It’s amazing in just a moment, everything we can come to know. Sometimes the amazing thing about that, IN JUST A MOMENT it’s not what we come to it is what comes to us and teaches us what we need to know for THE MOMENT in just a moment and here’s a perfect example:
We can go from NO to SLOW to FLOW and most ultimately to GO and then we realize we’re more unlimited than we ever have imagined and in just a moment, we become even more so. . . .
I really love this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye for many different reasons by mainly because it makes us ask:
WHAT KIND OF KITCHEN UTENSIL (IMPLEMENT) WOULD YOU BE?
I thought of being a DISH TOWEL
not just because I spend a lot of my professional and personal time of “Cleaning up messes” of all the ‘spills of sadnesses, dashed hopes, lost loves and unanswered prayers’ but never feeling too saturated enough to SOAK UP all the moisture that absorbs and goodnesses and peace, too.
SO. . .what kind of kitchen implement are you? KNOW YOUR USE
and then
BE IMPLEMENTED
There are quiet saints everywhere. Hidden in plain sight, they do their work gently and slowly and lovingly. Repairing the world over and over again. Despite the pain, despite the sadness at the heart of it all. Despite not even knowing that this is their work. You know them. We all do. The barely remembered face on the bus that gave a word of advice that carried you for a while. The beggar who smiled from the street corner you rushed past, whether you gave or didn’t. The teacher who took time with you until the light finally dawned within. The old lady who promised she would light a candle for you, and did. The tired nurse who, nonetheless, held your hand. The old man who showed you how to plant an acorn. The child who smiled at you when you didn’t feel worthy of such a gift. All of them, punctuation points of grace in the story of your gradual unfolding. Their numbers swell the world, silently, secretly, and ensure the sun comes up for one more day. That the moon rises for one more night, and that hope is possible for for one more hour. Their kindness is a tide stronger than the sea, and just as relentless in its constant return. They reflect light into the night window of your soul as gently as the Moon falling on silvered waters. You may never know their names. Yet they have mended the frayed edges of your life more often than you will ever know. They have seen you, and in the moment of their seeing, you have felt seen, known, loved, necessary, meaningful, even if just for a moment. They may be beside you right now. They may be sitting in your cafe, or be along side you on the bus stop bench, or be just behind you in the queue, or just in front. Here is how you will know them: They smile often with their eyes, with their souls. They have borne great suffering without becoming hard or cold. They disappear quickly. Fading like Angels do, having delivered their good news. Their Gospel is kindness. Their eyes, no matter their age are those of dancing children. Their smile true and hard won. They are often very old, or seeming so, or very young. They speak less about themselves and listen more, than you or I. They pray and breathe as if they are one thing. They laugh and cry deeply, and often, without ever becoming stuck in either. They come when needed, though often, at the last minute, but always on time. They twinkle as the first and the last star does. They wear wisdom as lightly as summer rain. They give their gift unminding of its value. They let you walk away in peace. They walk on as blessing. There are quiet saints everywhere. Perhaps you have met one? Perhaps you could become one? Richard Hendrick
S H U S H
Shhhhhhhhhhhhh… Keep your mouth shut Your eyes closed Your Ears open And your Heart unfastened
SHUSHING is an art that needs P R A C T I C I N G (more)
In just a moment, so many things can take place; like in just a moment you can feel like you’ve really been spentor or discarded or unnoticed or actually walked over and yes, sometimes even walked on and yet you could take that same experience and you have a totally different feeling. You know what the difference is, what you take or what you receive or what you give.
The next time you feel totally spent, I mean discarded, walked on or over, flip it over make that new one just by GIVING; even if it’s giving a new perspective. . .
BE the message. Someone desperately needs to find or stumble on today. Let them find YOU where they least expect it and most need it.
Melanie DeMore and friends bring us a much needed reminder on the July 8th. . .no longer Independence Day holiday but. . .
Actually, it’s a much needed reminder for anybody,anytime, anywhere.
Melanie based her lyrics on these words from the late John Lewis, one of my personal heroes:
“We all live in the same house, we all must be part of the effort to hold down our little house. When you see something that is not right, not fair, not just . . . do something about it. Say something. Have the courage. Have the backbone. Get in the way. Walk with the wind. It’s all going to work out.”
And . . .
“Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.”
WE ALL LIVE IN THE SAME HOUSE
Melanie DeMoreWe all live, we all live
We all live in the same house
We all live, we all live
We all live in the same house
Make some good, good trouble
Keep on movin' ahead
Make some good, good trouble
Don't let anything hold you back!
Good trouble, necessary trouble
Hmmmm, keep goin'
Good trouble, necessary trouble
Don't let anything hold you back!
(My thanks to Melanie DeMore, VocalEssence Chorus, Ensemble Singers, Singers Of This Age, and Vintage Voices.)
WE ALL LIVE IN THE SAME HOUSE BE CARING CATALYST ENOUGH TO MAKE EVERYONE FEEL WELCOMED
It really is more than just a question, and absolutely more than just a passing phrase or thought. . .
What makes your flag unfurl, unfold, and flap in the wind? Some would say ferociously, that we have never been more apart, more divided as THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA than we are right now. But history proves that’s not true; even in the beginning when we were fighting for our independence, SHOCKER: NOT everybody was on the same page, but the best thing about not being on the same page is that seldom, I mean, so seldom do we recognize that, though we may not be on the same page, we undeniably are in the same book.
So forget about reading what was and putting down what is, let’s continue to work even in our own ways, divided as we may be, to what can be and may be so. . .EVEN ON THIS JULY 4th EVE
L E T ‘ S
LET’S LET OUR PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE BE A PLEDGE OF MAKING US ALL A LITTLE BIT BETTER E S P E C I A L L Y IF WE AGREE TO DISAGREE
CAN YOU REMEMBER
THE LAST TIME SOMEONE WAS
A CARING CATALYST
TO YOU. . . ?
I’ve been reading Parker Palmer since my Seminary days back in the late 70’s but never this piece:
[Before the internet, “War and Peace” was regarded as a long book at 1,200 pages. Today, many regard a 900-word story like this one as “too long to read,” especially for a blog, but I’m posting it anyway because it’s a story I’ll never forget, it’s about trusting and caring for one another, and we need a lot more of that.]
Ever have a bad dream where you’ve gone to a meeting in a strange city, and when it’s time to drive home you can’t find your car? That happened to me last week—not in a dream but in real life! To cut to the chase, I got “lost” not because I’m getting addled but because I got bad info and bad guidance about this city’s welter of parking garages. So the story begins with me looking for my car in the wrong garage…
I walked around in this massive five-story parking ramp for 15 minutes before I realized I needed help. I tried to hail the next two cars that came by, both SUVs, both driven by white men age 40 or so. They saw me, but they blew on by without slowing down. Then I saw a slight Hispanic woman in her late 20s about to get into her car.
“Excuse me,” I said from a distance, “I hate to bother you, but I need help. I can’t find my car.” Immediately she turned around and said, “I understand. This place is so confusing, and all the downtown garages look alike.” Walking toward me, she said, “Let me see your parking ticket.” She studied it for a while, then said, “I can’t figure this out. But I know some folks who work here. I’ll go upstairs and find someone who can help you. Just wait here.”
After about 15 minutes, this Angel returned with a black woman who works for the parking authority, a take-charge woman of about 35 who quickly sized up the problem: “You’re in the wrong garage,” she said. “I just got off work, and I’m going to take you where you need to be. It’s not easy to find.” I expressed my deep gratitude to Angels #1 and #2, and as the first one drove away, the second Angel said “Follow me.” We headed out, and soon found ourselves walking into the start of a sudden and ferocious storm, with rain and winds gusting up to 60 mph.
We walked for a while in a hilly part of downtown, bracing ourselves against the wind and increasingly fierce rain. After about 10 minutes of this, Angel #2 saw that this 85 year-old white guy was having some trouble catching his breath. She grabbed my arm to help steady me and said, “Let’s get to that restaurant at the top of this hill. You can shelter there while I find your car and bring it back here. All I need are your keys and your parking ticket.”
The restaurant manager, a white man age 50 or so, was out front watching the storm come in—he said I was welcome to wait inside. I thanked him, then turned to Angel #2, saying “Here are my car keys and my parking ticket. Thank you so, so much.” She went on her way and I went into the restaurant as the storm wind and the rain intensified, grateful for the rest.
I had waited maybe 20 minutes when the manager came over to me. “No sign of your car yet?” “Still waiting,” I said. He looked at me through narrowed eyes and said, “Did you give her your car keys?” “Yes,” I said, “and my parking ticket, too.” He shook his head slightly, said nothing, but the look on his face as he walked away said “Sucker.”
My wait continued while the rain came down. A very long twenty minutes later, I saw my car pull up in front of the restaurant. I ran out into the rain shouting “Thank you! Thank you!” to Angel #2, my arms wide open. She got out of the car with a big grin on her face, saying, “Have a great evening!” Then we both started laughing almost uncontrollably.
We were getting drenched, but I was not done. I told her again how deeply grateful I was and praised her generosity. Then I emptied my wallet ($80) and said, “I know you didn’t do this for money. But you’ve been so very generous, please let me thank you this way, too.” She tried to refuse the money, still laughing, saying “No, no, this was not about money!” But I persisted, and finally she took the bills I was trying to put in her hand.
Then she said words I will never forget: “Do you know what’s most meaningful to me about all this?” I looked at her expectantly… “What means the most,” she replied, “is that you trusted me.”
I don’t know if she could tell that the raindrops on my face had been joined by tears…
We parted with more laughter and a little fist-bump, then went our separate ways. Later that night, I got home not only with my car but with a story I’ll treasure for the rest of my life.
The next time some fascist fool tells me that people of color are “poisoning the blood of America,” I know what I’ll say: “You’re wrong about that. What’s poisoning this country is people like you. Feel free to live your cramped, fearful life if you’d like, but we’re not going to let you diminish life for the rest of us.”
Pass the word! And when you can, practice random acts of caring and random acts of trust. We’ll all be the richer for it. When was the last time SomeOne was a true Caring Catalyst to you or… WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE A TRUE CARING CATALYST FOR ANOTHER. . .
Psssssssssssssssssssst. . .if you’ve waited another second or for just the right time, for the right person, you’ve waited much too long!
Usually, in less than just a moment, we already identify it in us, don’t we? This is trash. This is a treasure; which leads us to that classic cliché: “One person’s trash is another person’s treasure. And also, well. . .one person’s treasure may be another person’s trash, so maybe this is the question that we have to ask ourselves we so often do without verbalizing it in just a moment: What if you trashed the treasure in other people as they to treat you like trash? We all have the capacity to be talking dumpsters but that shouldn’t give us the free license to actually be that way.
We also have the capability to be these elaborate shelves. It could really be what’s on our shelf maybe does belong in a trashcan
and there’s so much of what we have trashed that maybe doesn’t belong back on the shelf but shared with others as a treasure;
the treasure of a treasure that it is IN JUST A MOMENT
Mary Jane Oliver was an American poet who won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. Her work is inspired by nature, rather than the human world, stemming from her lifelong passion for solitary walks in the wild. It is characterized by a sincere wonderment at the impact of natural imagery, conveyed in unadorned language. In 2007, she was declared to be the country’s best-selling poet.
Everything that was broken has
forgotten its brokenness. I live
now in a sky-house, through every
window the sun. Also your presence.
Our touching, our stories. Earthy
and holy both. How can this be, but
it is. Every day has something in it
whose name is Forever.
This poem by Mary Oliver expresses a sense of profound healing and renewal. The speaker reflects on a state where all the past brokenness has been left behind, and now they reside in a sky-house, symbolizing a higher, expansive perspective. Through every window of this sky-house, they witness the sun’s presence and feel the presence of someone dear (presumably a loved one). The poem highlights the significance of connection and touch, as well as the power of personal stories. The speaker finds both earthly and sacred qualities in these connections. Despite the wonderment and disbelief, the poem emphasizes that this state of renewal and eternity is indeed present in everyday life, in the form of moments that carry a sense of foreverness.
I have read this poem like a sacred psalm hundreds of times but I experienced it so powerfully differently when I heard it READ TO ME like this; there’s an ache in the reader’s voice that makes you feel your own brokenness but not in a rough, jagged way so much as feeling the stitches on a smooth baseball that was given to you by your favorite player as a gift more than just some souvenir to be put up on Ebay someday after your passing when no one really wants what was once special to you.
A little over a year ago, I was at conference at The Gathering Place where I was scheduled to speak last on the program that day. I was there, sitting in the back of the room listening to a speaker talk about our own grief and grieving and how it often leaves us feeling BROKEN; this poem of Mary Oliver’s came to mind as did these words right before I spoke. I used them as a conclusion to the presentation I gave: HOLDING SPACE–WALKING EACH OTHER HOME:
PROTECTED PRESENCE
I’m Broken and I’ve lost a lot of my pieces I don’t exactly remember when I Humpty-Dumptied if off the wall No recollection of all the Kings men and all of the horses they rode in on But I know. . .ohhh how I know How I’ve not been put back together again and when you dare to provide protective presence and choose to hold me It’s not so much of an Embrace as a specific piece that never existed You’ve brought to me A wholeness I’ve not known but now never want to forget or ever want to be without BROKEN PIECES
PLAY A SYMPHONY ALL OF THEIR OWN
LISTEN
(or better still, bring your broken piece and play along)
A FEW WORDS ON THE SOUL
Wisława Szymborska
Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare CavanaghWe have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.
Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.
Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.
It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.
It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.
For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.
Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.
It’s picky:
it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.
Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.
We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.
Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.
It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.
We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.
Our Soul’s and everything that’s sacredly in them always need to be free and untethered not so much that they can fly about willy-nilly but to continue to create what seems to be timelessly re-created in them;
SOUL SEEPINGS
Of course there’s testing to be done samples to be taken cross matches to be completed intentions to be discussed therapies to be administered advanced medical knowledge to be applied scientific discoveries to be utilized None of it All of it necessary or unnecessary to these Soul Seepings that come from places not yet dreamed never to be understood but known like a familiar place that needs no lighting for steps that know the way in the dark all so intimately known and at best shared Whatever seeps from the Soul outshines any rays of light refusing to be hidden. . .
but if you don’t look
but if you don’t see
it doesn’t much matter. . .
KNOW YOUR USE
When was the last time SomeOne was a true Caring Catalyst to you or…
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE A TRUE CARING CATALYST FOR ANOTHER. . .
BROKEN PIECES
Whatever seeps from the Soul outshines any rays of light refusing to be hidden. . .