Month: July 2024

Holding Up the Darkness

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See how the trees
Reach up and outward
As if their entire existence
Were an elegant gesture of prayer.
See how they welcome the breath of spirit,
In all its visible and invisible forms.
See how the roots reach downward and out,
Embracing the physical,
The body and bones
Of its soul of earth and stone,
Allowing half its life to be sheltered
in the most quiet and secret places.

Oh, if I could be more like a tree on this Sunday morning,
To feel the breath of invisible spirit
Touch me as tenderly as a kiss on the forehead.
If I could courageously and confidently
Dig down into the dark
Where the ground water runs deep,
Where shelter and sanctuary
Can be had and held.

Ah, to be like a tree
With all its bent and unbent places,
A whole and holy thing
From its topmost twigs
To the deepest taproot
To all the good and graceful
Spaces between.
~Carrie Newcomer “To Be Like a Tree” from The Beautiful Not Yet: Poems, Essays & Lyrics


I love the accomplishments of trees,
How they try to restrain great storms
And pacify the very worms that eat them.
Even their deaths seem to be considered.
I fear for trees, loving them so much.
I am nervous about each scar on bark,
Each leaf that browns. I want to
Lie in their crotches and sigh,
Whisper of sun and rains to come.

Sometimes on summer evenings I step
Out of my house to look at trees
Propping darkness up to the silence.

When I die I want to slant up
Through those trunks so slowly
I will see each rib of bark, each whorl;
Up through the canopy, the subtle veins
And lobes touching me with final affection;
Then to hover above and look down
One last time on the rich upliftings,
The circle that loves the sun and moon,
To see at last what held the darkness up.
~Paul Zimmer “A Final Affection” from Crossing to Sunlight.

The old farmer who sold us this farm 35 years ago made sure we were equipped for a most important role: becoming the caretakers of trees he had planted and watered and loved for decades.

He exacted a promise we would not remove any tree before its time. For the most part, we have been able to do what he asked.

Most trees we’ve lost have succumbed to wind or disease or crippling old age. The old row of poplars became quite hazardous with their breaking branches and invading roots, and a couple old orchard trees gave way for our addition of a garage. For the record, we did feel appropriately guilty about taking their lives.

We have added numerous trees to replace those we have lost. Now we know exactly how that old farmer felt: they become like our children – growing, thriving and fruiting long past our presence here.

These sturdy trunks stand solid, holding the darkness up with their branches, as if in constant prayer to care for us creatures living below.

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Taking Sadness Into Myself

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All that summer the sun refused to open
On the sky, and the river carried rain-spots
Down and over the weir, and by the footbridge
Swans’ eggs chilled in their nest. I saw them, rained on,
Blue and dead as the moon the clouds were hiding
Every night when I looked to find it. What could
Live, neglected like that? The wind, cold and green
With the smell of the hawthorn flowering, came
Brooding over the fens, but what could it bring me,
Who had chosen to view the world with sadness,
Or had taken its sadness into myself,
Gift and charism? One day, though, I saw them,
Triple vee-wakes on dark tree-printed currents:
One ahead of the others, big and whiter 
Than the cloud-pale sky. Two cygnets, gray, living,
Broken free from the death I’d assumed for them.

Well, their ways are not my ways. The next summer, 
Walking that same towpath, heavy with a child
Who had come to me after years of asking —
Who was taking his time just then, head downward,
Happy where he was — I saw them paddling
Under the bridge, where it laid out its shadow,
Current-rumpled. The same swans? Or three strangers
Hummed down onto a river pricked with sunlight,
Strange and new as the season? I can’t say now.
I remember the baby’s head engaging, 
Heavy, ready, real, an impending pressure. 
I remember the wakes widening, the river
Flowing down in the sun, and by the footbridge, 
Gray, empty, the mess of twigs, leaves, and feathers.
~Sally Thomas “Swans”

Decades ago, there were several years when I took sadness into myself, feeling empty and barren with no hope that could change.

Sorrow became the bridge I walked across, unaware what I would find on the other side, assuming only it would be more of the same.

If I had listened to my own tearful prayers, I might have understood –even the most comfortable nests are abandoned when it is time to break free from the sadness.

I gave up my timing and my plans to let things be according to His will.

And life happened. And sadness no longer found a place in me.
The empty was filled, the sorrow overwhelmed with blessing.
Babies born, grown, now flown away to a life and babies of their own.

All from the one nest, emptied, as ever it should be.

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The Purpose for Slugs

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Girls are like slugs—they probably serve some purpose, but it’s hard to imagine what.
~Bill Watterson, in Calvin and Hobbes

Who could have dreamed them up? At least snails
have shells, but all these have is—nothing.
Small black antennae like fat pins wave
as if they could take in enough to get them through.
Turn them over, they’re the soles of new shoes,
pale and unmarked as babies. They flow,
the soil itself learning how to move and, moving,
almost staying still, their silver monorail
the only evidence of where they’d been.
And they die quiet, or at least (thankfully)
out of the human ear’s range, between two stones,
under heels, shriveling in salt or piss, at the tips
of sharp sticks. Fight back, I hear myself say,
do something. Don’t just take it. But they die
as they had lived, exuding slime…
~Brian Swann from “Slugs”

Summer rain is desperately needed in our corner of the U.S. It is typically a frequent visitor to the Pacific Northwest and is forecast for tomorrow which means we will soon be overflowing with slug slime and the lovely multicolored gastropod creatures that produce it.

As the first few shower drops fall, they appear out of the ground like seeds that plump and germinate miraculously overnight. The slug crop burgeons, and with it, oozy trails of glistening slug slime.

We live on a hill, which means I walk downhill to the barn for chores. On rainy days, the barnyard path includes a few slugs under each foot. That produces a certain memorable squish factor.

I’ve learned to don my rubber boots and just squash and slide. There will undoubtedly be more slugs to replace those flattened and lost to eternity, not unlike watching freeze-dried shrinky dinks spontaneously rehydrate.

We need the rain badly, otherwise I would negotiate with drought-stricken areas to transfer the raindrops elsewhere. Part of the deal is: the slugs must go too along with gallons of slime, containing a complex mix of proteoglycans, glycosaminoglycans, glycoprotein enzymes, hyaluronic acid, antimicrobial peptides, and metal ions of zinc, iron, copper and manganese. Surely someone somewhere would appreciate slime’s precious metals and sticky proteins!

Of course, I’m sure I’d miss them and their sticky icky gooiness. But it is time for someone else to figure out just what the heck is the purpose of slimy gastropods.

I’ve given up trying to figure it out…

Girls are like slugs…
byu/MarsTheGodofWar incalvinandhobbes
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The Air Charged With Blessings

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I thought of happiness, how it is woven
Out of the silence in the empty house each day
And how it is not sudden and it is not given
But is creation itself like the growth of a tree.
No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark
Another circle is growing in the expanding ring.
No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark,
But the tree is lifted by this inward work
And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering.

For what is happiness but growth in peace,
And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir
The shining leaves of present happiness?
No one has heard thought or listened to a mind,
But where people have lived in inwardness
The air is charged with blessing and does bless;
Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.
~ May Sarton, from “The Work of Happiness”  in  Collected Poems, 1930-1993

The settled happiness and security which we all desire,
God withholds from us by the very nature of the world:
but joy, pleasure, and merriment, he has scattered broadcast.
We are never safe, but we have plenty of fun, and some ecstasy.
It is not hard to see why.

The security we crave would teach us
to rest our hearts in this world
and oppose an obstacle to our return to God:
a few moments of happy love, a landscape, a symphony,
a merry meeting with our friends, a bath
or a football match, have no such tendency.

Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns,
but will not encourage us to mistake them for home.
~C.S. Lewis from The Problem of Pain

I am reminded every day, as headlines proclaim bad news:
this is not our home. I am only a wayfarer, not a settler.

Just like the distress of my four year old grandson, staying overnight and waking with a bad dream, appearing at my bedside at 3 AM, saying simply “I need a hug!”

We need reassurance that all this scary stuff is not forever.

Sometimes I lose focus on the “why” of my journey
on this troubled earth:
so much of my time and energy is understandably spent
seeking safety and security, striving on a journey
I hope will be filled with happiness, joy and contentment,
as if that is my ultimate destination and purpose.

Yet the nature of a fallen world filled with faltering souls such as myself leads me down boulder-strewn paths filled with potholes and sheer cliffs and yes, bad dreams.

At times nowhere feels safe or secure and I overthink my next step.

God hears my fear of the unknown destination, as only He can know what lies ahead on my or anyone’s journey. God in His mercy does not leave us homeless, without hope and unable to wake from the bad dream.

We breathe air charged with His blessing. He gifts Himself; I can breathe because of Him.

I need a hug…

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In the Best Possible Way

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Let us go forward quietly,
forever making for the light,
and lifting up our hearts
in the knowledge that we are as others are
(and that others are as we are),
and that it is right to love one another
in the best possible way – believing all things,
hoping for all things,
and enduring all things. 
~Vincent Van Gogh from “Letters to Theo”

We like to blame our DNA for our tribal nature, to justify setting ourselves apart from the “other.” We tend to be discontent with whatever we are given — but that belief is exactly how humanity’s troubles began.

Every election and convention season only intensifies our sense of “otherness”, further putting wedges between us, driving us apart and further into the darkness.

We are slaves to divisiveness: even worshiping it in the name of “becoming great again”, emphasizing our own “truth” in the name of “unity.”

I simply can’t listen to it.
There is so much anger in the voices of our self-appointed “leaders.”

I want to know it is still possible to love each other in all our differences in the best possible way, with quiet endurance and hope. No shouting, no shootings, no need for a cascade of dropping balloons, and no ridiculous rancorous rhetoric.

We are as others are — others are as we are — denying it is folly. Believing it is the beginning of a selfless love for the “other”, something God did intend for our DNA, as His children who are no longer animals.

Indeed, God Himself became the “Other” living among us to show us just how it can be done.

It’s in every one of us. Now we must make it so.

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Whatever Happens Now…

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Getting older:

The first surprise: I like it.
Whatever happens now, some things
that used to terrify have not:

I didn’t die young, for instance. Or lose
my only love. My three children
never had to run away from anyone.

Don’t tell me this gratitude is complacent.
We all approach the edge of the same blackness
which for me is silent.

Knowing as much sharpens
my delight in January freesia,
hot coffee, winter sunlight. So we say

as we lie close on some gentle occasion:
every day won from such
darkness is a celebration.
~ Elaine Feinstein, “Getting Older” from The Clinic, Memory

It is a privilege and a gift to turn 70 years old today. I’m pleased to make it this far relatively unscathed.

When I was an early grade school kid, I worried about everything: whatever could happen would happen – in my imagination. My parents would perish in an accident while I was at school. My dog would get lost and never come home. I would get sick with a dread disease that only afflicts one in a million children, but I would be that one.

The worries went on and on, often keeping me awake in the night and certainly ensuring that I had stomachaches every morning so my mother would keep me home from school where life felt safer. Our pediatrician, who saw me much more regularly than was actually necessary, would look at me over his glasses with a gentle perceptive gaze, put his hands on my shoulders as I squirmed about on the noisy paper on his exam table, and tell me for the umpteenth time I was 110% healthy. He affirmed there was nothing I needed to worry about.

Decades later, I tried to emulate this reassurance and instill this confidence in my own patients, thanks to the wisdom of that good man.

But I knew I needed to worry; somehow the worry was a talisman that kept the awful darkness of bad stuff away, things like nuclear missiles and polio outbreaks and earthquakes. That is a heavy load for a little kid to carry, making sure everything stays right with the universe.

None of it ever happened in my sheltered little life so I must have been doing something right!

Thankfully, by the time I turned nine, I finally learned to coexist with the inherent risks of daily life, as I realized I, in fact, wasn’t in control of the universe. We survived a rumbling 6.3 earthquake. We lived through a 114 mph windstorm that took out the power for a week. We coped with my grandpa dying. Later on I made it through some hard stuff that is too painful to even recall so I’d rather not.

Growing older means realizing that bad stuff will happen, and it is usually survivable yet the reality is: life on earth itself isn’t survivable. I’ve seen and experienced a few traumatic things over my 70 years, and have seen how some people, maybe even me, can be amazingly heroic in the worst possible situations

But I’ve learned my confidence can’t be in myself or anyone else. It rests solely in Someone who really is in charge of everything that moves and breathes in the universe and Who knows all that was, is and will be.

I really am not responsible for the universe — thank goodness.

Oh, I still worry. It is hard to stop when it is deeply engrained in my DNA, having been descended from a long line of worriers. My children are not grateful for that genetic gift to them. It is already evident my grandchildren won’t thank me either.

Yet, every day I snatch back from that darkness is reason for celebration, and today is no different.

Over 25,500 days under my belt of celebrating being here.
Hoping for more gentle occasions like this one is.

It’s a great day to be alive. Soli Deo Gloria.

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A Human Being, Not a Human Doing

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There comes the strangest moment in your life,
when everything you thought before breaks free—
what you relied upon, as ground-rule and as rite
looks upside down from how it used to be.

Your heart’s in retrograde. You simply have no choice.
Things people told you turn out to be true.
You have to hold that body, hear that voice.
You’d have sworn no one knew you more than you.

How many people thought you’d never change?
But here you have. It’s beautiful. It’s strange.
~Kate Light from “There Comes the Strangest Moment” in Open Slowly

This disease of being “busy” (and let’s call it what it is, the dis-ease of being busy, when we are never at ease) is spiritually destructive to our health and wellbeing.

It saps our ability to be fully present with those we love the most in our families, and keeps us from forming the kind of community that we all so desperately crave.

Tell me you remember you are still a human being,
not just a human doing.
Tell me you’re more than just a machine,
checking off items from your to-do list.
Have that conversation, that glance, that touch.
Be a healing conversation,
one filled with grace and presence.

Put your hand on my arm, look me in the eye,
and connect with me for one second.
Tell me something about your heart, and awaken my heart.
Help me remember that I too am a full and complete human being…
~Omid Safi from The Disease of Being Busy

It has been nearly three years since I hung up my stethoscope. I’m no longer paid to be very busy. It isn’t feeling strange to wake up with no “job” to go to.

I still am vigorously treading water but with no destination in mind other than to stay afloat. It’s enough to just move and breathe in this new and strangely unfamiliar territory.

It was scary at first, backing off from all-consuming clinic responsibilities, yet knowing I was becoming less effective due to my diminishing passion and energy for the work. I’d been working in some capacity for over fifty years, starting in high school.

I could barely remember who I was before I became a physician.

So here I am — changed and changing — volunteering here and there, budding and blooming in new colors and shapes, exercising a different part of my brain, and simply praying I make good use of the time left to me, being something as worthwhile as what I had been doing.

So, once again, my days have become… strangely beautiful… in ways I could never have imagined.

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I Won’t Stop Trying…

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Sometimes I think all the best poems
have been written already,
and no one has time to read them,
so why try to write more?

At other times though,
I remember how one flower
in a meadow already full of flowers
somehow adds to the general fireworks effect

as you get to the top of a hill
in Colorado, say, in high summer
and just look down at all that brimming color.
I also try to convince myself

that the smallest note of the smallest
instrument in the band,
the triangle for instance,
is important to the conductor

who stands there, pointing his finger
in the direction of the percussions,
demanding that one silvery ping.
And I decide not to stop trying,

at least not for a while, though in truth
I’d rather just sit here reading
how someone else has been acquainted
with the night already, and perfectly.
~Linda Pastan “Rereading Frost” from Queen of a Rainy Country. 

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. 
I have been one acquainted with the night.
~Robert Frost “Acquainted with the Night”

I want to write with quiet hands. I
want to write while crossing the fields that are
fresh with daisies and everlasting and the
ordinary grass. I want to make poems while thinking of
the bread of heaven and the
cup of astonishment; let them be

songs in which nothing is neglected,
not a hope, not a promise. I want to make poems
that look into the earth and the heavens
and see the unseeable. I want them to honor
both the heart of faith, and the light of the world;
the gladness that says, without any words, everything.
~Mary Oliver “Everything” from New and Selected Poems: Volume Two

Some of you ask why I post poems by other authors when I could be writing more original work myself.

My answer, like poet Linda Pastan above is:

Sometimes I think all the best poems
have been written already,
and no one has time to read them,
so why try to write more?

Yet, like Linda, I’ve decided not to stop trying. Since I’ve committed myself to being here every day to share something that may help me and someone else breathe in the fragrance of words and the world – I try to be the necessary and eloquent silver ping when the Conductor points at me at precisely the right moment in time.

More often, I’m the “clang” creating a ruckus ringing the farm triangle bringing in everyone from all over the barnyard for lunch.

Even when my words feel broken, or I say again what another has already said yet I feel it bears emphasis — I do try to write with quiet hands, in reverence and awe for what unseeable, unspeakable gifts God has granted us all.

I try to celebrate by illuminating words and pictures with a unique “ping” all of my own.

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No Need for Chat

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I was sad one day and went for a walk;
I sat in a field.
A rabbit noticed my condition
and came near.

It often does not take more than that to help at times—
to just be close to creatures
who are so full of knowing
so full of love
that they don’t chat,
they just gaze with
their marvelous understanding.
~St. John of the Cross, in  Love Poems From God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, trans. Daniel Ladinsky

How wonderful it would be
to have an understanding
that helps people feel better
just by being near.

…knowing you can be comforting
without words,
simply by being who you are
in that moment…

even when you are a little afraid to be there…

“Hello, Rabbit,” he said, “is that you?”
“Let’s pretend it isn’t,” said Rabbit, “and see what happens.”
~A.A. Milne from Winnie the Pooh

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When the load is hard to bear,
And the fog of fear envelops you,
Let me be the friend to share In the pain that you are walking through.

When you stumble on this narrow road
And it feels like you’re forsaken,
There is one thing that is sure to hold – I am here for you.

Curse the pride and burn the shame
When it chokes the voice inside of you;
Nothing is too dark to name
When you know that I am broken too.

When the cries of hurt rage in your head
And they goad you to destruction,
I can be the voice of calm that says,
I am here for you.

There’s a greater Love than mine,
That is closer than a brother;
Power to break the chains that bind,
And to comfort like no other.

He has walked this desperate road before
And He’s walking here beside you,
For through every drought and every storm He is here for you.
I am here for you.
~Emma and Stuart Townend

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Restored to the World

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What
if you were
a beetle,
and a soft wind

and a certain allowance of time
had summoned you
out of your wrappings,
and there you were,

so many legs
hardening,
maybe even
more than one pair of eyes

and the whole world
in front of you?
And what if you had wings
and flew

into the garden,
then fell
into the up-tipped
face

of a white flower,
and what if you had
a sort of mouth,
a lip

to place close
to the skim
of honey
that kept offering itself –

what would you think then
of the world
as, night and day,
you were kept there –

oh happy prisoner –
sighing, humming,
roaming
that deep cup?
~Mary Oliver “How Everything Adores Being Alive” from “Why I Wake Early?”

We have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as a man who flicks a beetle over on its feet.
~Annie Dillard from The Force That Drives the Flower

What inference might one draw about the nature of God from a study of his works? An inordinate fondness for beetles. The Creator would appear as endowed with a passion for stars, on the one hand, and for beetles on the other.
~ J.B.S. Haldane, British biologist

Beetles haven’t figured out a way to help each other get back on their feet (whereas an upside down turtle helps his friend), but a bug depends on help from beyond their kind.

Indeed, we stranded folk have encountered a God who flips us back onto our feet when we lie helplessly waving our arms and legs in the air, stuck and pitiful. God knows all about the helplessness of suffering and hears our cry for mercy.

Once we are righted back to our feet, we walk forth changed forever. We are restored to the world, ready to help anyone we encounter who finds themselves stuck upside down in their misery.

When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles
and the bottle’s on a poodle and the poodle’s eating noodles…
…they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle bottle paddle battle.
~ Dr. Seuss from Fox in Socks

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