The Light In My Kitchen

The light in my kitchen
comes
whether I deserve it
or not.
In the morning
it lifts
through the eastern frame
of my bay window,
ebbs out
night's mystery
with
a pastel wash,
and crests
white fire
above Providence Bank
(prosaic, but true.)

In these winter afternoons
(so early)
it falls yellow
along
the door and the curtains
and
the honey-colored boards
which need to be swept,
and drops
in a triangle
of orange glory
between
the tall garages and
the trees.

Monday Praises

Beyond the park and pond,
the Calumet River runs
under dark brown banks
alligatored like home's backdoor,
like legs of an ancient snapper.

The water runs two ways:
with the current, mostly,
but sometimes counter,
leaves and ripples going otherwise,
following the wind.

Watching, I, who claimed car trouble
as excuse for skipping church,
find praises on my lips
and a squirrel drawing near,
as if I were a certain saint.

Hero

Illness and meds leave him, sometimes,
confused, like one half-waking.
"He always was your hero," he mutters.
She pauses, surprised: "Who?"
"John Kennedy"--a bit resentful, jealous.
Despite the ether of life going on
with its going away, she laughs,
tender, amused--touches his shoulder:
"You're my hero."





[Editorial note: Yes, this post is a week early.]

Evening Ruminations

I hate the answers I mouth
from fear rather than conviction.

I hate the weakness which runs through soul
and brain and claims an ineffectual voice.

I hate the ugliness I sometimes bring
into the world.

But I love the candle's bud of flame, the reflections
caught in an old and empty decanter.

I love the rim of wall and roof in soft-lit room
and the dripping dark beyond.

I love the surprising grace of sharing a book
after a long, hard day.

Rough Sapphic

City heat and smog-armored sky engender
blank ennui. But see the unshaven grace of
scraggly margins, chicory bristle, heaven's
commonest kisses.

Evening, June 28

Tonight I remember -- I am so blessed by words to speak, a way to be heard, and loving souls who listen. What richness!

Farewelling this School Year

The peonies at the edge of my landlords' yard are unfurling. The petals are pale, with rich, dark veins along the undersides, making them look like blossoms from some master's still life. Every morning on the way to work, I view a new page in the saga of their brief and lavish display.

My internal cloud cover inexplicably lifted a bit yesterday and today. I noticed again those pieces of connection and harmony that are easily undervalued when one is caught in the throes of disillusionment. An absent student sent me, by way of a classmate, a picture he drew of Jesus. Another student typed, in the laborious hunt-and-peck style of a second grader, the most beautiful note of appreciation. My coworkers recounted moments of joy and faithfulness shared within their families.

Tomorrow we will hold one last morning together before we scatter to our summer lives. Only a handful of children will straggle in to before-school care, since most parents will already be taking the day off work in order to gather the children back up after an early dismissal. When they leave, we adults will straighten and dust shelves, wash lockers, give the floors one last good vacuuming.

This work--tied to a school year rhythm--comes with a flow of beginnings and middles and ends and new beginnings. It brings its own pacing, a threading of days with points of mercy to regroup, to remember and value good things which may have been forgotten.

Looking Down

In her last years, Grandma walked
down the bit of road and back,
arms of her quilted fuchsia coat
flapping in exaggerated vigor,
half-teasing my mother
who urged her on in exercise.
Grandma moved at a tilt,
back and shoulders bent,
gray head usually bowed a little.
"Oh! Pretty!" she once exclaimed,
struck by the inset rocks and glistening
tar of a filled-in pothole at her feet.

These days, I find myself, too often,
tilting. I see maple seeds, mostly,
clumped at the edges of the sidewalk
or crushed down the middle by many
passing feet. Their wings are veined
and fin-like, long as splendid Betta tails,
thin and brittle as old paper. In rose,
straw, or copper they hint
that grace is not only for those
who can look up.

Storm Shower

Oddly weary, today, my brain flickered
previews of impending disaster . . .
reminders of my own dullness
against life's acute edge. But there was
no flat tire, no crunch of metal
on metal (or worse)--only a usual day
sprinkled with maple seed wings
and surprised with a flash of laughter
to laughter in the park. Going home,
I heard the tick of drops against evergreen boughs
and inhaled the first scent of summer rain.

Sinful Woman

I grew up on wholesome stories
of girls who grew to beautiful womanhood,
stumbling just a bit over hurdles of vanity, selfishness,
or temper, and chastened soon to sweetness.
I taught myself to shrink from the silly and the crude--
grew adept at disguising the darkness within myself.

I've been told my smile is lovely and to keep it up,
but I am enthralled by the spill of a fallen woman's tears,
her audacious outpouring over our Lord's dusty feet. The real scandal:
His prodigality of forgiveness and her answering love.
 

Where The Mower Missed

One can note
the unsightly fringe
of grass blades and
the suborn bit of weed,
or
five purple wings'
blue rivers running
toward a soft yellow center,
and (if close enough)
the tenderest scent.

Monday Prayer

Help me choose
    to watch the white sun rise and pink the clouds,
    to light the candles at evening,
    to do the dishes, to close only
    the screen door of my heart.

Let me observe
    the daily graces, even when
    bright hope blurs in some dank fog.

Burn on, Holy Fire,
    Comforter, inspire
    each small act with prayer, with praise:
    each quiet mingling of desperation and mercy.

Christmas Cactus 5

The grace flowers bloom
whether I ask them or not,
whether I notice or not.
Their red wings swell, unfurl,
shrivel around precious seed
day by day atop my desk.
Luscious color crowns
a desert presence, unperturbed
by hints of sharp darkness rolling in.

Take a moment to contemplate
the red winging, the pink fairy tip
within each flower;
take a moment for noticing--
and let the rest . . .
rest.

Christmas Cactus 2

Solomon walked his halls
in robes that took
Queen Sheba's breath away--
fruit of wisdom folded, threaded,
dyed and scented into
every servant's tunic, every drapery
hung in his much-blessed hall.

There is wisdom, too, in my
one room--wrapped, round and round
in waxy pink petals--now,
like some heavenly fledgling,
unfolding daily its brilliant angles,
its many cadmium wings.

We hold these miracles
in pots on desks and dressers
(we common folk). Dandelion suns
embellish our ditches. Buttercups
curl through fallen fencing.
Poinsettias drape their
festive fire at isle ends
of sanctuaries and Walmarts.
" . . . not Solomon in all his glory,"
oh, you beloved little ones holding
a hard green bud of faith.

Christmas Cactus 1

Under an east window, my mother's Christmas cactus blooms every Thanksgiving. The plant rests on a highchair that held my grandpa when he was an infant. The gray paint on the chair's skillfully carved wood is alligatored in places, the odd confluence of age and infancy creating the perfect place to house winter flowers. And what flowers they are! Each double-tiered, coral-red and pearl-white blossom suspends from the tip of a flat green branch like an exotic bird taking flight or a tropical fish floating in a hidden nook of ocean.

Mom claims no green thumb for fussy house plants, and this remarkable specimen appears to thrive with minimal tending, so these twin facts encouraged me last year to pick up my own small Christmas cactus from the local Aldi. I brought it home and poured a generous bottle of water over its soil, which appeared parched from adverse grocery store conditions. To my disappointment, the few promising pink buds soon shriveled or dropped from my plant's green arms. I began to suspect this plant required more than I originally assumed.

Trusty google soon revealed my mistake. Deeply watering a Christmas cactus in bud results in the buds dropping off. Also, Christmas cactus plants have a number of preferences and requirements in order to thrive, and especially, to flower--requirements which Mom accidentally met. A saucer of water nearby to make the surrounding air moist? Grandpa's highchair sits by the kitchen sink. Strong, but indirect light? The east window is sheltered by the back porch, and other windows nearby keep the kitchen sunny. Plenty of darkness at night with no artificial light? The miles of fields outside the window won't interrupt the natural shortening of daylight that brings on blossoms.

For people in an Urban environment, the internet advised, it is necessary to put the plant away in a closet at a proscribed time each night, so that lamp and street light don't effect the cactus's rhythm. This sounded like too much to me, at the time. I did vaguely hope, at least, to keep my little plant alive until such a time as I got my life into enough order that I could manage to put a plant to bed every night. I entertained misty visions of of long strings of tranquil evenings where I steadfastly followed a routine of tidying up, reading, tucking the plant into its perfect spot in the closet, and going to bed in good time myself.

A few weeks ago, I noticed small green growths at the ends of several of my Christmas cactus's dusty arms. It seemed to be growing, at least, in the midst of my less-than-perfect conditions. As the growths continued to swell, they took on decidedly bud-like proportions. A hint of pink appeared at the tip of the largest bud. It was actually a tiny, curled up blossom! My plant is trying to flower! Despite my shortcomings, this scrappy bit of joy is bringing its own gifts to my home this Christmas. I find this wonderful. I take it as a sign of grace.

Confession

Before clipping,
white tips measure,
bluntly, the time since
fingers last touched strings.
Each bright click marks
a sin of omission confessed,
a repentance.

I lift my violin -- tiger nut
from black hull-case --
and feel, between shoulder
and neck, the forgotten vibrations
of life renewed.

A Few Thoughts

As I move through the rhythms of a richly blessed existence, I find myself suddenly reminded of the fragility of life. One friend's unspeakable tragedy occurs against the backdrop of several friends' joys . . . joys that could quickly (and seemingly, senselessly) turn into the same gaping loss. Life is a wonder,  a small blossom of flame full of intricate brilliance and energy, vulnerable to any sudden gust. Nearly every day, I watch little children run into their parents' arms, watch the flash of delight between the large and small beings, witness something warm and sure and precious. I hear laughter, but just now, the air also seems full of Rachel weeping.

I walk to work, noting the handful of leaves still attached to the end of each branch of an almost bare ornamental maple. For the first time in years I feel anchored, present with the turn of the earth. Rather than feeling uneasily left behind as seasons change, or struggling to catch myself on details beyond a personal fog, I feel pretty much all here. Which is beautiful. But I find it difficult to express my profound gratitude and wonder over finding myself in this place. It is new and tender, and perhaps I fear it may fly away. Then, too, I cannot say how marvelous this is without acknowledging the anguish of before.

Someone has said that we must learn to hold the feather and the rock, because both are present in our lives. Joy and sorrow mix, certainties and uncertainties walk together, presence and absence and essence mingle in inscrutable ways. I play with students. We yell jubilantly. We chase over the blue and yellow play equipment. At the back of my heart, from a long way away, I feel the crying.

Meditation

The small, decorative, city trees
suspend a wet glow of foliage
over gray sidewalks under gray skies.
Roses, bouqueted on my table,
are brilliant pink and red
and gentle yellow, most unfolded,
now, beyond the last swirl of center,
ruffled and open almost like peonies. 
Candle flames taste the pale shadows
of an overcast day and I hold grace . . .
a little at a time . . . in a mind
easily wearied, eager for distraction,
but grateful, yes, grateful,
for the grace to say "Yes."

30

The word is "marvelous"
though I hesitate to claim
so extravagant a modifier.
Is there any better word
for the father's party when
his prodigal came home?

We talked of  "every spiritual
blessing in the heavenly places."
"Imagine," the speaker said,
"a dragon load of treasure."
But I will see
goldenrod and purple
asters, Queen Anne's lace gone
to bird nest cups, blood red
leaves, and silver sunrise climbing
to a radiance.

"Heavenly places" sounds
intangible as the blue so
far above arm's length--
yet I have been surprised
by joy as stout and bold
as goldenrod blossoms,
love durable and free
as split milkweed shells.
There are things more real,
even, than fear. I find this
marvelous.

Stir of Seasons

We carry, each within us,
the bones of all our winters.
We know the stretch of branches
bereft, the lines burnt after
cascades of red and golden flames.
We recognize the powder
blue silence and the ash gray bark--

and carry them wrapped round and round,
cocooning marrow. Deep within,
that God-breathed ember licks the life
into our veins and wings a charm
of summers, evening watch of springs.

See winter bones sprout blossoms,
and burst and bud and spin down
pink maple helicopter wings!
Unclose your brushtip lashes--lift
The newborn eyes of your old soul.