Dear Daughter, Your father and I wish to commend you on the wisdom of your choices and the flawless conduct of your life
Dear Poet! Where is the full-length manuscript you promised us? Your check is waiting The presses are ready and the bookstores are clamoring for delivery
Dear Patient: The results of your blood tests reveal that your problem stems from a diet dangerously low in pizza and chocolate
Dear Mom, You were right about everything and I was an idiot not to listen ~Rhina Espaillat from “Undelivered Mail”
I never thought we’d end up Living this far north, love. Cold blue heaven over our heads, Quarter moon like chalk on a slate.
This week it’s the art of subtraction And further erasure that we study. O the many blanks to ponder Before the night overtakes us once more On this lonely stretch of road Unplowed since this morning; Mittens raised against the sudden Blinding gust of wind and snow, But the mailbox empty. I had to stick My bare hand all the way in To make sure this is where we live.
The wonder of it! We retraced our steps Homeward lit by the same fuel As the snow glinting in the gloom Of the early nightfall. ~ Charles Simic “Rural Delivery” from Selected Poems: 1963-1983
In snowy winter weather, our mailbox ends up in the middle of a huge drift from the blowing northeast wind. The box sits at the peak of the highest hill on our rural road, so the mail carrier can have a clear view of who is coming and going when they stop to put our mail inside.
The blowing snow also stops right here on our hill; no mail can be delivered. So, either my husband digs out the access to the mailbox or we choose to wait for the melt and thaw, and allow our mailbox to languish unopened for as long as it takes.
An empty mailbox is a lonely thing.
Junk mail isn’t the answer any more than junk food nourishes the body. These days, personal letters in the mailbox are few and far between. And even rarer are those heart-felt letters which are hand-written, lovingly stamped to be gratefully read and treasured.
When you write such letters to me, I delight as they fill my heart and my lonely mailbox – especially so on a dark, chilly winter night…
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Only in sleep I see their faces, Children I played with when I was a child, Louise comes back with her brown hair braided, Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten — What may have come to them, who can know? Yet we played last night as long ago, And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild — Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child? ~Sara Teasdale “Only in Sleep”
When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.
Then just within the gate I saw a child,— A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear,— Who held his hands to me, and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: “Come in,” he said, “and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be.” ~Henry van Dyke, “A Child in the Garden” from The Poems of Henry van Dyke
My childhood home is painted a different color but so familiar as we drive slowly by, full of memories of laughter and games with friends, long winter days of sledding and longer summer evenings playing hide and seek and kick the can.
Back then, I wrote notes to my future self, left them in hiding places, a diary of sorts to preserve those days. I still remember what I wrote.
My child’s heart tried to imagine itself decades hence, what fears and joys would I pass through, what wounds would I bear and bleed, what love and tears would trace my face?
I have not forgotten. No, I have never forgotten the child I was ~ she is me, as I was, and, deep down, still am.
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But a dragon lies in ambush for the traveler; take care he does not bite you and inject you his poison of unbelief. Seeing this numerous company winning salvation, he selects and stalks his prey. In your journey to the Father of souls, your way lies past that dragon. How shall you pass him? You must have “your feet stoutly with the gospel of peace” (Ephesians 6:15) so that, even if he does bite you, he may not hurt you. ~St. Cyril of Jerusalem
St. Cyril of Jerusalem, in instructing catechumens, wrote: “The dragon sits by the side of the road, watching those who pass. Beware lest he devour you. We go to the Father of Souls, but it is necessary to pass by the dragon.”
No matter what form the dragon may take, it is of this mysterious passage past him, or into his jaws, that stories of any depth will always be concerned to tell, and this being the case, it requires considerable courage at any time, in any country, not to turn away from the storyteller. ~Flannery O’Connor from “Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose”
Wherever I am, there’s always Pooh, There’s always Pooh and Me. Whatever I do, he wants to do, “Where are you going today?” says Pooh: “Well, that’s very odd ‘cos I was too. Let’s go together,” says Pooh, says he. “Let’s go together,” says Pooh.
“Let’s look for dragons,” I said to Pooh. “Yes, let’s,” said Pooh to Me. We crossed the river and found a few- “Yes, those are dragons all right,” said Pooh. “As soon as I saw their beaks I knew. That’s what they are,” said Pooh, said he. “That’s what they are,” said Pooh.
“Let’s frighten the dragons,” I said to Pooh. “That’s right,” said Pooh to Me. “I’m not afraid,” I said to Pooh, And I held his paw and I shouted “Shoo! Silly old dragons!”- and off they flew.
“I wasn’t afraid,” said Pooh, said he, “I’m never afraid with you.”
So wherever I am, there’s always Pooh, There’s always Pooh and Me. “What would I do?” I said to Pooh, “If it wasn’t for you,” and Pooh said: “True, It isn’t much fun for One, but Two, Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. “That’s how it is,” says Pooh. ~A.A. Milne from “Us Two”
<Here there be dragons> was any place on ancient maps that was unknown and unexplored- a place to avoid at all costs~ or for the daring traveler, pointing to exactly the place to explore.
Here there be dragons marks the remainder of our days that dwell at the edge of life’s roadmap ~ unknown and full of peril ~
So many dragons to encounter, ready to swallow us whole if we follow a careless leader, make a wrong turn, ignore all signs of impending hazards.
Dragons singe our britches when we stray beyond the known borders of the map.
There are dark valleys to pass through, so many mysteries unsolved, so many stories of frightening journeys told – yet we stick together through troubles.
We pull on our stoutest shoes, ready to trek where ever we must go, never straying from the well-worn path of those faithful few who have managed to stay out of the jaws of dragons to tell the cautionary tale.
“I’m never afraid with you… and that’s how it is…”
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Something about that nose, round as a licorice gumdrop and massively inquiring.
It brings the world to him, the lowdown on facts denied to us.
He knows the rabbit has been in the garden and where the interloper has traveled.
He knows who has wandered through the neighborhood and can sniff out the bad guys.
He would like to get a whiff of you. He has an inside track and will know more about you than you can imagine.
But for now, he has other concerns. The cat got into my pen and is making me nervous, so let me out now please. ~Lois Edstrom “Homer” from Almanac of Quiet Days
As young as I look, I am growing older faster than he, seven to one is the ratio they tend to say. Whatever the number, I will pass him one day and take the lead the way I do on our walks in the woods. And if this ever manages to cross his mind, it would be the sweetest shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass ~Billy Collins “A Dog on his Master”
Oh, Homer, dog of my heart, when I open the gate to your pen to set you free for farm chores, you race after your corgi buddy Sam who must get to the cat food bowl before you, but then you stop mid-run, each time, circle back to me to say hello, thank you, jumping high enough to put that licorice gumdrop nose in my glove as a greeting, so I can stroke your furry brow without bending down.
You jump one, two, three times – for those three pats on the head (I think you can count) – and then you are off again running, having greeted your human with respect and affection.
You watch me do chores with your nose in the straw, checking out the smells of the day – I work at the cleaning and feeding the ponies as the barn cat embarrasses you with her attention. You wait patiently, your brown eyes watching my gray eyes. You are listening carefully for those words that mean you can race back to your pen for breakfast – “All done!”
We speak the same language, you and I. Your eyes and your nose tell me all I need to know. I know you know I know…
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Have you ever noticed how much of Christ’s life was spent in doing kind things – in merely doing kind things? … he spent a great proportion of his time simply in making people happy, in doing good turns to people.
There is only one thing greater than happiness in the world, and that is holiness; and it is not in our keeping. But what God has put in our power is the happiness of those about us, and that is largely to be secured by our being kind to them.…
I wonder why it is that we are not all kinder than we are. How much the world needs it. How easily it is done. How instantaneously it acts. How infallibly it is remembered. ~Henry Drummond from The Greatest Thing in the World
Mostly, I want to be kind. And nobody, of course, is kind, or mean, for a simple reason. ~Mary Oliver from “Dogfish”
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you” when someone sneezes, a leftover from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying. And sometimes, when you spill lemons from your grocery bag, someone else will help you pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot, and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder, and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass. We have so little of each other, now. So far from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here, have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.” ~Danusha Laméris “Small Kindnesses”
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle. ~Plato
I have found that it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folks that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love. ~ J.R.R. Tolkien from “The Hobbit”
It is tender kindness I miss most these days in this world aflame with anger and violence, distrust and bitterness, resentment and suspicion and plain old cussed stubbornness.
There is true holiness in moments of kindness: I notice it now more than ever. I am given infinite daily opportunities to show kindness to others and when I’m preoccupied, too inside my own head, or feeling too injured myself, I usually walk by without even trying.
Yet when kindness is shown to me, I don’t forget it – it permeates me like a homespun apple pie fragrance that lingers around me, comforting and welcoming me home when I feel alone and a stranger in the world.
I remember all the kindnesses shown to me over the years and always carry them with me. When I have an opportunity in a brief encounter to show kindness, I want to help make someone else feel noticed and special. I want them to feel like they belong, right in that moment.
This daily sharing of words and photos is one way I try to give back what I have been gifted from others over the years. During the two or three minutes you look at what I offer here daily, I want you to know:
– you belong here – I am forever grateful for you – your words and support enrich me.
Thank you for spending some of your precious time with me.
All winter the blue heron slept among the horses. I do not know the custom of herons, do not know if the solitary habit is their way, or if he listened for some missing one— not knowing even that was what he did— in the blowing sounds in the dark, I know that hope is the hardest love we carry. He slept with his long neck folded, like a letter put away. ~Jane Hirshfield “Hope and Love” from The Lives of the Heart
Whenever we noticed her standing in the stream, still as a branch in dead air, we would grab our binoculars, watch her watching, her eye fixed on the water slowly making its own way around stumps, over a boulder, under some leaves matted against a fallen log. She seemed to appear, stand, peer, then lift one leg, stretch it, let a foot quietly settle into the mud then pull up her other foot, settle it, and stare again, each step tendered, an ideogram at the end of a calligrapher’s brush. Every time she arrived, we watched until, as if she had suddenly heard a call in the sky, she would bend her knees, raise her wide wings, and lift into the welcome grace of the air, her legs extending back behind her, wings rising and falling elegant under the clouds: For more than a week now we have not seen her. We watch the sky, hoping to catch her great feathered cross moving above the trees. ~Jack Ridl “The Heron” from Practicing to Walk like a Heron
Things: simply lasting, then failing to last: water, a blue heron’s eye, and the light passing between them: into light all things must fall, glad at last to have fallen. ~Jane Kenyon, from “Things”in Collected Poems
I know what it is like to feel out of step with those around me, an alien in my own land – like a heron among Haflinger horses.
At times I wonder if I belong at all as I watch the choices others make.
I grew up this way, missing a connection I found only rarely, never quite fitting in, a solitary kid becoming a solitary adult. The aloneness bothered me, but not in a “I’ve-got-to-become-like-them” kind of way.
I went my own way, never losing hope.
Somehow misfits find each other. Through the grace and acceptance of others, I found a soul mate and community. Even so, there are times when the old feeling of not-quite-belonging creeps in and I wonder whether I’ll be a misfit all the way to the cemetery, placed in the wrong plot in the wrong graveyard, forgotten altogether.
We disparate creatures are made to be connected, sometimes with those who look and think and act like us, or more often with those who are something completely different. I’ll keep on the lookout for my fellow misfits, just in case there are others out there looking for company along this journey of grace we’re on.
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The maple leaves abscond with summer’s green rain on such little stems connecting to spring’s essence, summer twigs’ foliage, the company of the living.
But now they shrug off their red-gold existence as if they’d never inhabited the verdure of the undead, drifting to a ground hardened by sudden frost. ~Donna Pucciani “One Minute”
I was standing lost, sunk, my hands in my pockets, gazing toward Tinker Mountain and feeling the earth reel down. All at once, I saw what looked like a Martian spaceship whirling towards me in the air. It flashed borrowed light like a propeller. Its forward motion greatly outran its fall. As I watched, transfixed, it rose, just before it would have touched a thistle, and hovered pirouetting in one spot, then twirled on and finally came to rest. I found it in the grass; it was a maple key…Hullo. I threw it into the wind and it flew off again, bristling with animate purpose, not like a thing dropped or windblown, pushed by the witless winds of convection currents hauling round the world’s rondure where they must, but like a creature muscled and vigorous, or a creature spread thin to that other wind, the wind of the spirit that bloweth where it listeth, lighting, and raising up, and easing down. O maple key, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers.
And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath. That breath never ceases to kindle, exuberant, abandoned; frayed splinters spatter in every direction and burgeon into flame. And now when I sway to a fitful wind, alone and listing, I will think, maple key. When I see a photograph of earth from outer space, the planet so startlingly painterly and hung, I will think, maple key. When I shake your hand or meet your eyes, I will think two maple keys. If I am maple key falling, at least I can twirl. ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
If only there were living words as plentiful as the maple keys that twirl from each branch, words that release us from our dry roots, ready to unlock life’s secrets, unlatch and push ajar the doors to heavy hearts.
Who can ever be ready to go from vibrant and alive, colorful and mobile, to dropped and still?
The reality of another spent season is a slug to the gut. Time is passing. I’m wasting time. There is no stopping it without stopping me.
Let’s dwell in the company of the living until we fall away together.
Live well, fellow leaves and we’ll let go together: swaying to a fitful wind, giving a gentle shrug and drifting, easing into settling down when the time comes.
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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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Now I become myself. It’s taken Time, many years and places; I have been dissolved and shaken, Worn other people’s faces, Now to stand still, to be here, Feel my own weight and density!
All fuses now, falls into place From wish to action, word to silence, My work, my love, my time, my face Gathered into one intense Gesture of growing like a plant. Now there is time and Time is young. Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun! ~May Sarton from “Now I Become Myself”
My grade school took part in an educational experiment in the early 1960’s. It was one of the first schools to mainstream special needs children into “regular” classrooms. At that time, the usual approach was to put kids with disabilities in separate rooms, if not entirely separate schools.
During those years, the average class size for a grade school teacher was 32-35 kids, with no teacher’s aides, rare parent volunteers, (except for field trips and room mothers who threw the holiday parties) and no medications or special accommodations for ADHD or dyslexia. I’m not sure how teachers coped with nearly three dozen noisy disruptive kids, but somehow they managed to teach in spite of the obstacles. Adding in children with mental and physical challenges without additional adult help must have been very difficult.
So some kids got recruited to help out the kids with disabilities. It helped the teacher by creating a buddy system for the special needs kids who might need help with class work or who might have difficulty getting around.
I was assigned to Michael so our desks were side by side for the year. He was a thin little boy with cerebral palsy and hearing aids, thick glasses hooked with a wide band around the back of his head, and spastic muscles never going where he wanted them to go. He could not remain still, try as he might. He walked independently with some difficulty, mostly on his tiptoes because of his shortened leg tendons, frequently falling when he got going too quickly. His thick orthopedic shoes with leg braces would trip him up. His hands were intermittently in a grip of contracted muscles, and his face was always contorting and grimacing. He drooled a lot, so perpetually carried a Kleenex in his hand to catch the drips of spit that ran out of his mouth and dropped on his desk, threatening to spoil his coloring and writing papers.
His speech consisted of all vowels, as his tongue couldn’t quite connect with his teeth or palate to sound out the consonants, so it took some time and patience to understand what he said. He could write with great effort, gripping the pencil awkwardly in his tight palm and found he could communicate better at times on paper than by talking.
I made sure he had help to finish assignments if his muscles were too tight to write, and I learned his speech so I could interpret for the teacher. He was brave and bright, with a finer mind than most of the kids in our class. He loved a good joke and his little body would shudder as he roared his appreciation. I was always impressed at how he expressed himself and how little bitterness he had about his limitations. He was the most articulate inarticulate person I had ever met.
As Michael appeared around the corner of the grade school building every morning, he would walk quickly in his careful tip-toe cadence, arms flailing, shoes scuffing, raising up dust with each step. He would wave at me and call out my name in his indecipherable voice.
Once, as he approached, a group of kids playing tag swooped past him, purposely a little too close, spinning him off his feet like a top and onto the ground. Glasses askew, he lay momentarily still, and realizing I was needed, I ran to help him up. Despite all he endured, I never saw Michael cry, not even once, not even when he fell down hard. When he got angry or frustrated, he’d get very quiet. His muscles would tense up so much he would go into even greater spasms.
I had no tolerance for anyone who bullied him. I could see the pain in his grimacing face. Although he would give me a huge toothy smile of thanks, his eyes, as usual, said what his mouth could not. Michael knew I needed him as much as he needed me. I relished my new role as the life preserver thrown to him as he struggled to stay afloat in a sea of classroom hostility.
There were many times when I resented being teased by other students about Michael being my boyfriend. Although he would blush bright red when he heard that, Michael really had become a good friend, who just happened to be a boy.
The following academic year, he moved to another school district, so I never saw Michael again. However, I heard him on local radio six years later, reading an essay he’d written for the county Voice of Democracy contest on what it meant to be a free citizen. His essay was one of the top three award winners that year. I was amazed at how understandable his speaking voice had become.
Years later, I went on to medical school, learning from patients who lived with even far greater limitations than Michael. I realized that my initial training in compassionate care had been as I sat by his side helping him navigate 5th grade. He showed me how important it was to take the time to understand his voice and his heart when others would or could not.
I didn’t appreciate it then as I do now, but he taught me far more than I ever taught him: patience, perseverance and respect for the journey through obstacles rather than focusing just on the destination.
He helped me surpass my own less visible limitations. I was his special friend – one who just happened to be a girl.
So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Galatians 6:9
This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”
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Suddenly I knew, when we stood in a circle holding hands; suddenly I knew, that because of the circle, because of friendship, because of love— yes, and because of the brokenness, and the need— I have been in heaven all my life. ~Carol Bialock “I Used to Think Heaven was Future” from Coral Castles
The church, I think, is God’s way of saying, “What I have in the pot is yours, and what I have is a group of misfits whom you need more than you know and who need you more than they know.”
“Take, and eat,” he says, “and take, and eat, until the day, and it is coming, that you knock on my door. I will open it, and you will see me face to face.”
He is preparing a table. He will welcome us in. Jesus will be there, smiling and holy, holding out a green bean casserole. And at that moment, what we say, what we think, and what we believe will be the same: “I didn’t know how badly I needed this.” ~Jeremy Clive Huggins from “The Church Potluck”
…when I experienced the warm, unpretentious reception of those who have nothing to boast about, and experienced a loving embrace from people who didn’t ask any questions, I began to discover that a true spiritual homecoming means a return to the poor in spirit to whom the kingdom of heaven belongs. ~Henri Nouwen from The Return of the Prodigal Son
The journey begins when Christians leave their homes and beds. They leave, indeed, their life in this present and concrete world, and whether they have to drive 15 miles or walk a few blocks, a sacramental act is already taking place…
For they are now on their way to constitute the Church, or to be more exact, to be transformed into the Church of God. They have been individuals, some white, some black, some poor, some rich, they have been the ‘natural’ world and a natural community. And now they have been called to “come together in one place,” to bring their lives, their very world with them and to be more than what they were: a new community with a new life.
We are already far beyond the categories of common worship and prayer. The purpose of this ‘coming together’ is not simply to add a religious dimension to the natural community, to make it ‘better’ – more responsible, more Christian. The purpose is to fulfill the Church, and that means to make present the One in whom all things are at their end, and all things are at their beginning. ~ Father Alexander Schmemann from For the Life of the World
We’ve been through fire, we’ve been through pain We’ve been refined by the power of Your name We’ve fallen deeper in love with You You’ve burned the truth on our lips
Rise up church with broken wings Fill this place with songs again Of our God who reigns on high By his grace again we’ll fly ~Robin Mark from “Shout to the North and the South”
photo by Barb Hoelle
There is so much wrong with the modern church, comprised as it is of fallen people with broken wings determined to find flaws in each other in doctrine, tradition, beliefs.
What is right with the church today, is when it offers a taste of heaven for hopeful people who come together in sanctuary, barn and field, eucharist table and potluck, to hold each other up in prayer and to sing in worship to the Three in One, who is why we sing, whose body we are part of and who, in our need, loves and forgives us despite our motley messiness: Our Lord of Heaven and Earth.
I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly united in mind and thought. 1 Corinthians 1:9-10
This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”
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