Become a lighthouse (poem) by John Roedel

after you survive
your storm
you simply must try to
become a lighthouse

my love,
your scars are
meant to burn so bright
that they will help a person
lost at sea find the shore
every wound you carry
has a 1000 watt bulb inside of it
that preaches the gospel of the coming dawn
one burst of daybreak at a time

my love,
it's the circle
of survival
you have endured
to help others endure

you have outlasted the dark
to become a disciple of light

this is your calling now
~ to plant your feet
in the same shore
you washed up on
~ to insult the darkness
by vowing to stand against
~ to save as many others who
are lost amid the storm
and - of course,
~ to ignite

my love,
it’s time
ignite
ignite
ignite

Speed (poem) - Lynn Ungar

One thing you might love
is the way all things move,
the varied pulse that drives
beings to grow. The moss
creeps forward season by season,
but lichen takes what you and I
know as generations to make
its mark upon the rock.
The bark of the cedar expands
at the rate of millimeters per year.
Mountains move much more slowly,
although a mound of rubble
at the foot of a moraine
might have crashed down
in a single catastrophic moment.
The wings of the hornet
beat too fast for you to see,
and it will magically appear
where you least want it.
Why do you imagine that you
should be moving any faster
or slower than your personal beat?
Listen. Breathe. Move graciously
as salt water touching sand.

Driving Meditation

 [Tapping forehead] I am smart and can bring value if I stay present.

[Tapping right cheekbone] I can stay present and accept what's here for me.

[Tapping left cheekbone] I can stay connected to others and offer what I have to give.

[Tapping chin] I can stay grounded and trust myself to know what to do next.

[Tapping sternum] I am grateful for all I have, and I can be generous to others.

Searching

 I crumpled into tears at Sunday Chatter last week. V.B. Price was doing the spoken word portion. He read his Christmas poems for this year. They were based on a quote by William James:

"The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook."

This is, of course, making the very large assumption that otherwise, a wise person is noticing all the other important factors that should NOT be overlooked but rather meditated on, distilled, integrated, decided, etc.

After hearing Barrett's wisdom, which he shared so generously and unguardedly, I fell into existential angst. I am so confused by my life. I do not know what to overlook, and lately, I'm so tired that I'm overlooking EVERYTHING just to try to be peaceful.

I do not understand who I am, what my gifts to the world should be, what I know, what I don't know, how to act, how to show up, how to support others. It's as though I am living in reverse, since when I was younger, I knew all these things with a vengeance... or thought I did. Maybe it's better to have a little uncertainty to keep one humble. But I am well beyond that into just spinning. 

I have had several long conversations with friends lately, remarkable because they are the exception to my rather insular, homebound life. 

• With my very oldest of friends, who has been my friend since we were both 2, I could see my life as a mother and a woman. How 47 is a turning inward kind of year. Yet still middle age enough to be plenty angsty. 
• With my college friend, I could see my life through my college-age eyes. He asked me what I do for fun. Ummm.... no good answer. Enter crises here.
• With my poet friend, I could see my writer self, ignored, discounted, and underfed. She probably has things to say if we were brave enough to face some hard truths or have enough rationalizations ready for all that we admit we should be doing but ... can't (for good reasons!).
• With my neighbor friend, who was my friend when I was 8 through college and then again now, I see my reader self - not the one who knows anything but the one who reads because I don't know nearly enough. 

All of these parts of me are more interesting to me than my mother self (perhaps because things are rutted) or my wife self (who is mellowing but not all that engaged) or my work self (who has recently been trounced by political winds). 

And is it the failure of my mothering and my working that have led me to question myself? Or have I paid attention only to those most important aspects, to the exclusion of all the other parts of me that I actually like more? 

I think COVID let me hide from friendships in not-good ways. I think I'm more isolated at work now that my work-wife is no longer there. And Terra seems far away, too. 

I've lost my gear. Lost the thread. Lost. 

I'm not sure what to do next. 

Grounding (meditation) by Jess Reynolds

On my worst days, it is gravity I am most grateful for: the way the earth pulls at me from her core, yearns for me, keeps me pressed tightly against her surface. When my own core is hollowed out, when I have no more mass than a leaf dead on the branch, still this is enough for the earth to find me. She reaches for what little I have and says, stay.

Every meditation I have ever done begins by asking me to ground myself. This is not so much an action as it is inaction. Surrender. A voluntary abandonment of my own edges and tidy packaging.

Sit with me now. Press the soles of your feet back into the ground you sprang from. Feel the weight of your body and know that it is glorious. You are born of soil and sun, and all the heaviness of the earth is a call to you. The earth is reaching for you. Reach back. Reach back.

Why am I here?

 

Because I signed up. 

Because I sign up.

Because I need help and support living well, finding meaning. 

Because I find meaning here.

Because I find myself here.

Because I search. 

Because it's lonely to search and not have answers.

Because I like the way I show up here. 

Because I have skills that can be of service.

Because I believe in spaces that support searching and holding answers lightly and sharing them tentatively, as you share poems, as though they may be of use, and if they are, what gifts. 

Brave

I've been listening to a lot of We Can Do Hard Things podcast with Glennon Doyle. And re-reading Untamed. 

I think I just haven't been brave lately. I haven't taken the risk to show up as myself in the house, closing myself down, closing myself off, closing. 

I sense that if I let myself have fun - oriented toward my own joy, let myself rest while at home, there would be more of me here, more laughter, more love. More connection. 

When I think of what I'd like to fill my life with, I think of meditation, yoga, dancing, reading, and writing. Maybe cooking occasionally. Maybe. All that could be done if there were less tv, less work, less cleaning, honestly. 

I can be here for myself. I can show up with my family. I can love outward and inward at the same time.

Not OK

I'm feeling itchy and unsatisfied and panicked. Maybe I am unhappy. Maybe I don't know how to be happy. Maybe I only show up as myself at work. Who are my children seeing? They do not seem happy, but maybe that's just because they don't see anyone showing them how. 

What do I do for fun, a long-ago friend asked over lunch when we ran into each other randomly after years. I don't have fun. I clean my house, read books, listen to podcasts, do puzzles. I've never been a "go place, do things" kind of person, but my world seems increasingly small and intimate and ... how is this different from COVID?

I listened to Glennon Doyle's podcast for the first time the other day, and I spent some time tonight dipping back into her books, and it was like catching glimpses of myself in dark rooms as I walked through someone else's house. Oh shit. I think I have to start saying the hard, brave things to my husband instead of just disappearing. I think I have to do that to show my kids how to do that. 

Maybe then I can stop eating to feel good and feel special and loved and cared for. Maybe then I can lose the extra weight and feel good about my body, feel sexy and alive again.

Glennon talked about yoga, and I suddenly remembered how much I loved going to yoga. Loved feeling my body feel strong. Not so much with the perfectionism, but even listening to when my body said "Not today!" was good practice. Being kind. Letting "enough" be enough. 

I'm the last one in the house that isn't in therapy, and I think that's where I'm headed. But why can't we turn to each other instead? Training, maybe. Degrees in this shit. Insight and patience and perspective. Yes, all of that. 

Maybe I want yoga instead. Who wants to spend more time in their unhappy head?

Mediation to Reduce Bias and Increase Compassion

 

Jose Maresma

Gear Up for Fitness

1. Emotional Awareness

2. Decentering from Negative Thought Patterns

3. Loving Kindness

4. Mindful Media Consumption

5. Mindful Listening and Speech

We Hold Hope Close (poem) by Theresa Soto

In this community, we hold hope close. We don’t
always know what comes next, but that cannot dissuade us.
We don’t always know just what to do, but that will not mean
that we are lost in the wilderness. We rely on the certainty
beneath, the foundation of our values and ethics. We
are the people who return to love like a North Star and to
the truth that we are greater together than we are alone.
Our hope does not live in some glimmer of an indistinct future.
Rather, we know the way to the world of which we dream,
and by covenant and the movement forward of one right action
and the next, we know that one day we will arrive at home.

Making Peace (poem) by Denise Levertov

 

A voice from the dark called out,

             ‘The poets must give us

imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar

imagination of disaster. Peace, not only

the absence of war.’

                                   But peace, like a poem,

is not there ahead of itself,

can’t be imagined before it is made,

can’t be known except

in the words of its making,

grammar of justice,

syntax of mutual aid.

                                       A feeling towards it,

dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have

until we begin to utter its metaphors,

learning them as we speak.

                                              A line of peace might appear

if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,

revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,

questioned our needs, allowed

long pauses . . .

                        A cadence of peace might balance its weight

on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,

an energy field more intense than war,

might pulse then,

stanza by stanza into the world,

each act of living

one of its words, each word

a vibration of light—facets

of the forming crystal.

Call to Worship (prayer) - the Rev. Bob LaVallee

I know that you wish the work was done
And you, with everyone you have ever loved,
were on a distant shore, safe and unafraid.

But remember this, tired as you are:
You are not alone.
Here and here and here also
There are others weeping and rising and gathering their courage.

You belong to them and they to you.

"For One Who Holds Power" - A Leadership Prayer - John O'Donahue

May the gift of leadership awaken in you as a vocation,
Keep you mindful of the providence that calls you to serve.
As high over the mountains the eagle spreads its wings,
May your perspective be larger than the view from the foothills.

When the way is flat and dull in times of gray endurance,

May your imagination continue to evoke horizons.
When thirst burns in times of drought,
May you be blessed to find the wells.
May you have the wisdom to read time clearly
And know when the seed of change will flourish.

In your heart may there be a sanctuary
For the stillness where clarity is born.
May your work be infused with passion and creativity
And have the wisdom to balance compassion and challenge.

May your soul find the graciousness
To rise above the fester of small mediocrities.
May your power never become a shell
Wherein your heart would silently atrophy.
May you welcome your own vulnerability
As the ground where healing and truth join.

May integrity of soul be your first ideal.
The source that will guide and bless your work.

from his book, To Bless the Space Between Us

Steadied By Each Other (prayer) - Soul Matters

Pulled in many directions by the demands of our days,
we light this chalice to remind us of the still point deep inside.
Made unsteady by the winds of unpredictable paths,
we light this chalice to remember the shelter of each other.
Longing for lights that lead us back to our truest selves,
we light this chalice to illuminate the faces of friends and sacred companions,
recalling once again that we find our way through the willingness
to take each other’s hand.

With Love As My Guide (prayer) - Cindy Terlazzo (adapted)

Amidst the swirl of life’s challenges, fears, and even moments of crisis,
[We] make time to gaze at the night sky to see the vastness there,
And to remember that this moment in time is but a flicker—
Not an inconsequential flicker—
For what [we] do and think now does matter.
[Our] work, though, is to let the debris of this world pass by
While [we] anchor [ourselves] to what [we] know is true:

Love, Kindness, Compassion.

Crickets (poem) - Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

When they sing
it is a kind of love,
a pure-toned,
full-bodied ringing
born of friction.
You could say
it’s just a wingstroke
that makes a pulse of sound
that joins with all
the other pulses
to form a river of music,
and you would be right.
But there are many ways
to face the dark.
One is to hide.
One is to prowl.
One is to bring
the bright music
of your body
and offer it
to the night.

Last Night As I Was Sleeping (poem) by Antonio Machado; translated by Robert Bly

Anoche cuando dormía
soñé ¡bendita ilusión!
que una fontana fluía
dentro de mi corazón.
Dí: ¿por qué acequia escondida,
agua, vienes hasta mí,
manantial de nueva vida
en donde nunca bebí?

Anoche cuando dormía
soñé ¡bendita ilusión!
que una colmena tenía
dentro de mi corazón;
y las doradas abejas
iban fabricando en él,
con las amarguras viejas,
blanca cera y dulce miel.

Anoche cuando dormía
soñé ¡bendita ilusión!
que un ardiente sol lucía
dentro de mi corazón.
Era ardiente porque daba
calores de rojo hogar,
y era sol porque alumbraba
y porque hacía llorar.

Anoche cuando dormía
soñé ¡bendita ilusión!
que era Dios lo que tenía
dentro de mi corazón.



Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old bitternesses.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

Quote - Forest Church - Sin

 Something like: 

"Sin is anything that divides us from our better selves, estranges us from our neighbors, or severs us from the ground of being."

Chicago Elegy - An Abortion Poem

 January 2000

I.

Brown grows between my legs --

I am no longer a mother.

Self can be constructed    deconstructed --

I can create and destroy.

Chicago makes magic        blue and fluid like michigan's lake

                                            black and red like that day

                                                              like that hole

                                                              like that blood not my blood

                                                                            blood no longer my blood

                                                                            blood no longer blood

Until the day I no longer bleed.

I am still bleeding.

II.

White catches brown -- 

I am free.

Time can be taken    given -- 

What they took I am given.

Chicago gives life on a day white covers streets like sheets

                                                                            like ice packs

            takes life in a wash of sweat

                                a swirl of brown and red

            takes a life not my life

            gives life no longer my life

Until the day I move on.

I am not moving.

III.

Blood red moon over gold -- 

I am an aunt    not a mother.

Being separate I am alone    not alone -- 

Distance and time makes me free.

Chicago fills the spirit with gold moon fire

                                            (gold light ripples on black)

            empties the body of unrecognized souls

                                            (blood red moon over gold -- 

                                                    we are free

                                                    you are me

                                                                 not me

                                                    you will never be

                                                                                me

                                                                   never be without me

                                                    you can never be free)

        ensconces the self among bodies    friends

        carries in the winds the sounds of home

        lifts my spirit wrapped in wind 

        and takes me home

               carries me home

               plunges me home in the dark, cold waters where it all began

                                                                                   where all life began

                                                                                   where everything begins

Until the day it begins for me.

It has already begun.

                                            

"Shelter in Place" (poem) by Kim Stafford

Long before the pandemic, the trees
knew how to guard one place with
roots and shade. Moss found
how to hug a stone for life.
Every stream works out how
to move in place, staying home
even as it flows generously
outward, sending bounty far.
Now is our time to practice–
singing from balconies, sending
words of comfort by any courier,
hoarding lonesome generosity
to shine in all directions like stars.