Struggling

 Today, life seems impossibly complicated. And hard. (Warning: whining ensues.)

While you would think that the awareness of good things happening in the world despite the tide of hate washing over the country from D.C. would buoy me, instead I feel overwhelmed with all that I seemingly don't have time for. 

There were a few weeks when I got to go to yoga Saturday and Sunday for double classes (read: "yoga retreat weekend!"), and that felt luxurious and expansive, as though I were already retired and living my best life. I felt centered and healthy and energetic.  

But I've remembered that I promised to help with a Religious Education curriculum for anti-racism at my UU church. So great! Yes, I say yes! (But also... there goes my yoga retreat.) So selfish. So Karen-ish! And yet, joy is also anti-racism, right? And we need to feel grounded and healthy and energetic to survive this tough time. I do. I know I will find a different kind of energy and health and groundedness contributing to my church community in this way. I know. And yet. Today, it feels sad. I feel sad. 

I got a newsletter from the city about all the events that I could volunteer to help support, one of them for Indigenous Heritage Celebration with Open Space. Yes! I want to say yes! I will help celebrate Indigenous Heritage! But it's this Saturday, and I have a date to puzzle with a good friend, which is grounding and nourishing and fun. 

Tonight, I could go to Vespers or play cards with good friends that I don't see very often.

This semester, I am teaching a class at UNM but want to spend my weekends playing instead of reading. 

I am gaining weight but want to eat candy corn like it's movie popcorn. 

I want to walk and run and yoga, but there's band concerts and sleep and work and class. 

Life is a lot. And I'm not sure I am navigating it well, for myself, for my community, or for the world. 

And maybe this is chemicals talking, and nothing is as bad or hard as it feels. And that's annoying, too. 

Maple Seeds (poem) by Lynn Ungar

Most of the leaves are gone
from the maple. Other years
it's glowed with color but in drought
the leaves just turned brown
and dropped. Sometimes you just
can't afford that kind of gaudy joy.
But now there are seeds
by the tens of thousands,
the sidewalk heaped in
little brown wings, flocks
of seed angels come to earth.
I know I'll be grumbling
as I pull sprout after sprout
when the rains come. But for now
let me be a witness that letting go
is not the same as giving up,
that we could forego glamor
for the sake of the next generation,
that creation is the first principle,
to which we all belong.

10/18/2022

Turtle (poem) by Kay Ryan

Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,
she can ill afford the chances she must take
in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
her track is graceless, like dragging
a packing case places, and almost any slope
defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,
she's often stuck up to the axle on her way
to something edible. With everything optimal,
she skirts the ditch which would convert
her shell into a serving dish. She lives
below luck-level, never imagining some lottery
will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
the sport of truly chastened things.

Winter Morning (poem) by James Crews

When I can no longer say thank you
for this new day and the waking into it,
for the cold scrape of the kitchen chair
and the ticking of the space heater glowing
orange as it warms the floor near my feet,
I know it is because I’ve been fooled again
by the selfish, unruly man who lives in me
and believes he deserves only safety
and comfort. But if I pause as I do now,
and watch the streetlights outside winking
off one by one like old men closing their
cloudy eyes, if I listen to my tired neighbors
slamming car doors hard against the morning
and see the steaming coffee in their mugs
kissing their chapped lips as they sip and
exhale each of their worries white into
the icy air around their faces—then I can
remember this one life is a gift each of us
was handed and told to open: Untie the bow
and tear off the paper, look inside
and be grateful for whatever you find
even if it is only the scent of a tangerine
that lingers on the fingers long after
you’ve finished eating it.

UUABQ Poetry Service: When You Need a Poem

 7/12/2025

Part 1: Be Where You Are

Once poetry has entered your soul, it will always have a place there. Poetry didn’t find a way into my heart in college, though I was a writing and literature major. It was here, right here, as a worship leader in this church, giving voice to beautiful readings handed to me, that poetry started to make its mark. 

There’s nothing like the right poem in the right moment. Today we’d like to share some poems that are friends to us, that call us back to ourselves, or into community, or give us strength to act. 

We’ll start with a few poems that remind us to pay attention, not to the cacophony of the outside world with its politics and emails and endless smartphone distractions, but to what is right in front of you. Or even more intimately, what lives inside of you: That “still, small voice” that can be so hard to hear.

Our first poem may be my very favorite of all time, since Angela chose it for our first Blue December service: Visitation, by Mark Doty.

• Visitation by Mark Doty
• Choice by Lynn Ungar
• The Sound of Me by Kristin Satterlee

Part II: It's All Connected

Poets speak truth to power in hard times. Poets are often trusted voices in the revolution. The political poets that speak to me are those who remind us to keep current events in perspective, not to minimize them, but to remember humility as we decide on how to respond to atrocities. 

The next poems explore this response to unimaginable horror, starting with our place in the grand scheme of things -- our connection to the universe, our moment in time, and our place in the community of ourselves. 

• The Answer by Robinson Jeffers
• Singularity by Marie Howe
• In Any Event by Dorianne Laux

Part III: This Is Hard; You Can Do Hard Things

Suffering comes to each of us: There is no avoiding pain and anxiety, and grief is the price of love. 

So how do we walk through what seems unbearable? No one has the key to that, a one-size-fits all answer. But poetry can remind us that we are not alone; that we can find our way back to life, back to love, back to wholeness.

• The Thing Is by Ellen Bass
• What I Can Do by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Part IV: Building Community

Poets are organizers. They remind us of the collective power of community, of attention, of voice. When I am overwhelmed by all that is wrong, my favorite poets remind me of what’s important to do, step by step, how to reach out to others, how and why we link arms, how to carve out a new future with our love and the power of our laser vision.

• The Space Inside by Mikaela Renz-Whitmore
• Red Brocade by Naomi Shahib Nye
• The Way It Is by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
• Sorrow Is Not My Name by Ross Gay

In Love with the World (poem) by Mark Nepo

There is no end to love. We may tear ourselves away, or fall off the cliff we thought sacred, or return one day to find the home we dreamt of burning. But when the rain slows to a slant and the pavement turns cold, that place where I keep you and you and all of you—that place opens, like a fist no longer strong enough to stay closed. And the ache returns. Thank God. The sweet and sudden ache that lets me know I am alive.

The rain keeps misting my face. What majesty of cells assembles around this luminous presence that moves around as me? How is it I’m still here? Each thing touched, each breath, each glint of light, each pain in my gut is cause for praise. I pray to keep falling in love with everyone I meet, with every child’s eye, with every fallen being getting up. Like a worm cut in two, the heart only grows another heart. When the cut in my mind heals, I grow another mind. Birds migrate and caribou circle the cold top of the world.

Perhaps we migrate between love and suffering, making our wounded-joyous cries: alone, then together, alone, then together. Oh praise the soul’s migration. I fall. I get up. I run from you. I look for you. I am again in love with the world.

One Big Beautiful Bill

 Maxwell Frost (D-Fla.):

“Republicans would have us believe that the person most likely to steal from you is a Black person in a hoodie or an immigrant with tattoos.

This is to distract from the fact that at least here, tonight, the people stealing from Americans are not folks with tattoos and hoodies. It’s people wearing suits and ties and congressional pins sitting in this Capitol right now, not in some random alley wrapped in darkness but in the United States Congress wrapped in the flag. 

It is disgusting, and we will never forget this.”

Vespers video ideas

 We Don't Know - Strumbrellas

We've Got You - Vienna Teng

Level Up - Vienna Teng

One Moment - OK Go 

Catch & Release - Matt Simmons

Being Present (poem) by V.B. Price

 From  Innocence Regained: Christmas Poems

So much is missing now,
so much is taken from us.
We define our lives by absences,
by cannot-haves and contradictions,
by choices impossible to choose.
And oh our opal sufferings,
the pining for our fantasies --
the lovers, absolutes, utopias --
that ever have come true.
Heavy with our vacancies,
possessed by what is not,
we are not present at our lives,
but locked within discrepancy
until some shock, some generosity,
a living moment absolute with evidence,
penetrates our absences,
turns us inside out
and presses us against
the simple presence of the world,
and we feel inside us
what is all around us,
give ourselves to what is there,
a relief so deep
we know ourselves for what we are:
totalities of moments
that have to be enough.

(1976)

Moving

You get to be 49, and you realize there's not TOO much more time to shape your life. As the kids get older, more independent, and, perhaps most importantly to MY freedom, start driving, I am trying to imagine/goal/habit my way into a new ratio of time. I am inching my way to more activity - more yoga, bike riding, tennis. Turns out moving my body moves me. 

And I am not yet satisfied with my strength, my endurance, how much I push myself. In all other aspects of my life, I push 95-100%. Why, with my activities (which I LOVE and find FUN), do I hover around 60%?

My friend told me this week that overachievers need to build their skills to give 80%. Care but don't push into the red, no need to call up reserves, exhaust yourself and others. 

And so I don't need to work out 4 hours a day, or even an hour every day. But adding a little swimming, a little tennis, a little more biking, maybe daily dog walking... that's my goal. And walking the dog and listening to Chief Inspector Armand Gamache learn/teach life lessons? It's all so good. So sweet. 

I have been successful in doing more puzzles. Listening to my books and doing puzzles is kinda my best life. Or doing a puzzle with my friend (puzzle dates? YES!). After my daughter's birthday at our house, where a small group ended up finishing the puzzle I was working on, the family decided to do puzzles at Easter. 2 tables, 2 groups, a little competition. So great. 

And yes, all of this is a little ostrich-head-in-sand, given the dumpster fire of our country and the world right now. 

But the question of -- what grounds you? What brings out the best in you? What do you give your time/energy/attention to? And not having the answer be: raging at what I can't control. 

Maybe this is a little resting up before the storm. Getting ready to get called up. Ready for the movement. 

Miracle Fish (poem) by Ada Limón

I used to pretend to believe in God. Mainly, I liked so much to talk to someone in the dark. Think of how far a voice must have to travel to go beyond the universe. How powerful that voice must be to get there. Once in a small chapel in Chimayo, New Mexico, I knelt in the dirt because I thought that’s what you were supposed to do. That was before I learned to harness that upward motion inside me, before I nested my head in the blood of my body. There was a sign and it said, This earth is blessed. Do not play in it. But I swear I will play on this blessed earth until I die. I relied on a Miracle Fish, once, in New York City, to tell me my fortune. That was before I knew it was my body’s water that moved it, that the massive ocean inside me was what made the fish swim.

Quote - Robinson Jeffers

“We have enjoyed fine dreams; we have dreamed of unifying the world; we are unifying it—against us.”

Professional Journal

I'm attending a conference in Denver. In a session on power dynamics, the presenters made the suggestion to journal about where you are in your career - how you feel about interactions, the ways people hold open doors and lift you up, the ways people keep you out, hold you down. Over time, you can remind yourself what you felt - what others might feel - in similar positions that you are no longer in. 

I realize I resent when my bosses ask me questions to prepare for a meeting but then don't circle back to tell me how it went, what next steps are. I am sure I am guilty of that. I resolve to do better.

A co-conspirator in another office asked me why I think my Achilles heel is being hard to approach. I was thinking of more junior staff, but she was thinking about decision-makers. She thought my institutional knowledge of what we've tried and what doesn't work makes me quick to say no. I shared that my frustration in those moments is that I'm usually only asked yes or no questions - will this stupid / crazy / infeasible / hard solution work? As opposed to... here's what we are trying to do / accomplish / solve / influence - what are some ways we could get there? What would make it easier, more feasible, politically tenable, wise? And ... I'm a little guilty of that myself. But I don't think fully. I think I try to hold space for people to be creative, help problem-solve, bring their expertise to bear on the challenge. I spend a LOT of time in every meeting giving context, the big picture, the scope of the challenge, the factors at play. Maybe I need to be more explicit that I do that to provide openings for people to offer a different way to achieve the goal, approach the issue, improve the outcome. 

I wonder how open my team is to the ways I want to push things forward / reorganize / take on new efforts. Do I do these enough? Too much? Too fast? Too scattered? Do they know what I'm trying to do, or do they only see random things change that either barely affect them or disproportionately burden them? Do my bosses know what I am doing? If I don't tell them it's either because I think they won't care or that they will care and will try to stop me or interfere in unhelpful ways. Do my staff feel the same about me?

What about what the public sees? Do they know enough about what we are doing? Trying to do? Intentionally not doing? What is right level of transparency that builds trust and support but not backlash?

If trust comes first, and everything is interpreted based on trust levels (and psychologists say that's true), then all the good intention in the world - or even expertise - is not enough, and more time needs to be spent on the front end building relationships so that what we say - what I say - is seen in a good light. That they give me, us, the benefit of the doubt. Otherwise, we can come up with the best ideas in the world, and they will be rejected out-of-hand. 

Do I spend enough time building relationships? 

• We have staff meetings every other week that start with a personal icebreaker - what is bringing you joy? what are you looking forward to? what are you grateful for? (personal or professional) - and ends with kudos, the chance to thank people who have stepped up or rocked it or gone over and above.
• We have monthly potluck birthday brunches or taco lunches. This is social time and a time to share - food and time and celebration of each other.
• We have monthly brown bag lunches where we watch a lecture and then talk about it. 
• I have weekly check-ins with direct reports.
• I check in every other week with my supervisor. 
• We have team lunches every year with each team and the "bosses" - me and my supervisor. 

What else could / should I be doing?

Quote - Call It What It Is

“At some point the press needs to stop adopting right-wing framing that this is a 'DEI purge' and call it what it is — white supremacist violence against our collective past.”

- A.J. Bauer, an expert in right-wing politics and journalism

- Huffpost 

Quote - Marge Piercy

"Attention is love, what we must give"

As the storm gathers

Today, I am unsettled. Itchy. Twitchy. Looking for things I can organize. Order I can create with a little effort. Exerting a little petty control over my immediate physical environment, as my old roommate used to say, nodding knowingly, as he came home to a whole new living room arrangement. 

On my way to church today (dragging myself away from shelves un-organized and cords still tangled and not tacked down), I found myself doing the math of how many years it's been since college. Since high school. As though nailing down the math will anchor me in this place now. 

Even those who avoid political discussions are asking me and each other - what does this mean? what will he do? how far will he go?

As far and as fast as we let him. 

And the voice of my wise friend Jimmy echoes a reminder: Don't let Trump be your spiritual center. He will expand to fill any space given over to him. He loves to be the center. A Moloch to whom we sacrifice our transgender and immigrant children.

But what do we do instead?

If we cannot demonize, because doing so is feeding the beast, then we must strengthen our muscles to love, to be of service, to smother hate with love, to bridge difference with compassion. The opposite of monomaniacal devouring is liberal multiculturalism - the affirmation of many truths, many values, many with worth of many kinds. 

And even as I write this, I think about how weak "And" can be. How small a dyke for such impossibly large waves of animosity headed our way. Aren't Democrats weak precisely when they try to be the most nuanced, which looks a lot like disorganization and disagreement to those who are used to the black and white certainty of a would-be dictator?

But I want to fight for the world I want to live in, and I want a world of many ands. Many sources of truth and meaning and values. And so I seek for the common ground with people who are acting and motivated by the wrong things right now. But still people who love. People who nurture their families. Who believe in working hard. 

And yes, I remember that ultimately, fighting for that world can mean taking up arms. And the winner gets to teach the lesson. 

And I fear. And gather my loved ones close. And organize another shelf. 

Take Love for Granted (poem) by Jack Ridl

Assume it’s in the kitchen,
under the couch, high
in the pine tree out back,
behind the paint cans
In the garage. Don’t try
proving your love
is bigger than the Grand
Canyon, the Milky Way,
the urban sprawl of L.A.
Take it for granted. Take it
out with the garbage. Bring it
in with the takeout. Take
it for a walk with the dog.
Wake it every day, say,
“Good morning.” Then
make the coffee. Warm
the cups. Don’t expect much
of the day. Be glad when
you make it back to bed.
Be glad he threw out that
box of old hats. Be glad
she leaves her shoes
in the hall. Snow will
come. Spring will show up.
Summer will be humid.
The leaves will fall
in the fall. That’s more
than you need. We can
love anybody, even
everybody. But you
can love each other,
the silence, sighing,
and saying, “That’s her.”
“That’s him.” Then to
each other, “I know!
Let’s go out for breakfast!”

Darkest Before Dawn (poem) by James Crews

Three days into the new year,
and despite the lack of adequate light,
our white phalaenopsis orchid
has eased open a third delicate bloom.

Perhaps coaxed by the warmth
of the woodstove a few feet away,
the orchid thrives in its tiny pot
shaped like the shell of a nautilus,
sending out new stems and glossy leaves,
its aerial roots— green at the tips—
reaching upward like tentacles
to sip the morning air. These blooms
stir something too long asleep in me,
proving with stillness and slow growth
what I haven't been able to trust
these past few months—that hope
and grace still reign in certain sectors
of the living world, that there are laws
which can never be overturned
by hateful words or the wishes
of power-hungry men. Be patient,
this orchid seems to say, and reveal
your deepest self even in the middle
of winter, even in the darkness
before the coming dawn.

It’s When the Earth Shakes (poem) by Chelan Harkin

It’s when the earth shakes
And foundations crumble
That our light is called
To rise up.

It’s when everything falls away
And shakes us to the core
And awakens all
Of our hidden ghosts
That we dig deeper to find
Once inaccessible strength.

It’s in times when division is fierce
That we must reach for each other
And hold each other much
Much tighter.

Do not fall away now.
This is the time to rise.
Your light is being summoned.
Your integrity is being tested
That it may stand more tall.

When everything collapses
We must find within us
That which is indomitable.

Rise, and find the strength in your heart.
Rise, and find the strength in each other

Burn through your devastation,
Make it your fuel.

Bring forth your light.
Now is not the time
To be afraid of the dark.

Let Rain Be Rain (poem) by Danusha Laméris

Let rain be rain.
    Let wind be wind.

Let the small stone

    be the small stone.

May the bird

    rest on its branch,

the beetle in its burrow.

May the pine tree

    lay down its needles.

The rockstone, its petals.

It's early. Or it's late.

    The answers

to our questions

    lie hidden

in acorn, oyster, the seagull's

    speckled egg.

We've come this far, already.

    Why not let breath

be breath. Salt be salt.

How faithful the tide

    that has carried us---

that carries us now---

    out to sea

and back.

Summons (poem) by Aurora Levins Morales

Last night I dreamed
ten thousand grandmothers
from the twelve hundred corners of the earth
walked out into the gap
one breath deep
between the bullet and the flesh
between the bomb and the family.

They told me we cannot wait for governments.
There are no peacekeepers boarding planes.
There are no leaders who dare to say
every life is precious, so it will have to be us.

They said we will cup our hands around each heart.
We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water,
a song so beautiful that vengeance will turn to weeping,
the mourners will embrace, and grief replace
every impulse toward harm.

Ten thousand is not enough, they said,
so, we have sent this dream, like a flock of doves
into the sleep of the world. Wake up. Put on your shoes.

You who are reading this, I am bringing bandages
and a bag of scented guavas from my trees. I think
I remember the tune. Meet me at the corner.
Let’s go.

Lake and Maple (poem) by Jane Hirshfield

I want to give myself
utterly
as the maple
that burned and burned
for three days without stinting
and then in two more
dropped off every leaf;
as this lake that,
no matter what comes
to its green-blue depths,
both takes and returns it.
In the still heart,
that refuses nothing,
the world is twice-born—
two earths wheeling,
two heavens,
two egrets reaching
down into subtraction;
even the fish
for an instant doubled,
before it is gone.
I want the fish.
I want the losing it all
when it rains and I want
the returning transparence.
I want the place
by the edge-flowers where
the shallow sand is deceptive,
where whatever
steps in must plunge,
and I want that plunging.
I want the ones
who come in secret to drink
only in early darkness,’
and I want the ones
who are swallowed.
I want the way
the water sees without eyes,
hears without ears,
shivers without will or fear
at the gentlest touch.
I want the way it
accepts the cold moonlight
and lets it pass,
the way it lets
all of it pass
without judgment or comment.
There is a lake,
Lalla Ded sang, no larger
than one seed of mustard,
that all things return to.
O Heart, if you
will not, cannot, give me the lake,
then give me the song.