Shining Spirit

Today I have lots of things to do,
important things, scheduled things
and with my first cup of morning
coffee, I ponder all my priorities.

Not now, Maggie, I’m pondering.

My black dog can be rather demanding
in the morning.  I fill her food dish,
do the ritual walk, wrap her pills in
a piece of cheese, and she still wants
her ears scratched.

Not now, Maggie, I’m reviewing my
responsibilities.

And yet she persists.  Sitting at my feet
while I calculate time and distance
between appointments, her dark brown
eyes won’t let go of my face.  Her head
droops like an ignored child.  She waits.

Ok, lay down by the chair and I’ll give you
one hand for two minutes.

Her floppy ears are soft and warm, and it
doesn’t take long for her to slip off into
sleep, drawing deep breathes, snoring
contentedly.  I watch her broad chest
move up and down, strong muscles
relax in sheer enjoyment.  Only
yesterday, it seems, I could hold
her in one hand.  Now, ten years later,
she rises more slowly and doesn’t
run with the same bursting energy.

For about twenty minutes, I scratch
and she sleeps.  Pure peace.  It takes
a few more moments for me to realize
what is happening.  My appointment
book falls to the floor and with it the
requirements of my day.  It stays
there, pages askew, as I absorb
the moment.

I scratch, she sleeps.  And we
are both the better for it.

One beautiful day, when the sky was blue,
and birds were lifting their songs,
I said to myself “Can this be true?
We’ve finally done what we set out to do!
We’ve made ourselves Great again!

We’ve rid all the streets of people who looked
like they didn’t belong in our town.
Their language, too strange.  Their attitudes shook
the foundations outlined in our little red book.
These different ones had to get out!

Our Greatness was shaped in another way, too.
We only permit certain thoughts.
We never allow what some would construe
as a thoughtful opinion or personal view.
We are Great!  And we all think alike.

When anyone comes to our Great little town
and asks for permission to stay
we question their motives and if there are found
any different opinions, we mark them all down.
We won’t let our Greatness be stained!

We’re open to all and we won’t make a fuss
if you plan your new residence here.
Just fill out the form and remember you must
show positive proof that you are just like us.
Bank records and votes cast will do.

Oh, it’s Great to be Great!  Remarkably Great!
Let’s hear it for Greatness Again!
The rest of the world’s in a pitiful state
but what’s that to us, we’ve a lock on our gate.
We don’t need that riffraff in here!

The message we bring and the steps that we take
are very well planned and designed.
Our goal is quite clear.  Please make no mistake.
The system is our to fully remake
as long as the people don’t care.”

God is the Space between notes in a Beethoven symphony
the Reality filling soundless moments between ticks of the clock
the Interval linking all heart beats from first to last
the Quiet joining each recurring echo of coyotes singing in the canyon
the Moment between lightening’s flash and thunder’s rumble
the Split Second separating Einstein’s “ah ha”
the Distance between every star in every galaxy known and yet to be known
the Electrical Snap linking the impulses from my brain to my hands
God: the unseen Adhesive of life

God is the dark Silence at the bottom of the deepest ocean
the rhythmical Whisper of a respirator in a hospital room
the first Gurgle from the mouth of a newborn in her mother’s arms
the Roar of engines as the rocket lifts off into fathomless space
the Fragrance of apple pie cooling on the kitchen table
the Music of rain dancing on a tin roof
God:  the intrinsic Voice of life

It was a curious sound floating by my ear,
almost unnoticed.  Faint.  Intermittent.
Gone.  Back again but not for long.
Whirring.

A delicate honeybee, wings fanning the air,
contending with death, unsuccessfully,
burrowed in the gray hallway carpet.
Captive of stucco walls and screen doors.
No place for a bee.  Death trap.
Too many days without sweet pollen and
shifting breezes.

No resistance to human touch.
No objection to resting in the palm of a hand.
No complaint about nestling under the fig vines in
the back yard.  The soil is deliciously warm.
The air fresh.

Death will come sooner or later.  No options.
No deals.  Reality.

So how to die.  Swallowed by a ravenous
vacuum cleaner?  Tossed in the garbage from
the old silver dustpan?  Scooped up in the
coarse fiber of a disposable paper towel?
Indignity.

Better to dissolve into the earth.  Better
to return to molecules and ancient memory.
Better to die into life than into death.
Much better.

Give me a place where the earth is
warm, where rain and sunshine
combine to create.  Give me the earth.
Give me again the place from which I came.
Give me the soil of my soul.

I will know that place and it will know me.
We will embrace for a short time and then I
will be off to a new star.

A short prayer for the beginning of each day —

Jesus Christ

Face of God

Song of Love’s creation

Live fully in my life I pray

Speak to my heart throughout the day

Console me when I lose my way

Jesus Christ

Face of God

Song of Love’s creation

When shadows emerge from the silver maple
to embrace my garden path,
Day begins her surrender
to Night’s advances, reluctantly,
and a gentle hand finds
rest on my shoulder.

I know the touch.

I am accustomed to my Friend’s
silent salutation each fading day.
I wait with tangled emotions.
Day departs, Night unfolds
his dark cloak and I
discover a sadness
in the goodbye,
wonder in the
welcome.

We speak together of laughter
and tears, simple pleasures,
sacred encounters,
all the memories
Day leaves behind,
gifts to sort, to savor.

When the last glowing log breaks
in scattered embers and
fingers of fire struggle
to dance on the hearth,
my Friend moves closer,
lifts my hand as an offering to
the care of one who arrived
unseen, unheard.

Rest smiles as we walk together,
abandoning remnants of the day,
silently moving through dense darkness
until, without word or warning,
she releases her hold
and I drift with embracing,
fragrant currents into
the waiting arms of
Sleep.

All is well.

Dawn comes revealing a stone gray
winter morning.
The oak tree still sleeps,
streets glisten from soft rain
in the darkness hours.
All is quiet.
Remarkably still.
Somber clouds drift low,
offering to wrap all the waking in
fluffy blankets.

There is something
fearfully beautiful about serenity.

From a wet gardenia leaf,
a hummingbird, tiny gray missile,
flashes across the stillness.
Inevitable.
Mysterious moments are meant
to be held delicately
but briefly.

A bark echoes in the distance.
The coyote stretches
in her shelter
and sends a greeting into
the morning air.

I am here.