Archive | Prayers

Education wears many booties. . . .

 

Knowing the comics section as I do, it appears that she’s studying Doonesbury, which thrills my heart! Of course she’s already read Dilbert (on the front page)…

Love,   Emma E’s grandfather

 

 

I never knew the supreme abilities of the comics to educate.  I remember when our two eldest,  Tresy and David first took upon themselves to convince me that I should avail myself to the benefits of the education which life could not give me.  I listened over the weeks and months I am sure,  though I have no journal entry to verify that fact.

But I did listen and with trepidation, no doubt, began to look upon the comics in the morning to fill in what I inevitably lacked according to the two eldest.  And I became hooked.  It did not take long and my favorite soon became because I could relate with the myriad home crises,  For Better and Worse by Lynn Johnston.

I have a couple of the celebrated anniversary books,  the first one given to me  by the son of Tresy,  the fourth Joseph Harrison.  I  have loved these vestiges of another time and I think I will request the weekend edition of Chicago Tribune as a birthday gift.  I miss reading the comics and realize that a diet of hard lessons with no relief in  pictures,  is a diet with little flavor.

This photo of our Emma E. reading the comics during this time of self quarantine of the family is a lifting of Spirit for me.  Her grandfather Tresy  takes great pleasure in sending this photo from her parents.  Bless them all.  It is a heart lifter!

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When Each Day Is A Victory . . . and our hands touch. . . .

Oftentimes we wish for words to say the wonderful phrase, that gives motive or impetus to a frame of mind that catapults our committed to things of highest value.  Yet there may be no words to say what needs be said.  What is upfront is already between the eyes.

I remember looking in the mirror angrily because it was not the girl I saw yesterday, but my mother.  And the mate looks at himself when shaving one morning or swiping his beard and he says to the image in the mirror, I am my father.  And with anger, hopefully not the same morning, sitting across from each other you both concur your irritating premises.

On further thought the day yields to brighter things and sitting again at the table there is a comfortable presence.  The presence says to us that we have shared a number of years and have come through bruised and slightly jaded but agile still.

With the number of things needing time these days,  each day is a victory, however small.  I remember the times I prayed to pick up someone’s discarded victory.  My need for one even discarded was so great,  I would chase a throwaway.

We change into faded sweats and sandals and sit and do what the old folks did when we were young.  Now since we are them, the fit of it all when shared says we are good, aren’t we lucky?  And our hands touch.

As I Am. . . in faded sweats . . .

Love me as  I am
for I can be no other.
It is not that talk is unwanted, but
have not all our allotted words been said?

Time now just for silence, a shared one, for
the years add up and there is no time for Others. . .

It is time for Being. . .

There is a time to accept
all that we have become
through years of arduous labor.

Not time for keeping up nor caring to . .
to someone’s elusive measure.
A time not to apologize for
our faded sweats and sandals.

We dress for the street to be seen
but this time now is private.

And being shared, are we not fortunate?

So much the better to love each other
and find us more than all right.
To say I’m good with no apology

. . . because we are.

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Pieces Of My Heart. . . .for Emma E. . . .

 

I have not posted this past week because of some impediment in my desk computer, but thanks to my grandson who found the wrong and corrected it.  I am grateful.  I felt I had lost my voice.

But what I did was work to get some knitting done and the articles will be on their way.  It will free up time for other things to get done and prepare for a visit from my first born and his illustrator wife Claudia.  Both Tres and Claudia are generous with help for this blog.

The knitting this week  had me sweaty because of health issues arising again due to hand spasms.  Aging is a factor when hands lose feeling and become numb.  Yarn is hard to handle and keeps slipping off the needles.  And when the articles are small and require 4 double pointed needles,  hell breaks loose.  I think I forced other parts of my brain to work when synapses broke.  Sweaty business.

But I wanted to master the spiral pattern and did.  I hope now I can do it on a number of things simply by changing yarn thickness and needle size.  It is amazing to me carrying this idea to a larger concept,  that all things are connected in these universes.  These are the talents mastered that my Mentor, the Nazarene spoke of that we should multiply.  That are in Mind where moth and rust do not destroy.

I see the connection in all things.  That all things are utilized and nothing is lost or forgotten.  Simply,  all things thought through,  are connected.  It is a concept that takes us to our knees because there is no place else to go.

I am pleased with the outcome of the spiral knitting and took photos.  The other photos are colorful and were just plain fun to do.  It was an addiction of sorts that the only overdose with the substance did not require me to take care with heavy machinery or driving!

I was not required to seek medical help as often with overdoses is suggested.  I guess I am no fun at all.

 

spiral pattern                       

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It Is A Gift. . . .

 

‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’
the teacher

All Who I  Am. . .

I feel the pull of the Polish one bent over her bread board,
pounding, kneading, smoothing the egg dough
into a satiny mound.  Raisins, like eyes, half buried
in the fleshy loaf, stare at me, daring me to absorb
her rhythm into my blood.

Her aching restlessness I breathe already.
Her utter frustration to make new whips me to
a working frenzy, a woman possessed.  She delivers me
to my bed in agony.  With memory splintered, glinting
off the corners of my eyes, I find me.  And awake again
to a morning promising me no relief from her visions.

II

My brow furrows, forming ledges to shield my eyes
from a sun that beats unmercifully.  Sweat pours to drench
my body and nausea routes its way flooding
an overloaded circuitry.

The wandering tribesman leading the camel favors one foot.
Calluses shoot pain into the moon calf of his leg and I limp.
The tart taste of yogurt in his mouth washes clean
the sand out of mine.

Each step becomes a mile in length and his laborious effort
throbs in my temples.  I will be harvest for the flies.
I cannot bear the heat anymore.

 III

The air, sharp as a cut lemon, washes me.  The children race in
their overlarge sweaters with roses painted on their
faces smooth as milk legs.  Lace fringe curtains entertain
the visitors agape at the starkness, the simplicity,
the square picture.  I am at home.

The arctic terrain beats my blood to a froth with exuberance.
My sturdy body matches my earth.  My love shields me,
woos me and I am as cherished as a milk cow in a land
of sparse grasses.  To each other we are the heavy cream
poured on a dish of skyr .

IV

How far back do I dare reach to uncover all who I am?

Is part of me racing, black skinned and hot, basket overflowing,
precariously balanced on my head and heart beating
outside my skin?  My loose breasts clap-clap in pain
against my rib cage as I hurry to make up time spent chatting
with my sisters, fearful of the masculine outrage brewing?

I sit at my desk, surrounded by the present essences of
today’s people, today’s commitments.  The air is spicy with
fomenting earth.  My brow does not furrow from the heat yet.
Summer’s dog days will arrive too soon.

I ‘ve reached backwards and sideways and tasted portions of lives
both palatable and unpalatable.  But altogether rich.  Is my
fatigue of genetic empathy, perhaps imagination gone wild
or an accumulation of too many lives lived, too many
sorrows sorrowed, too many dreams dreamed?

V

The answer will be mine.  With my departure I will take
the sum of my days, the loves loved, the dreams unfulfilled
and all who I am and walk again the cosmos.

And because of my love for me I will create another world.
Due to my cumulative sense of loss. . . .

There will be no more loves aborted.

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Godfriends of Caliber. . . gifts of heart. . .

This bouquet is for you. . .

Tish, Marylouise, and Dorothy, Jan, and Joy, heart friends gone but always upfront; now some cyber friends distanced including (few) males attesting publicly to science, but attending silently to problems not to be tested by science gods in their pristine laboratories.

All friends of caliber, all honorable characters with huge depth, with problems in the confines of earth habitats; the streets of cities and living rooms in homes.  My gender confronted mostly in the kitchens, midst getting dinner on the table or cleaning up afterward.

These are the laboratories where reality lives, while the one buying food for the table with the currency of the day sails out the door with a you take care of it dictum, (with an I have bigger fish to fry,  like maybe world peace?)

But in today’s world drama, the difference is the one left also needs to get to a paying job because two salaries are required to maintain the premises or a trained talent wants their fair share of today’s kudos or currency.  For particular reasons, that is the drama.

Since questions loom in many corners, what bears leverage on the troubled soul?  Is it visible to be handled or invisible with an I could not help it attitude?  The latter must be dealt with kid gloves or at best a saintly demeanor else we have worlds collapsing in quarters unable to be rebuilt.

Do we need religious or professional help or can we work it out with agencies designed just for this kind of thing?  A conundrum, to be sure.

If invisible, is it genetic, inherited,  meaning other members of the family have had this problem? Or a new one that deals with unmentionables, or drugs, from alcohol all the way to end of the alphabet, or something best left to experts?

Known is that no one ‘s upbringing prepares them for parenting in today’s world.  This is what is known as OJT.  On the Job Training.  This is how recruits are assigned jobs in the Military, no matter one’s background.

Good friends of caliber are required in life, someone or a handful to inspire or calm when crises loom.  Someone in Congress? Today, hard to believe.   Or a lawyer? (I called for a friend) Or an ear to listen to heart hurts? (too many times to count).

Or a nurse/friend like Cati who held our fractured  family together when David was leaving us, or young neighbor Cherl, who became like a daughter, or friend John, magically appearing in crises.

These are godfriends (correct word) who hold the leaky boat afloat when water rises and family cannot or is unable.  I wrote that heaven does not play favorites.  They don’t.  Everyone is cherished.  I was not spared the mountains to climb but had godfriends to journey with.  They gave the supreme gift of heart needed.

What can I say when language has no adequate thank you?  I call them godfriends.

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When Life Is An Act of Devotion. .love speaks . .

 

 

 

 

Grampa says . .  Grandma created first homemade meatballs in eggplant/ tomato sauce over polenta with a salad of romaine, cherry tomatoes and kohlrabi with olive oil and balsamic. . .

 

and then crafts with grandma Claudia, the talented artist. . . .

 

 

And then a story to close the day. . . .

 

It is a simple story but such a big hurdle for mankind . . . that is
to treat new life with an act of devotion to prepare for the challenges
we face in preparation of our potential.

Where we are now, is the place for us to start.  So we can then speak with
truth in our search for brotherhood.  Not a pipe dream but a fact.
Not just a wish but a promise if we use what is ours within us to
help make perfect peace on earth in our time.

A lot to ask when life has not been exactly fair with us?  Yes, but we
have help if we seek it out.  It takes courage to even ask I know.
But that too is within us.  To find we are courageous is a welcome
surprise. Sometimes invisible arms hold us up.                                                                                                   

4

We Are In Need, sorely. . .

We Lift Our Heads. . .

We lift our heads as we face
our Source and give thanks to these gifts
beginning our day;
a body without pain and a mind
clear and receptive;

a heart that beats steadily and ears
that hear clearly.
For these gifts we are grateful.

Open us and allow not one bird
to miss our thank you for his song
and allow not the breeze to be
without gratitude for its breath.

Take this day and use us for Thy purpose,
for we will be at a loss
when time in space cannot be breached
by thought and the abyss
cannot be spanned by a leap.
Let our thoughts be more than a footnote
in the story of this day and our lives

lived with compassion, for we are all in need sorely. . . .all. . .

Amen and amen.

2

The Children Will Lead. . . but You Are The Answer. . . .

 

The Children Shall Lead Us. . . .

Young people,  some only in grammar schools,  around THE WORLD have taken leave of their classrooms today to strike their concerns about the coming death of their best and only classroom.  It is this planet Earth.  Our only home as far as most of us know, this lifetime.

Many of the young  have memory and they know that nothing is given but what something is taken away.  For many lifetimes our planet has given us lush greens and vibrant blues and sundry good to avaricious hearts.   They know who these are among us.  Yet we know  we all plunder our Earth Mother,  in the substance thrown away and her largess of native goods taken and trashed.  We all participate in greedy behavior.

We either sit on arid land pleading for water or wading in hip boots in the living rooms of our once homes.  Or picking up the matchsticks of our beloved countries in the residues of tornadoes and hurricanes. A doomsday on this planet of great numbers?  In many areas, it already is.  Who cares?

And what difference does it make?  Well I care and one day you will care a lot and it will make a big difference.  You are its prayer, its question and its answer.  Only you.  In you are the answers to what your life means.  There are no other answers.  You are the answer.  You are the unsuspecting shoulders upon whom the answer rests.  You will be the answer to who cares and you will care a lot.

Your God you pray to is not always merciful.  He respects what you would call my stand alone responsibilities.  I respect without argument an angry Cosmos that has the power to strike at the core of us and hit home.  This is my beautiful planet and I in pain realize we are a reflection of that pain elsewhere.  I work to relieve it.

Primary kindnesses must be granted to all facets of nature, from the glass of water to the earthworms that fragrant the soil.  Every aspect of life, every aspect of guarding this planet from dawn to the whispered good night in love to our Earth Mother.  I tell you true.

You will care and you will care.  A lot.

(a pleading to us all. . . )

Let our hearts lead us
to that place where
we intuitively cherish the mother
who feeds and clothes us and
gives us sustenance.

Let us not forsake our responsibilities
to those yet unborn but whose futures
we have already mortgaged.

Blessed Spirit, enliven our curiousity
about our daily world, remind us
that the bird’s song needs our
acknowledgement and praise,
that the sun needs our greeting
and the night wishes it bid good.

As we nourish those of our commitment,
speak to us of our commitment
to the home we know, our planet Earth.
Let our love guide us to make beautiful,
to make secure and to guard diligently
what has so faithfully harbored us.

In love we pray,  Amen, amen.

 

{the pleading scribed April 5, 1991}

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