Legalism Defined

Maggie and I took a walk around the airport trail this morning. Around our public spaces, people are concerned about doing the right thing when their dog poops. Carrying a bag to pick it up is essential to good citizenship.

Beside the trail this morning was a small black poop bag with a knot tied in the top. The owner had followed the letter of the law but completely missed the point. In his case it would have been better to creatively disobey the rules. Using a stick to sweep the offensive mess into the bushes to decompose within a short time would have been better than the plastic bag left on the trail. It will still be there in a hundred years if nobody picks it up. But he followed the rules and thinks he did good.

Legalism always stinks and doesn't seem to ever go away. It trades packaging, that's all. Don't be fooled - it really is what you think it is. Shipoopi......

Bundled

No visions of sugar plums danced in his tiny head resting on remnants of hay stubble left over from night feeding. No 
candles welcomed in the windows ~ for stables don't have any. His mother most likely wrapped him with her head covering, leaving her all exposed. Sweat drenched. Unprepared, what did she use for after birth bleeding? Diapers for him? Did he latch on quickly and have a swollen milk blister on his upper lip afterwards? Where did Joseph find nourishment for her? Did he borrow the animal's drinking water to clean up the mess? Did she tear?  Without women to care for her, Joseph had to take the culturally unfamiliar role of midwife and doula for a wife with whom he hadn't been physically intimate with yet. His rough carpenter hands baby catching? The crown of thorns was waiting in the wings instead of a Nutcracker.  Maybe the tree was growing even then to be hewn into a cross as he cooed. The blacksmith who hammered the spikes into shape might have been a baby at the same time. A weaver's young apprentice  honed his skill making robes without seams. One this baby would someday wear ~ making men cast lots to own it ~ when they assumed he wouldn't need it anymore. He was laid in a stone manger swaddled with cloth at birth. He was laid on a borrowed limestone burial shelf after his death, wrapped in cloth once again, ministered to by women winding their love around him. Women who watched their love left in a heap, for he didn't stay a baby, nor did he stay dead. Instead he stayed God, wrapping us up ~ folding us into ~ a bundle of love, forever and ever. Amen. 

(Please don't judge this sketch harshly. I've been picking up a pencil for the first time in thirty five years. I never had lessons and wish I could express what I see in my head better. Until then, I will practice the uncomfortable, rough way. I have such a heart for Joseph. He is probably the most overlooked hero scripture mentions. I imagine his hands, so rough and tender. To me, his faith was the greatest of any. I imagined the pageantry of our present day Christmas and the lack thereof on that morning.)

This is for a prompt from L.L. Barkat: "This holiday season, we invite you to take the big things of Christmas - family, grief, Christ, celebration, laughter - and share them with us through something small." Join us by sharing your link here. 

What Divine Romance Looks Like

Dead Drunk Garden

Broken garden beds 

covered with lifeless husks 

lay brown down.

Their skeletal remains

used to be color spots,

pigmented petals 

wooing friends 

gathering nectar.

How do roots endure

soggy cold waiting? 

They huddle together 

thankful they aren't

 homeless or alone. 

Wrapping 

their feet around each other

in the dark

they swallow great drunken 

gulps of the rain maker's 

honey mead 

waiting to burst out 

laughing again

when the sun's love

tickles them 

awake.

Sucking on Succor

Succor means: to aid, assist, help, offer comfort, encouragement.

This last week, I was in the sludge of discouragement. I took the week off from the world wide web and connected with comfortable behaviors and uncomfortable ones. I didn't have the inclination or energy for too much eyeball to eyeball or skin to skin engagement. For introverts it can be exhausting at such times.

Many hours were spent reading. This activity included a dog curled up on the blanket corner at my feet and a hot mug of tea. It was restorative and inspirational reading. Contemplative. Nourishing. Quiet.

I dug out some dormant art supplies which haven't been used in years. Sitting down facing a blank white page paralyzed me for a while. I finally gave myself permission to be a kid and simply put color on the white paper. It didn't turn out very good. The next one not much better. The third? Pretty much the same. Each was whimsical and colorful, though. They will stay private or be gracefully laid in the garbage. The thing was - I needed to be creative in new ways. Make myself uncomfortable. The finished products weren't good, but they bushwhacked the brush, clearing some plugged trails. The exercise wasn't wasted or futile. Some times creative juices need some sort of laxative to start the flow again........creative constipation happens. Taking action is imperative for me to get unplugged. The momentum carries over into other areas.

Because I was so discouraged, I thought - maybe I'm not the only one. I determined to send personal, hand written encouragement to everyone on my address list who loves words and writes. To give what I needed most. Writers need to know that words do matter in our world. It is a lonely, solitary call. Most the time, the lack of feedback is crushing. We don't know if the void has ears, or if there is a soulish connection being made. As I put that batch of envelopes in the mail, I felt presumptuous and foolish. I have people on my mailing list who surely don't want or need my simple offering? They are VIP's! I heard a mocking cackle of derision gurgling up through the slimy pit below me.

One of the most profound books I've read is The Gift by Lewis Hyde. A gift has to move. In a circle. It has to be passed on. Today I was at the end of the receiving line and got all the abundant excess somehow. Could it be because I offered the little I had to another?  I don't know. Truly I don't.

This day has been so full of gifts being rained down on me. A blizzard of emotional goodness swirling me in loving eddies of affection and encouragement. I feel like I'm sucking on a succor cube of sweetness.

It came on a day that I thought I was going down gasping one last time - like Stevie Smith said, "Not waving but drowning."

Be strong and of good courage my friend. You are beloved. You are not alone.

Brides

Two girlfriends are recently engaged to be married. Both are suddenly being loved by real men who are mature, grounded, and generous. Neither one has experienced anything similar in previous relationships.

This thing they are experiencing doesn't resemble the Hollywood model of lust, infatuation, or obsession.

For both of them it is a mature, long friendship that time and circumstances turned into romance, then wrapped in intimacy. Heart, mind, body, and soul. It was lagniappe on both accounts. Unexpected.

Both are older gals. They have known trouble and despair. Each in her own way has felt hopeless of ever knowing a future including a loving companion.

If you could see their faces. They shine. The room brightens when they walked in. They both look ten years younger. These women were pursued by men who took the initiative in wooing. The grooms wait impatiently to make them beloved brides. The wedding plans are unfolding with delight and joy.

It will be special to be a guest at their weddings.

Wait a minute! We are The Bride. Shouldn't our faces shine, too?

Slashing at Windmills

These replace

the old style. We needn't

slash at them Don Quixote. 

Graceful field growing

a crop of windmills

harvesting wind instead of

wheat. Man can't live on 

bread alone. 

Dreams of Steel

Grounded beside iron feet

I look up and through

crazy house of mirrors. 

The tunnel repeats support 

again and again

waiting for its reason 

for being. 

The trestle bridges valley 

and river anchoring

bluff to bluff where

brave men taunted death 

straddling 

someone else's blueprint dreams.  

This train I wait for 

comes speeding,

rumbling along

trust's thin, taut 

 high wire.  

No Clue

A few months ago we were able to go see the opening of a movie. It was happenstance. Through the blog world of poetry, I had become facebook friends and twitter friends with a young poet in Bellingham. Little did I know he was shooting a film. When he announced the showing close by, we went.

As we were finding a place to sit, we saw the brother and sister in law of a long time friend. We made small talk until I spied the young poet. I recognized him because of his gravatar. I went over to meet him and his parents. I told them they must be proud - to which they agreed - and asked if he would come over to my little group.

I introduced the poet / movie maker to our friend's family, thinking they would be honored. They were so anxious about finding a seat they couldn't be bothered. They missed the best part of the entire evening. It would have enhanced the movie without 3-D glasses. And it was a free opportunity. The saddest thing? They don't have a clue what they missed.

Anxiety robs. Worry wastes moments. Both put blinders on my noticer. I don't have a clue how many wonders I've missed, myself.

Lord, let me see and be anxious for nothing ~ simultaneously.

Clothespins

The line strung between posts 

doesn't sag dangerously close 

to the ground anymore.

The heavy wet wrinkled washing

wrung out by the wringer doesn't

flap or snap. Clothespins put crimps

in sheet corners and made companions 

of shoulder seams and Levi legs. Rules

were followed for correct 

ways of hanging and attaching.

 Jessie (Jesus) Viviana Victoria 

Cota de Jose brought her 

pins inside with every basket of 

crunchy ritual. Noel didn't know 

the rules or follow laundry protocol

when she ate the crotches, the all 

important part, out of grandma's

underwear. How do you punish

a donkey who only leaves elastic

hanging lonely on the line with 

a wooden clothespin? Hot 

steam melts wrinkles flat 

and sends donkeys to the 

farthest back forty. 

This is my grandmother's clothespin bag. I think a couple of the clothespins might have been her mother's. The Pacific Northwest is too quirky rain wise for hanging clothes. Unfortunately. 

I played under her flapping sheets for hours using dropped magnolia pods for people.