I'm trying to finish the book by then, but it's the kind of book that slows me down, in a good way.  I'm reading slowly, carefully, marking the margins and pondering her insights, instead of devouring it too quickly the way I normally do.  She has made me consider things about the Psalms, the book of Revelation, Emily Dickinson, God, poetry, and sin that I've not considered before.  What an amazing Lent this has been.  I know, that sounds weird. 

In other news, my conservative family and friends are sounding the death knell for the country as regards health care.  My liberal family and friends are rejoicing for the sake of justice and "doing unto the least of these."  May I be honest?  I don't what I think about it.  I don't know who's right.  I see valid points on both sides of the deep chasm.  I don't want to be angry tonight -- I'm tired of being angry about things outside of my control, because despite all my anger, nothing gets fixed -- so I'm just giving the issue up to the only One who really knows what's going on, and trusting that he will see it through as he intends for it to happen. 

Heavy, heavy burdens people are carrying;  much to pray for.  I feel like a newbie pray-er. 

Something is different.

Still...

...in afterglow from last night's concert!

...of mind and heart after yoga tonight (or at least more still than I was when went in).

...a night person who doesn't want to go to bed this early, except that I have to get up at 4 a.m., which sucks.

...behind in grading (woefully).

...not doing such a great job with the daily writing, though I've started trying to journal a little in the morning, which has worked for two days, anyway.

...trying to remember to be thankful and appreciative, even if just for the small things, every day.

...planning to write about Mary Oliver and my current lenten reading.

..., I'm signing off for now. Tschuss.

Ethereal and Holy

Making one's way to the dead center of the second-to-highest row in the Walt Disney Concert Hall is a bit vertiginous at first, but once seated, the location offers the sitter the best view in the house. I wasn't so sure that it would offer the best sounds in the house, but I needn't have worried. I felt I had just the slightest inclination of what God and the angels and the fellowship of the saints must experience when the notes of praise and worship ascend from the lowly earth -- from cathedrals, churches, chapels, cells, gardens, kitchens -- wafting, winding, weaving up through a loom of air. The Anonymous 4 sang worship to Jesus and his mother tonight, and time both slowed and sped.

Hear the voice of my complaint

While many of my other Lenten rules are going just fine, the one I think I might care about the most, journaling and writing regularly, is the one I'm finding the hardest to maintain. The time change is doing an odd number on me this week; I get home and it's light enough and I have time enough...but I keep doing stupid things like falling asleep at the table or on the couch. Sigh. That's one thing I miss about the retreat; I had time enough to write for pages.

A gift: my sister called me with an extra ticket for the Anonymous 4 tomorrow night! I'm delighted. I saw the listing in the paper and lamented that I couldn't go. They are singing A Medieval Ladyamss. And I'm going. Even though it's a school night.

Retreat! (a.k.a. Run Away!)

Back from our silent Lenten retreat. It could not have come at a better time. I had just lived one of the worst weeks ever -- school really sucked last week, and I just got completely overwhelmed and had a meteoric meltdown (at home, fortunately), such that Friday I was a complete zombie. I was never so ready for a retreat.

This was my third silent retreat, and it took me more time than usual to quiet my restless mind and noisy heart. Our focus was sacred listening, and it was really an exercise in lectio divina, the ancient method of delving more deeply into scripture, and we did it through several of Jesus' parables. In addition to the guided meditations, I also continued reading, writing, and reflecting through The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris, which I somehow up to this point had managed never to read. I am always amazed, even though I know it's going to happen, at the interplay and overlap of the things I'm reading, thinking about, and discussing with others. This whole weekend meshed and melded that way.

Our retreats frequently offer the opportunity for confession. I've always shuddered away from that in horror. Why would I ever want to do such a terrifying thing as telling my sins to another human being who is sitting in the same room as I am?! It's one to thing to confess to God, because God already knows the state of my heart anyway, but it's entirely another thing to tell someone who's blinking and breathing right in front of me.

I wasn't going to do it. I did not want to do it. I was feeling a push to do it. Oh darn; all of the slots were signed up for. After lunch Saturday, I felt terrible. I couldn't tell if it was what I ate, how much I ate, how quickly I ate it, or something else -- vestiges of my anger and frustration of the week? Or a different kind of blockage? I lay down for a nap, but when I woke, I did not feel any better. So I got up to walk. I grabbed my camera and headed up the hill. I didn't take a watch, so I am not sure how long I walked -- it was probably two or three hours. I walked fast, I walked slow, I stopped to take pictures, I stopped to just look, I did some yoga stretching, I prayed or I didn't, I laughed at the barking dogs, I spied on birds from hawks to hummingbirds, I enjoyed the views of hills and clouds, I luxuriated in the light and angle of the sun. I started feeling better near the end of my walk. When I returned to our silent meeting place in the library, more slots had been added to the confession sign-up list, so I signed up. I felt even better.

I did it. It was nerve-wracking . But it was useful. I have a lot to think about.

More later. The time change makes me sleepy. Oh, yeah, and so did the great conversation I had till three o'clock this morning! Back into the frying pan tomorrow. I still have a lot to say about the retreat, Kathleen Norris, Mary Oliver, Dante (of all things), and others. But not tonight.

This post...

This post
will not be
what I want it to be,
but that's ok
for now.

A week
(and half a weekend)
of grading
claimed priority,
and rightly so,
I think.

This week
I give way
to the call
of writing.

--------------

I am the bookmark maker for this year's silent Lenten retreat. Our theme is Sacred Listening, which is, of course, always timely. I found an icon of Elijah hearing the voice of the Lord -- the still, small voice of the Lord -- and I included several scriptures that have to do with listening, hearing, hearkening (yeah, I'm an old-school/KJV/poetic/Shakespearean kind of gal). But I also had to get my old favorites, Madeleine and Mary Oliver, in there, too.

None of their admonitions or reflections are terribly new --
we must listen to the silence,
listen to the Spirit,
listen to the work that is trying to be communicated through us,
listen to nature,
the birds,
the trees,
the water,
the dog,
listen to the person trying to get a word in edgewise,
close mouth and listen,
get out of the way and shut up and listen,
we have two ears and only one mouth for a reason
-- no, nothing new,
but certainly I still need to hear it (listen!).

------------

More on Mary and Madeleine, and Kathleen Norris and Dorothy Sayers (both of whom I'm reading for Lent), later in the week. I haven't forgotten my vow to write about Mary Oliver's reading. Even if no one else reads it, I need to do it for me.

Whoosh!

(The sound of time passing.) (Like crazy.) This'll be a brief one tonight. Grades are due Friday a.m., and I'm behind, as usual. Benedictine meeting tonight was uplifting. Nine p.m. night at school the night before was not uplifting, but it was productive, anyway. I'm looking forward to the weekend, if for nothing else, to sleep in and catch up on my thoughts and blogs. I'm looking forward to writing about Mary Oliver and the reading I'm doing. G'night, all.

Oy

I hate days when I'm at school for fourteen hours. Today was one such day. On the bright side, I did get a lot done -- not everything I wanted to get done, but a lot: research workshop conducted, sub plans done, room cleaned (well, cleaner; straightened, perhaps), boards up, AP assignment typed, six letters of rec finished/printed/signed. And again I say, oy.

When one leaves school at eight p.m., one wants only to hit the drive-thru and go home. Despite the urgent desire, I went home and had a bowl of cereal. (I added blueberries -- health value!) I probably should not have eaten at all, given the late hour, but going to bed without my supper feels punitive somehow, and I already feel punished by the day. At least I kept to my Lenten rule and avoided fast food. It's been a long day; I celebrate the small successes. Off to bed.

The weekend...

...was short, compared to last weekend, during which we had a 3-day weekend (thanks to the Presidents) and during which I actually enjoyed a 4-day weekend (thanks to a dentist appointment, which facilitated my taking Friday off). Nice! And then Tuesday was a sub day, as I had to attend a conference on positive behavior. So really, last week was easy.

While this weekend is short (and tempered by the fact that I felt terrible for most of the day -- was it the chicken last night or the cheerios this morning? or perhaps a passing bug?), this week will again feel short, as I'm missing three days in the classroom due to being pulled out to write a course and the fact that I already had Friday scheduled as a personal day for several months now. Eek! I'll have to reintroduce myself to my students the following week.

What is it about February? This seems to have happened last year at the same time, too. I think it's because February is the beginning of our new semester, and everyone seems to see it as a good time to start new things. Sigh. Never mind that the high school exit exam happens in exactly a month and that I have two classes of sophomores to prepare for it. At least my sub is tried, true, and excellent. I wouldn't be able to sleep if it weren't for her. (She's my former master teacher and a retiree after over thirty years in our district. No one tries to pull crap on her. She's a godsend!)

In other news, Lent doesn't seem to be as difficult this year as it has in years past. Maybe it's just that it's still early in the season -- I may be singing a different tune in a month. The take-aways haven't felt as challenging -- oh, sure, I want wine with dinner and sweets after, and it's hard to go home and cook when I'd really rather go out to eat, but I'm not suffering, by any measure -- but the add-ons are more difficult. I'm a spectactularly undisciplined person about certain things, and I'm spectacularly good at rationalizing why I cannot do certain things at certain times. Excuses R Us, right here. So there's a good reason I forgot to do morning or evening prayer yesterday, and there's a good reason why I read two pottery magazines instead of reading something a little more devotional and challenging (not that art isn't devotional -- it is, exceedingly, but for me today, reading about it was more avoidance behavior than devotion).

Today's sermon, naturally, was about Jesus' temptation in the wilderness. Of course, his forty days of fasting put my little Lenten disciplines to shame, but fortunately it's not about comparative self-denial. It's about identifying our besetting sins and obsessions and addictions and distractions, and then setting about to cultivate the corresponding virtues (that from today's sermon). It is the opportunity to do new things. (We all know the definition, usually attributed to Einstein, of insanity -- in essence, doing the same thing and expecting different results.) Time to do new things for new, hoped-for results. New Year's resolutions never work for me -- they're good for reflection and such, but I rarely stick with them. Lent, though...I guess maybe because God's involved somehow...I tend to take a little more seriously.

P.S. A lenten devotional upcoming -- I get to go hear Mary Oliver later this week! Can't wait!

It's Thursday. Heh.

Nice to be back to yoga tonight, after a hiatus of several weeks (imposed due to busy-ness and laziness). Glad tomorrow is Friday. I'm not in the mood to teach this week. Thank God for presentations and exams. Heh.

Day two of Lent went fine. It's always easy in the early days. It's also mysteriously easier when you cancel your cable. Heh.

More rain in sight for the weekend. My only complaint is the headache the change in barometric pressure is giving me. I'm happy not to have to water the lawn for yet another week. Heh.

Ashes, ashes

Truly random bullets of Ash Wednesday:

• I did not see any students running around campus today with ashy black crosses on their foreheads. I did not see any teachers in a similar state, either. Nor was I among them, as our service is in the evening.
• Am I weird for noticing the ash particles falling from my forehead and the priest's finger to my nose? I've got an obvious cross-shaped black smudge across my forehead, but I'm worried about getting smudges on my nose. Really.
• It is surprisingly simple to make ashes for Ash Wednesday. I had to do it once, when I still attended Once-Amazing-Church-that-Tragically-Imploded. Take the palm fronds from Palm Sunday (of the previous year); put fronds into metal roaster pan; start gas bbq; place open metal roaster pan onto grill; flames will erupt of their own accord before long; allow fronds to burn down into ashes; allow ashes to cool; sift ashes and place in appropriate container. That's it; no tricks, no accelerant, no additives. One Palm Sunday's worth of fronds made enough ashes for several years.
• Psalm 143 was assigned this morning. Verse 10 in most versions reads, "Teach me to do your will, for you are my God." I prefer the way the English Standard version (the Authorized) puts it (as I often do; I am, after all, an English teacher and Shakespeare fan, so I love the old poetic language): "Teach me to do the thing that pleaseth thee; for thou art my God; let thy loving Spirit lead me forth in the land of righteousness."
• Lent is a time of both taking off and taking on, of shedding and adding, of retraining focus. It is not merely about deprivation and metaphoric self-flagellation. It's about portfolio diversification, as it were -- pulling resources out of less productive vehicles and reinvesting them in more effective and profitable funds. As it were.

Ah, well, Lent

It is upon us, even tomorrow. We availed ourselves of Shrove Tuesday (a.k.a. Fat Tuesday), courtesy of Claimjumper and a wicked messy burger. Hours later, I'm still full. In some ways, I think this Lent will be very difficult; in other ways, I feel very ready and welcoming of it. It is time once again to curb excesses and indulgences that have become too much a way of life. It is time to reorient my focus yet again. It's too bad that focus can't be permanent, but then I guess I wouldn't appreciate it so much if it were. May your own Lenten season feature a regaining of clarity and health for you, however you choose to observe it (if at all).

Friday Five (but on Sunday): Signs of Hope

Friday Five: Signs of Hope
As posted at RevGalBlogPals by Songbird:

My beloved speaks and says to me: “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. (Song of Solomon 2:10-13, NRSV)

In the late, late winter, as the snow begins to recede here in Maine, we begin to look almost desperately for signs of spring, signs of hope that the weather has turned and a new day is on the horizon. For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, Easter and Spring twine inextricably, the crocuses and daffodils peeking through the Earth as we await the risen Christ.

Share with us five signs of hope that you can see today or have experienced in the past.

1. Every year when the jacaranda tree by my classroom begins to bloom, I know that there is hope, and that I will survive the year intact, and that summer is indeed coming.

2. Strangely enough, the dawning of Lent is filled with hope.

3. The warming light of comprehension in a student's eyes.

4. Each spring, our backyard lights afire with a yellow sea of what some would call weeds but that I call beauty.

5. Every time I put pen to paper in search of poetry or truth, it is a hopeful sign.

Bonus: Every time I read a poem by Mary Oliver, my core fills with hope and other resonant emotions. (Her new book, Evidence, is amazing. Just...amazing.)

Retreatant: A Photo Essay

The breeze is cool. Stand in the sun if you want warmth. The sun, which glances off the ocean in the distance, which turns the eucalyptus into silhouette, which illuminates the cottontail I just saw hop across the pathway, is beginning to lower in the midafternoon sky.

I walk along the prayer path, camera in hand, ready to encounter God in nature. First I must remind myself to slow down. It is not enough to look. I must slow my pace, be still, know that he is God, know that the birds will come to those who go slowly, who stop, who wait, who breathe deeply and quietly.

One bird, a male, his brown mate hopping in the thicket below, sits, stares, refocuses, stares. He knows I am there, but he agrees to sit for a portrait, only if I don't come any closer.
The ruby-throated hummingbird knows I am there, too. He erupts out of his thicket, straight into the air, hovers and squawks with elegance, flies higher till I can no longer see him, even through my camera lens; then, mysteriously, invisibly, he returns to his thicket again, only to erupt for a repeat performance. He does this at least three times. I do not know if it is me he's trying to scare off or another intruding hummingbird. These ruby-throats all look alike to me at this distance.

The hawk pair wheels in the air, so high -- lazily, it appears from here -- but hunting is not a task for a lazy bird.

The flora here is part Southern California coastal, part Benedictine religious -- infinitely varied scrub, dotted with a nopale cactus here and and a few palms there, pines, eucalyptus and olive, flowers of purples and yellows and orange, one lone red tree leaf -- the embodiment of our lesson in perseverance -- a red-barked tree, and so many shades and variations of green and light that the eye boggles and tries to blend.

My smooth-stone bench is cool, the breeze lifts my hair, and the moon shows faintly, promising to shine tonight even after the coastal fog rolls in.

Retreated

We're back from said silent retreat. It was wonderful. Much to think about. Many challenges, much restoration. Too late tonight to write much, but I'll post a few shots...with promises of many more to come.

Ashes

I saw him on campus this morning, before classes started. A brave young man -- he looked like just a freshman -- wore his ashes to school. My own church's service was not until this evening, so I didn't have to test my own boldness; not today.

Atonement...

...for the sin of not posting yesterday. Two local scenes.

Look what opened up nearby, just in time for Lent. I've never tried them before, but everyone raves. Guess I'll be waiting another forty days or so.

Sunset over local shopping mecca. I like the airplane trail; I never get too old for them.