The why of it I don't know, but I was born
with a fear of motorcycles, the noise of them
terrified me. On the street of the house I first lived
they would go loudly to their destination, my eyes tracking
their to and fro movements, up and down the stretch
of pavement that was the stage for the theatre of traffic
I watched as I played. My front yard
was a front seat for terror when motorcycles entered
the scene, surprising me with roaring engines, the popping
of exhaust through tailpipes. My audience eyes went wide, hands clapping
to ears. This I knew
as afraid. Unknowing
of how it got in me, I accepted
it. Motorcycles were
something to be feared. And that was
that. No more
was said or done, except for my body
to note it, to write down somewhere in the code
of cells a reminder NOTE TO SELF: watch
for bikes with loud engines coming
toward you. Another fear
that wrote itself down in me
was a being of afraid of a certain road: Oregonia Road
it was named, a road that wound itself through
the Oregonia River Valley, legendary for death
in motorists who missed
the surprise of its curves. It scared me
this often-traveled road on our way to river
or bike path or lake or trail across the glacier-formed beauty
of scars that rose up and sank down into the
skin of Ohio. We live
in the ups and downs of our geography, the earth
a body we traverse with our own bodies. We go in and out
and around it, stomachs rising to throats as we crest
the hills and feel the bottoming out in the low dips. We love
this, push the pedal down harder on it. The thrill of it
brings an alive like no other
alive. And Oregonia Road brings it. For me
I live in afraid of the driving
of this road. And more so in the passenger seat
of it, without control
of the fear that drives me
to avoid it. The driver's seat was mine
the day I was returning
home from a day's hike in woods
and lake with soggy kids
in the back seat singing. The knowingness
came upon me right then, opening pages of
an old notebook with scribbled notes
from the past, a lesson written down
and not yet learned. But for this moment
I had studied. I had listened,
paid attention,
gathered the information, and I knew it. I knew
what needed to be done: Go slow, watch the curves.
The knowledge of it rose up in me
and out my skin in cold goose bumps
tingling. I passed
the day-tripping outdoor enthusiasts:
the cyclists en route to the bike trail,
kayakers with loaded roof racks headed for
river paddling, and then
in the slow rounding of another bend
I faced down the fear
I had come to know. Coming towards me,
a motorcycle, its helmeted rider steering
the lightning speed movement of rubber and plastic and steel
back across the center line so that
in a moment that was less than a blink we passed
safely next to one another. In my soul lives
knowledge of another road that in another time and space led
to the destiny of full-on collision, a different reality of
the moment of passing becoming the wreckage
of matter smashing into matter
and lives blown apart across the landscape
of Spring growing up along the Oregonia Roadside
the impending bloom
of ditch lilies next to shattered
glass and bodies. The drive continues, wheels turning over
the subtle shift of Karma undone, the new soul knowing:
the reason for fear is over and earth spins
in stride with it.
Dedicated to Rebecca Kilker Boatman, in memory of her brother Barry Kilker, an angel to both of us.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Thursday, May 8, 2014
About Love and What it Means to Follow it
Who I thought I was
was Daisy Duke
leaping from the hay loft, climbing
trees and fences, exploring the
no boundaries
of corn field
after corn field
after hay pasture
in cut-off jean shorts and
tied up
t-shirt covering
the first buds of adolescence, belly button
displayed. Who I really was
was Gaia
Mother Earth, birth-giver
to the universe. Television
didn't tell me that. Instead I heard it
in Spring when the farmhouse windows
let in bird sound and soft swish
of breeze in new leafed trees
and smell of last year's manure that lay
the fertile ground for seeds and sprouts
and the growing up
of earth's abundance around us. Punishment
I felt in the sting of running through rows
of high corn stalks in lost confusion where I learned
the paradox of Earth's beauty
and unkindness. We are here to understand
the sweet spot
of acceptance. And go running
through it.
was Daisy Duke
leaping from the hay loft, climbing
trees and fences, exploring the
no boundaries
of corn field
after corn field
after hay pasture
in cut-off jean shorts and
tied up
t-shirt covering
the first buds of adolescence, belly button
displayed. Who I really was
was Gaia
Mother Earth, birth-giver
to the universe. Television
didn't tell me that. Instead I heard it
in Spring when the farmhouse windows
let in bird sound and soft swish
of breeze in new leafed trees
and smell of last year's manure that lay
the fertile ground for seeds and sprouts
and the growing up
of earth's abundance around us. Punishment
I felt in the sting of running through rows
of high corn stalks in lost confusion where I learned
the paradox of Earth's beauty
and unkindness. We are here to understand
the sweet spot
of acceptance. And go running
through it.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Divine Lover
I know him
when he sees
the roughness
of my heels and knows
my walk has been hard and the scars
on my face reveal
how terribly my heart fears
judgement. Because of these things
she adores me.
when he sees
the roughness
of my heels and knows
my walk has been hard and the scars
on my face reveal
how terribly my heart fears
judgement. Because of these things
she adores me.
Monday, April 7, 2014
What Comes From Listening
You discover beauty, for one. This weekend the voice inside me said to go see what was going on in the earth, so I spent all day Saturday going around the yard pushing aside the leaves and finding little sprouts of plants and colorful flowers coming up, some of them bulbs I'd planted last fall. Today the same voice told me to look around in My Documents folder. There I found this beautiful flower of a poem, something I wrote in the Autumn of 2011.
There just isn't a whole lot that can go wrong when you listen to that still, small voice inside you. Does that mean that other people won't get annoyed because they have other ideas for you? No. Pretty much the opposite, actually. Expect backlash. People will get annoyed, think you are crazy, and tell you what you should be doing instead. But heed the voice. It is your true soul, the Divine Light within you, and it always leads you gently to a place of unconditional love.
One Voice
I wonder if I would like it if there were just one voice
to tell me who I am
who I need to become
what I need to do. I wonder
if I would like a set of rules to obey, my own
1950's ladies' magazine with that voice
that black and white printed voice, the one of reason
and authority
which so calmly states what my priorities should be: lipstick and tidy hair
and a hot meal on the table for my husband.
There are so many voices to hear now. So many magazines
and books and podcasts and blogs and Facebook posts
with so many voices, each one carved out
into a small market niche, each one branded
in just such a way to attract
just such person who might pay the price
of our souls lost to convention. We think because now we can choose
which convention to follow
that we have freedom.
What we really have is just more
competition for our attention.
Somedays I want the voices
to distract me. I go looking
for someone to tell me
with authority
what to do. I search for something
besides the hard work of going inward
and becoming
very
very
still. I look
for someone to give my life
over to, to save me
from the difficulty and pain
of having to live it.
Today was a day like that. I'm learning
to see it
when it comes. The closer I get
to the poet in me
the easier it is
to recognize the impulse to climb
inside a box and dwell there, instead of
dwelling in the wide open space
of possibility, the place where all things shimmer
with Divine Presence.
Somedays the box feels safer. Somedays I don't want to be knocked down
by the insane beauty of existence. Somedays I'd prefer to trade it
for a clean house,
perfectly applied eyeliner,
and well-behaved
children. Somedays I sell my beautiful
soul for pride.
But then in silence I hear
Be still and Know that I am God
and trade my usual
delicate gold crucifix for the heavier
chained cross whose pewter coldness hangs low
to my solar plexus. I speak sparingly
eating light, going about my work
at home, stopping frequently to pray, mostly for the
return of the spirit flowing in me, which seems lost momentarily
in earth's gravitational pull, as if summer had me flying up in the air
enjoying it's wild ride and now Autumn's inevitable hard bump
of the ground under my behind. You can only fly by the seat of your pants
for so long, I suppose. What goes up, must come down.
I'm sure there are thousands of voices giving good advice
on how to avoid this pain, this place of lying in a defeated heap
faced with the limitations of your own humanity. Somewhere there are voices
certain to remind me
that I could avoid this moment if I would
plan better
work harder
stay focused on my goals. But somewhere there's a voice that says
this life is poetry.
And a poetic life is one worth living.
I'm listening
to that one
voice.
There just isn't a whole lot that can go wrong when you listen to that still, small voice inside you. Does that mean that other people won't get annoyed because they have other ideas for you? No. Pretty much the opposite, actually. Expect backlash. People will get annoyed, think you are crazy, and tell you what you should be doing instead. But heed the voice. It is your true soul, the Divine Light within you, and it always leads you gently to a place of unconditional love.
One Voice
I wonder if I would like it if there were just one voice
to tell me who I am
who I need to become
what I need to do. I wonder
if I would like a set of rules to obey, my own
1950's ladies' magazine with that voice
that black and white printed voice, the one of reason
and authority
which so calmly states what my priorities should be: lipstick and tidy hair
and a hot meal on the table for my husband.
There are so many voices to hear now. So many magazines
and books and podcasts and blogs and Facebook posts
with so many voices, each one carved out
into a small market niche, each one branded
in just such a way to attract
just such person who might pay the price
of our souls lost to convention. We think because now we can choose
which convention to follow
that we have freedom.
What we really have is just more
competition for our attention.
Somedays I want the voices
to distract me. I go looking
for someone to tell me
with authority
what to do. I search for something
besides the hard work of going inward
and becoming
very
very
still. I look
for someone to give my life
over to, to save me
from the difficulty and pain
of having to live it.
Today was a day like that. I'm learning
to see it
when it comes. The closer I get
to the poet in me
the easier it is
to recognize the impulse to climb
inside a box and dwell there, instead of
dwelling in the wide open space
of possibility, the place where all things shimmer
with Divine Presence.
Somedays the box feels safer. Somedays I don't want to be knocked down
by the insane beauty of existence. Somedays I'd prefer to trade it
for a clean house,
perfectly applied eyeliner,
and well-behaved
children. Somedays I sell my beautiful
soul for pride.
But then in silence I hear
Be still and Know that I am God
and trade my usual
delicate gold crucifix for the heavier
chained cross whose pewter coldness hangs low
to my solar plexus. I speak sparingly
eating light, going about my work
at home, stopping frequently to pray, mostly for the
return of the spirit flowing in me, which seems lost momentarily
in earth's gravitational pull, as if summer had me flying up in the air
enjoying it's wild ride and now Autumn's inevitable hard bump
of the ground under my behind. You can only fly by the seat of your pants
for so long, I suppose. What goes up, must come down.
I'm sure there are thousands of voices giving good advice
on how to avoid this pain, this place of lying in a defeated heap
faced with the limitations of your own humanity. Somewhere there are voices
certain to remind me
that I could avoid this moment if I would
plan better
work harder
stay focused on my goals. But somewhere there's a voice that says
this life is poetry.
And a poetic life is one worth living.
I'm listening
to that one
voice.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
"Dance like No one is Watching" is Not Just a Cute Phrase on a Knick-Knack at Target
The advice in this column is not linear
or rational
or designed to take you
from A to B to anywhere
near the cover of Redbook.
Where it will
take you
is bliss
and beyond, when you learn
that the here is now
and the moment you start ecstatic dancing
from the kitchen counter to the pantry
with the peanut butter,
when you can dance
with the dirty dishes
from breakfast with the beautiful souls
you co-created into this world
with your incredible other,
then
is the experience of knowing
in the highest sense, in the sense
that teenagers would ask,
"Are you high?" as they do
in the presence of absolute ridiculousness,
of irrational, of emotional, of weird.
This is high.This is the feeling you seek
in the bottle, the bong, the line, the deep long drag
down into your lungs, in the buying of so much
or even what moves you to buy in
to something that gives you
a sense of being
more. Or perhaps you look
not to indulgence
but deprivation
and the pendulum swing over
to not this
or that
or that
or that
because the not having
has a sweet burn to it that becomes
your new high, your new shared experience
with humanity. We all love suffering
crave it
as much as we all crave the embrace
of each other, to pour ourselves
into each other, to empty out the separate
self and dissolve into
Oneness. But knowing that you want this
helps. It helps you to remember to dance, to love
these legs
these hands
this body you have been given
that is yours
and yet not yours
because it is a temple
whose steeple points upward
reminding you of
the vast beyond, the union
that you go towards.
or rational
or designed to take you
from A to B to anywhere
near the cover of Redbook.
Where it will
take you
is bliss
and beyond, when you learn
that the here is now
and the moment you start ecstatic dancing
from the kitchen counter to the pantry
with the peanut butter,
when you can dance
with the dirty dishes
from breakfast with the beautiful souls
you co-created into this world
with your incredible other,
then
is the experience of knowing
in the highest sense, in the sense
that teenagers would ask,
"Are you high?" as they do
in the presence of absolute ridiculousness,
of irrational, of emotional, of weird.
This is high.This is the feeling you seek
in the bottle, the bong, the line, the deep long drag
down into your lungs, in the buying of so much
or even what moves you to buy in
to something that gives you
a sense of being
more. Or perhaps you look
not to indulgence
but deprivation
and the pendulum swing over
to not this
or that
or that
or that
because the not having
has a sweet burn to it that becomes
your new high, your new shared experience
with humanity. We all love suffering
crave it
as much as we all crave the embrace
of each other, to pour ourselves
into each other, to empty out the separate
self and dissolve into
Oneness. But knowing that you want this
helps. It helps you to remember to dance, to love
these legs
these hands
this body you have been given
that is yours
and yet not yours
because it is a temple
whose steeple points upward
reminding you of
the vast beyond, the union
that you go towards.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
News Flash
Here is news from the front page of The Universal Consciousness (aka God): Christianity and Science are coming together again, having another go at each other. It is quite wild to watch: sparks are flying in all directions, but there is definitely real chemistry there. SOMETHING is happening.
“One can resist the invasion of armies; one cannot resist the invasion of ideas," wrote Victor Hugo in the final chapter of The History of a Crime. And so you see them marching toward one another: Christianity clothed in light, bearing the heart of Jesus, crying out the inspired words of sacred scripture, spirits on fire with love; and then from the other direction comes Science, waving their banners of Evidence, Proven, Study and rallying each other with the words that unite them in meaning: energy, medicine, electromagnetic, vibrational frequency.
They march, slowly, advancing in on each other, each step an understanding, a reconciliation of beliefs. Tension builds as they come closer to one another, holding high everything they have come to know, each conviction a pebble, a rock, a boulder ready to build a fortress around themselves or to throw against any opposing force that might threaten them. But still they advance forward, unable to resist the curiosity of knowing the other side, a passionate interest to know.
And so they meet: face to face, belief to belief. And in that intimate space of knowing, it happens: the embrace of one another. They can't resist; each is too beautiful for the other to bear destroying. In love and honor and respect, they begin a new relationship with one another. With their rocks they begin to build, and their words they combine into new songs that sing of to us of healing and of hope for the beautiful earth we inhabit together.
This is the relationship that is happening within me right now, the coming together of two belief systems and the wholeness of being that results. And this I see happening in people all around me, in particular among the spiritual seekers in our midst, those who are curious enough to ask questions and be open to answers, those who can hold to love long enough to create real union in people. This is the thing we wish for and hasten to acknowledge: how much we want to understand and be together in love with others, our desire to connect deeply with one another.
This connection deeply is called intimacy; we long for it. It is the space that happens when two sides meet in the middle. In that space, we can choose love or we can choose fear. In fear, we throw rocks to protect ourselves. In love, we build something beautiful with our rocks. Choose love.
Bringing you today's news....
Love love love,
Lynn
“One can resist the invasion of armies; one cannot resist the invasion of ideas," wrote Victor Hugo in the final chapter of The History of a Crime. And so you see them marching toward one another: Christianity clothed in light, bearing the heart of Jesus, crying out the inspired words of sacred scripture, spirits on fire with love; and then from the other direction comes Science, waving their banners of Evidence, Proven, Study and rallying each other with the words that unite them in meaning: energy, medicine, electromagnetic, vibrational frequency.
They march, slowly, advancing in on each other, each step an understanding, a reconciliation of beliefs. Tension builds as they come closer to one another, holding high everything they have come to know, each conviction a pebble, a rock, a boulder ready to build a fortress around themselves or to throw against any opposing force that might threaten them. But still they advance forward, unable to resist the curiosity of knowing the other side, a passionate interest to know.
And so they meet: face to face, belief to belief. And in that intimate space of knowing, it happens: the embrace of one another. They can't resist; each is too beautiful for the other to bear destroying. In love and honor and respect, they begin a new relationship with one another. With their rocks they begin to build, and their words they combine into new songs that sing of to us of healing and of hope for the beautiful earth we inhabit together.
This is the relationship that is happening within me right now, the coming together of two belief systems and the wholeness of being that results. And this I see happening in people all around me, in particular among the spiritual seekers in our midst, those who are curious enough to ask questions and be open to answers, those who can hold to love long enough to create real union in people. This is the thing we wish for and hasten to acknowledge: how much we want to understand and be together in love with others, our desire to connect deeply with one another.
This connection deeply is called intimacy; we long for it. It is the space that happens when two sides meet in the middle. In that space, we can choose love or we can choose fear. In fear, we throw rocks to protect ourselves. In love, we build something beautiful with our rocks. Choose love.
Bringing you today's news....
Love love love,
Lynn
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Rest for the Weary
I bumped into discouragement this morning. It was not a friendly meeting. I fell down in it for awhile, rolled around in it. I tried for awhile to get away, but for some reason, discouragement just did not want to let me go happily about my day.
I took a shower, thinking that might help wash away the discouragement that seemed to want to cling to me, and while I was standing in the hot water, letting it pour down the back of my neck and over my shoulders, it suddenly came to me that I needed to listen to the Chaplet of Divine Mercy in Song. This morning. Now. As soon as possible.
I continued to think about it as I dried off and got dressed, although my mind kept trying to convince me that I should do other things. My mind, small little thing that it is, and very focused on it's own motives, wanted me to do something that looked more like work, more productive than sitting around listening to people sing "For the sake of your sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world" over and over again. My mind did not like this idea. My mind tried to convince me that this was dumb: Yes, Divine Mercy! I know what that is! I know the concept. Please, can we move on now? Let's do something else today, ok? What other new things can we think about?
But I did it. I listened to my heart, pulled it up on my iphone and pressed play (you can listen to it here). About 42 seconds into the song, I started to cry. And I cried. And I kept crying for the duration of the song (18 minutes, 15 seconds), which is a really long time to cry. I would call that a "good cry". I would call that "productive". And I would call it "work", because I had to show up and pay attention, and focus, and be present.
When all the tears that needed to be shed were gone, I read some scripture verses to help bring me hope and ease my discouragment. And then I wrote the poem below, based partially on these verses from John 15:
As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you keep my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit—fruit that will last—and so that whatever you ask in my name the Father will give you. This is my command: Love each other.
John 15
It is too cold in this winter
to plant, yet the orchid blooms on the windowsill
and the evergreen outside spreads wide branches in defiance
of death. Eternal, say the outspread arms, an invitation to the weary
of heart, to all who stumble the path of frozen travels in firm steps
searching for the everlasting. Yesterday, today, tomorrow
it says, I will be
here
air
and green
and breathing
and life. So there is something in that
tree that says forever
that says not fear
something that holds us
as the wind does its changing
dance. Still,
there is soil
and roots
while the ground turns its cold shoulder
to seeds and sprouting, to the upward pushing
potential of flowers, to the garden's abundance
and vines hung heavy with creation's
fruit: the thing that comes
from labor, from the vision
of something new
to sustain us, love
harvested.
Other verses to help with discouragement:
Deuteronomy 33:27 – The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.
Psalm 126:5 – Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.
Psalm 37:23-24 – If the Lord delights in a man’s way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumbles, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand.
I took a shower, thinking that might help wash away the discouragement that seemed to want to cling to me, and while I was standing in the hot water, letting it pour down the back of my neck and over my shoulders, it suddenly came to me that I needed to listen to the Chaplet of Divine Mercy in Song. This morning. Now. As soon as possible.
I continued to think about it as I dried off and got dressed, although my mind kept trying to convince me that I should do other things. My mind, small little thing that it is, and very focused on it's own motives, wanted me to do something that looked more like work, more productive than sitting around listening to people sing "For the sake of your sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world" over and over again. My mind did not like this idea. My mind tried to convince me that this was dumb: Yes, Divine Mercy! I know what that is! I know the concept. Please, can we move on now? Let's do something else today, ok? What other new things can we think about?
But I did it. I listened to my heart, pulled it up on my iphone and pressed play (you can listen to it here). About 42 seconds into the song, I started to cry. And I cried. And I kept crying for the duration of the song (18 minutes, 15 seconds), which is a really long time to cry. I would call that a "good cry". I would call that "productive". And I would call it "work", because I had to show up and pay attention, and focus, and be present.
When all the tears that needed to be shed were gone, I read some scripture verses to help bring me hope and ease my discouragment. And then I wrote the poem below, based partially on these verses from John 15:
As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you keep my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit—fruit that will last—and so that whatever you ask in my name the Father will give you. This is my command: Love each other.
John 15
It is too cold in this winter
to plant, yet the orchid blooms on the windowsill
and the evergreen outside spreads wide branches in defiance
of death. Eternal, say the outspread arms, an invitation to the weary
of heart, to all who stumble the path of frozen travels in firm steps
searching for the everlasting. Yesterday, today, tomorrow
it says, I will be
here
air
and green
and breathing
and life. So there is something in that
tree that says forever
that says not fear
something that holds us
as the wind does its changing
dance. Still,
there is soil
and roots
while the ground turns its cold shoulder
to seeds and sprouting, to the upward pushing
potential of flowers, to the garden's abundance
and vines hung heavy with creation's
fruit: the thing that comes
from labor, from the vision
of something new
to sustain us, love
harvested.
Other verses to help with discouragement:
Deuteronomy 33:27 – The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.
Psalm 126:5 – Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.
Psalm 37:23-24 – If the Lord delights in a man’s way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumbles, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Throw Back Thursday
This is a poem I wrote when I was 6 years old in first grade. My teacher, Sr. Ann Jerome, kept this in her desk drawer for 15 years. When she retired, she gave it to my mom and my mom framed it. Before anything else, before I knew anything of what is to be found in school and books and learning, in the deepest parts of my heart and soul, I am a poet. Oh yes, yes, yes, yes.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Stressed? Worried? Confused about life?
Find an angel. I did. Here is what mine looks like:
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She reminds me of what is important:
And she leaves messages on my pillow letting me know I am not alone:
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Life in the Divine Parade
Strange what you remember in the turning of tragic: the detail of flip-flops
On feet running from the car, past the arrival of the paramedics walking
In long strides clasping medical bags to the scene of the horseback accident:
A pasture alive with early Ohio Spring at the turn of evening in lengthening daylight
And your daughter lying in it, in green grass and blood,
How it must have been warm that April day to be wearing flip-flops
When you rode the long siren sound down Broadway of your hometown
The street of parades, driven in cars, in carriages, on floats, waving
Always waving and smiling, while the fire engines and ambulances sounded
Their sirens and horns in joyous celebration. And now
The ambulance sounds the siren of tragic and you ride unwaving and unsmiling
In the front seat of uncertainty, turning the tragic parade with your prayers:
Praising the existence of paramedics and ambulance
Praising the place you go for sewing and mending
Praising the giving of morphine, the ease of rolling beds
Praising rubber and steel and plastic
Praising doors that open without effort
Praising hands, the hands of many:
Hands that drive
and write
and type
and carry
and clean
and bandage
and find the small vein
Hands of angels reaching from beyond
And the blessed moment in time of the recording of the Memorare
Inspired through heart and mind and mortal hand of
Someone who wants you to know Blessed Mother's protection and help
For you to know in this moment of perfect failure, in the complete humanity of your fear,
That she
Blessed She
Virgin of virgins
Our Mother wants the better for you.
Monday, February 10, 2014
What's in a Name?
Good question, Shakespeare. Why did I name this blog "love, hands, poetry"? One answer to that question is because when I write, I feel like love flows through my hands to create something poetic. And another answer is that I feel the same way when I do healing touch work: love flows through me to my hands and brings a healing experience to another person (and me in return), which is a poetic moment, if you ask me.
In writing, I write from my heart in order to connect with my readers, with whatever eyes or ears happens upon my words and feels something in them that stirs a memory of their soul's home, the place we came from before, what I call God. In the act of creating with words, I reach deep into myself to find the Word, from where all words flow. And then I let them flow...in gratitude for being given the gift of hearing them and knowing them, for the gift of a loving creator who made us to be creative, and the gift of my body and hands which allow me to give expression to those words and touch the hearts and minds and souls of others.
In healing work it feels very much the same to me, but looks different. I connect to Divine Love, the source of all healing, then heart connect with the person I am working with, and let whatever good is in the heart of the Divine for that person at that moment to flow through me. If you take the commas out of my blog title, it reads "love hands poetry", which is another way of saying "God gives healing". Mother Teresa said, "Where there is love, there is God." And that is where the love comes from that I bring to my writing and to my healing work, not from me, but from God in Me.
Mother Teresa is one of my inspirations, not because she was some great and talented person, but because of her humility in allowing God's love to flow through her. To do this, she spent time every day in silence and contemplation to fill herself with this presence, this healing energy, which is pure love, and then she let that love flow from her to others in need of it. In slums of Calcutta, in a place almost completely lacking in the idea of human dignity, she brought to people the idea that they are loved and valued by caring for them, tending to their sickness and wounds, feeding them, giving them a bed to sleep in.
That is love. That is using her hands for healing. That is a poetic life. Love, hands, poetry. Would a blog by any other name retain that dear perfection which it owes that title? Perhaps so. But I'm calling it perfect.
In writing, I write from my heart in order to connect with my readers, with whatever eyes or ears happens upon my words and feels something in them that stirs a memory of their soul's home, the place we came from before, what I call God. In the act of creating with words, I reach deep into myself to find the Word, from where all words flow. And then I let them flow...in gratitude for being given the gift of hearing them and knowing them, for the gift of a loving creator who made us to be creative, and the gift of my body and hands which allow me to give expression to those words and touch the hearts and minds and souls of others.
In healing work it feels very much the same to me, but looks different. I connect to Divine Love, the source of all healing, then heart connect with the person I am working with, and let whatever good is in the heart of the Divine for that person at that moment to flow through me. If you take the commas out of my blog title, it reads "love hands poetry", which is another way of saying "God gives healing". Mother Teresa said, "Where there is love, there is God." And that is where the love comes from that I bring to my writing and to my healing work, not from me, but from God in Me.
Mother Teresa is one of my inspirations, not because she was some great and talented person, but because of her humility in allowing God's love to flow through her. To do this, she spent time every day in silence and contemplation to fill herself with this presence, this healing energy, which is pure love, and then she let that love flow from her to others in need of it. In slums of Calcutta, in a place almost completely lacking in the idea of human dignity, she brought to people the idea that they are loved and valued by caring for them, tending to their sickness and wounds, feeding them, giving them a bed to sleep in.
That is love. That is using her hands for healing. That is a poetic life. Love, hands, poetry. Would a blog by any other name retain that dear perfection which it owes that title? Perhaps so. But I'm calling it perfect.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
God Bless Leeches
It all began with leeches. Those slimy little bloodsuckers, how I love them! They suck, of course, but it is precisely because of how much they suck that I love them so much. Because of leeches, my entire worldview, my entire universe, shifted in just a short period of time. That short period of time was precisely 9 days, which was the amount of time it took for my daughter to fall of her horse, sever her ear (like, seriously...almost completely. ripped. off.) have emergency plastic surgery in the middle of the night (that's a new one, huh? Did you even think plastic surgeons worked nights?) and then spend several days in the ICU with leeches sucking on her ear around the clock.
It is times like these when you learn that all of God's creatures are important. I mean really learn it. In your heart, learn it. Not like it was in Bible School when you sang that song about "If I were a butterfly, I'd thank you God that I could fly." Because there were no verses about fleas or bedbugs, none about vampire bats or mosquitoes, and definitely none about leeches (If I were a lee-ee-eech, I'd thank you God that I could SUCK). No, none like that. So, although the verdict is still a little out for me on those other gross blood-sucking creatures, I am thankful for leeches. I love those slimy little guys. They saved my daughter's ear and brought her back to wholeness. And to me, in my heart and soul, bringing a person back to wholeness is doing God's work.
What leeches did for my daughter's ear was to do their little bloodsucking thing, which did the job of pulling blood from her body through her ear, which allowed a flow of blood into what was, at that point, a dead body part. The tiny capillaries that allow the normal flow of blood in and out had been severed, and the plastic surgeon lacked the ability to re-attach such tiny little veins, so our only hope for her to re-claim her ear was through leeches and their God-given hunger for blood.
You never think about these things, how at one crucial moment your life will come down to depending on leeches. Truly, every single moment of our life is like this, dependent on the tiniest of details, but it is in those blown up, bigger-than-life moments of trauma that you SEE it. You see it so clearly it astounds you.
I remember in the surreal trauma-filled haze of the following day after her accident and surgery, we waited for those leeches. We waited for them like the Israelites waited for God in the desert, both hoping and giving up, uncertain of exactly what the future was for us, or whether this mysterious promised package was really going to save us. The leeches were being flown in from New York, these special "sterile" leeches, raised for medical use, but they were detained at CVG because they were "questionable". Perhaps there were rumors of a terrorist leech attack. We are not sure, but we waited for excruciating hours for the leeches to come and relieve the purple-black swolleness of our daughter's ear.
And arrive they did. At the darkest hour, they came, the nurses and doctors working quickly to attach the leeches to her ear. Within seconds seconds of attaching them, the leeches worked their sucking magic, draining the purple-black blood from her ear. Within seconds, her ear turned to pink. To see it was absolutely astounding and amazing and made me want to bow down in worship to those leeches, to worship the fact of their bloodsucking, to worship the fact of God in them.
That was the moment of my life when I began to have the courage in my heart to really believe that the power to heal exists in every atom of the universe, and in every part of each one of us. All of us, down to the smallest part of our being, are made with the impulse to heal and to help one another. We are all pushing, pulling, sucking one another toward the light, toward wholeness and oneness. We are all leeches, and although on some days we may feel as if the people in our world are annoyed with us for spoiling their dip in the lake, the truth is, the fact of who we are may one day be our saving grace.
It is times like these when you learn that all of God's creatures are important. I mean really learn it. In your heart, learn it. Not like it was in Bible School when you sang that song about "If I were a butterfly, I'd thank you God that I could fly." Because there were no verses about fleas or bedbugs, none about vampire bats or mosquitoes, and definitely none about leeches (If I were a lee-ee-eech, I'd thank you God that I could SUCK). No, none like that. So, although the verdict is still a little out for me on those other gross blood-sucking creatures, I am thankful for leeches. I love those slimy little guys. They saved my daughter's ear and brought her back to wholeness. And to me, in my heart and soul, bringing a person back to wholeness is doing God's work.
What leeches did for my daughter's ear was to do their little bloodsucking thing, which did the job of pulling blood from her body through her ear, which allowed a flow of blood into what was, at that point, a dead body part. The tiny capillaries that allow the normal flow of blood in and out had been severed, and the plastic surgeon lacked the ability to re-attach such tiny little veins, so our only hope for her to re-claim her ear was through leeches and their God-given hunger for blood.
You never think about these things, how at one crucial moment your life will come down to depending on leeches. Truly, every single moment of our life is like this, dependent on the tiniest of details, but it is in those blown up, bigger-than-life moments of trauma that you SEE it. You see it so clearly it astounds you.
I remember in the surreal trauma-filled haze of the following day after her accident and surgery, we waited for those leeches. We waited for them like the Israelites waited for God in the desert, both hoping and giving up, uncertain of exactly what the future was for us, or whether this mysterious promised package was really going to save us. The leeches were being flown in from New York, these special "sterile" leeches, raised for medical use, but they were detained at CVG because they were "questionable". Perhaps there were rumors of a terrorist leech attack. We are not sure, but we waited for excruciating hours for the leeches to come and relieve the purple-black swolleness of our daughter's ear.
And arrive they did. At the darkest hour, they came, the nurses and doctors working quickly to attach the leeches to her ear. Within seconds seconds of attaching them, the leeches worked their sucking magic, draining the purple-black blood from her ear. Within seconds, her ear turned to pink. To see it was absolutely astounding and amazing and made me want to bow down in worship to those leeches, to worship the fact of their bloodsucking, to worship the fact of God in them.
That was the moment of my life when I began to have the courage in my heart to really believe that the power to heal exists in every atom of the universe, and in every part of each one of us. All of us, down to the smallest part of our being, are made with the impulse to heal and to help one another. We are all pushing, pulling, sucking one another toward the light, toward wholeness and oneness. We are all leeches, and although on some days we may feel as if the people in our world are annoyed with us for spoiling their dip in the lake, the truth is, the fact of who we are may one day be our saving grace.
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