Tuesday Slice: The book beckons

 

My eyes are weary

So many words in a day

But the book insists

Those many pages

Beckon me to stay awake

Far past my bedtime

Loud alarm beeping

Rouses me from my slumber

Tired from reading

The story is still

Within me when I awake

Details free floating

Until I open

The book once more, and enter

That make-believe world.

I know haiku is meant to be a stand-alone form, but poetry rules are made to be broken, yes?  The book keeping me up at night these days is The Arctic Fury by Greer Macallister.  It's rare these days for a book to keep me up at night due to exhaustion from the day's activities; the short chapters of this book are just thrilling enough to entice me to read two or three at day's end.

Tuesday Slice: Spring is annoying

 

Spring has been

annoying this year

I hung a birdfeeder

for the first time ever

Bought spicy birdseed to

keep the squirrels away

I hoped to see all kinds of

birds at the feeder, the ones

I see in my trees all the time

But the mourning doves are such

bullies, that only the random chickadee or

blue jay gets a bite.

The squirrels may be

staying away from the feeder, but

They are enjoying the fresh soil in

the containers on my porch and patio

Throwing dirt all over as they plant who 

knows what, to be identified when the random

sprouts appear next to my ivy, lavender, random

flowering plants that I bought only because the sticker

said they would tolerate part shade, but they

are annuals, and I prefer perennials as

a lazy gardener.

It's a good thing the rose bush

is blooming profusely for the very first time,

its foliage finally covering the sight of the trash cans

(its purpose from the beginning)

And there's a tomato planted on the back porch

which should do well if I can keep the squirrels out of it.

The milkweed looks promising, if it can grow fast enough to

accommodate the butterflies when they pass through soon

But I'm not hopeful, as they aren't even two inches 

The brightly colored diners will be here any minute on

their way back from Mexico.

Tuesday Slice: The gap

 

I am dreaming

In the bathroom

there is a gap

between the floor and the wall

A sizeable one

maybe six inches deep,

a foot wide

I am not too surprised.

We live in an old house

and it is a dream, after all--

I know this.

What I don't expect

is the large snake--

wait, make that two snakes--

sleeping in the gap

 

I can't see their heads

only yellowish gray scales

(is there even a pattern?)

rainforest-constrictor-type-bodies

except for

one   huge    rattle

as big as my hand

its light tan segments silently still.

I am calmly afraid, if

being calmly afraid is possible.

Leaving the bathroom, 

I quietly close the door and

inform my husband, who carefully

stuffs an old bedspread 

into the gap

over the snakes

and calls a guy.

It's just a dream, after all.

Of course, I had to look up the meaning of rattlesnakes in dreams as I wrote my morning page.  Heeding warnings and boundaries, warning others before I strike were the first interpretations...but they didn't make sense, since the snakes were sleeping.  Tackling problems by trusting gut instincts, and the presence of spirits close enough to sense and almost touch--now that seems more apropos.  

Tuesday Slice: A cup of metaphor/ writer's notes

The second cup of coffee is always sweeter

        Poured into remnants of the first

        Hot dark mixing with lighter cool

Stevia upon stevia

Half and half upon half and half

        A tiny silver spoon swirling it all together.

******************

The first line of the poem has been stuck in my head for a week, the neurons taking it out of my mental filing cabinets each morning as I refreshed my coffee.  I finally tried expanding on it in my morning writing.

Digging deeper, I see this as a metaphor for the second half of my life:  experience building on experience, sweet gratitude for all that has come before and more good things to anticipate in the future.  The tiny silver spoon was bought in Japan, where we traveled for our silver anniversary-- a reminder of the lovely coffee serving sets in the hotel featuring similar spoons. 

Abandoned Traditions: Spiritual Journey

I am late to this gathering, this writing of Spirit, due Maundy Thursday but penning on Easter Sunday instead.

I feel rather like the breathless women arriving at the tomb, just barely realizing what has happened.  Confused, saddened, angry perhaps at an incorrectly perceived injustice until the truth is revealed.

Several years ago, I drifted away from the Church of my childhood, taking my family along with me.  The suffocating patriarchy, the tedium and social politics experienced by my children in religious education, and my increased reading on the representation of the feminine in the Divine drove the wedge deep enough to impact our church attendance.  It didn't happen all at once, but eventually we all realized that much of the teachings just didn't align with how we needed to experience Divine presence.

We lost our religion, but not our faith.  We still said grace, blessed each other at bedtime, performed service projects in lieu of crowded Christmas Mass, made birthday cakes for Jesus on Christmas Eves and looked for the baby in the manger on the mantel on Christmas mornings, placed there by Santa (who enjoyed his slice of cake instead of a cookie).  Sometimes we made Lenten resolutions, trying to focus more on positive acts than on the giving up of chocolate.  We had special dinners at Easter.  But the children have grown and are (mostly) flown from the nest, and so the home traditions are going by the wayside.

During this transition, I needed a faith practice that was inclusive of all my Christian, Hindu, Muslim, and Jewish friends.  I needed to hear of a God who loved all of His/Her children, even my gay relatives and friends.  The God of Love, who invites all to the table, sinners and saints, no password needed.  I found Her through books--Nadia Bolz Weber's stories of her progressive Lutheran church, Sue Monk Kidd's awakening in The Dance of the Dissident Daughter  and the bibliography she provides.  There were discussions with friends of faith and even a spiritual director, all affirming this questioning as spiritual growth.

I feel like my faith has grown as the years have passed.  I believe in the power of prayer, especially those of my Celtic forebears which often draw upon the wonders of this Creation, connecting Heaven and Earth.  I experience the Divine in beautiful sunsets, birds at my feeder, the many-hued faces of my students, the sharing of good food and soul-filling conversation.  Absolution is given with heartfelt apologies and changed behavior, not in closed cabinets with curtained screens.  Communion is bringing a cake to the party, canned goods to the food bank collection.  Confirmation is found each morning in the granting of one more day to try and get it right and gratitude written in a journal at bedtime.  Matrimonial blessings are conferred in the smiles of loved ones wishing the new couple every good thing in their promised partnership, no matter the setting.

At the same time, I have a longing for the traditions of the old Church.  I miss the scent of incense, the sprinkling of Holy Water, the communal Lord's Prayer.  I miss the quiet of the sanctuary between Masses, the feeling of standing on sacred ground, the removal from the everyday for just an hour to focus on the Divine.

And so I have become an on-again, off-again seeker. I am truly walking this Spiritual Journey.  Here's hoping that the joining of this group of writers as they explore Spirit each month will be a new beginning, a brighter light shining on my dulling practices of faith.

Happy Easter.