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Hurricane
August 27 2011

The deep throated winds of last night and today
Are named: Irene.
We’ve feared her, gotten ready for her coming;
She’s a guest in every family, every home and store and church.
She makes the trees to dance, their branches leaping,
Banging, brushing up against our walls;
Their singing leaves add high-pitched voice to
Irene’s roar – her stirring bass clef wind- voice
Telling us to stay inside, alea and safe.
She’s charged the atmosphere with threat – we feel the void and know we’re not in charge.
We puny humans know our place; we let go,
Grateful to hold tight among ourselves,
Happy to feel safe, protected, loved.
We look forward to tomorrow’s air,
Swept new and clean by Nature’s giant blowfest — her late summer cleaning.
Mother Nature’s moods, like ours, thank God, are transitory. If we wait, she’ll smile again.

Reflection:
Hurricanes are majestic. Awesome. Scary. They create legends, remain whole lifetimes in memory. Like the witches in the Wizard of Oz, natural disasters overwhelm us with their power and their intransigeance. I was born a few days into 1939, when the ”Great Hurricane” of 1938 was still fresh in people’s memories along the southern New England coast. All during my childhood, whenever we went somewhere along the coast, the grown-ups would tell us how that place had been “before the Hurricane.” That storm had swept bare the coast; as if with a magic wand, it had destroyed all evidence of the cottages, piers, rides, and dining halls that provided benign entertainment to the masses all through the early 20th century. Then in 1954, Hurricane Carol had again, along the same coast, taken out all signs of human life. I was outside during Carol, watching, rapt, while the men who lived on our street stood chest deep in the swirling tide, pushing away from our flooded houses all buildings and large boats that, wind-propelled, surged up into the bay on which we lived. Our houses sustained water damage, but the men’s heroic efforts kept our dwellings on their foundations, in contrast to many buildings that during the next days, we found smashed, as we poked among the jetsam piled along the shore. During the hurricane I remember standing outside in the wind, feeling exhilarated and also awed by the deep, throaty, penetrating moan of the constant wind. Today, when I went outside into Irene’s blast and heard the keening wind again. I remembered Carol. I thought, “Oh! The sound of a hurricane! I haven’t heard it in 57 years! “ Then, I was young – 15. Now, I’m old – 72. But despite the span of years, that’s a sound I’ve never truly forgotten. Nature has many voices, and that one says “Watch out!” Here in Durham, Irene has not been a catastrophe, but simply a minor anomaly on a summer day. Yet, her voice has reminded me of Nature’s arbitrary power, against which human strength must yield. I feel a sense of awe and excitement, at one with our living planet.

Fourth of July Memories
July 4 2011

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For me, the Fourth is redolent of childhood –
This day brings back so many smells and sights and sounds –
The acrid sulphur of the caps I bought by hundreds
And looked for ever bigger ways to detonate,
The sweet and milky smell of sweet corn cooking –
A dozen ears a-bubble in a soup pot,
The meaty smell of hot dogs on a charcoal grill,
Scorching at the ends while waiting to be eaten;
The bursting pride of bands approaching,
Parading along Elm St —
Majorettes in short short skirts
While tuba, drum and cymbal players wilted, clothed from head to toe in wool and braid,
The vets, in ironed uniforms with medals, their eyes locked forward and their steps united —
The young men back from World War II still fit and strong,
While older vets from earlier wars limped along behind with thinning hair and crooked backs;
The flags and banners swirled, echoing the red and white and blue that flew from porches;
The lengthy solemness of “ Taps” and 21 reports of rifles, at the war dead monument –
The sound waves echoing through our reverent silence,
Bouncing off the houses and the cars and then reporting back like boomerangs.
I stood with neighbors, proud to be American, belonging to the greatest land,
Not knowing that in time I’d learn its wrongs, its weakness, its injustice,
And understand that we are only human after all, just one among the nations,
Seeking still the proud, upstanding heritage that then we thought we’d found.

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Reflection:
July Fourth stands out in my memories from childhood as a truly special day. There were exciting events from morning, with its parade, through the afternoon with its pleasant picnics – folding chairs, yummy food — to evening with either a roaring bonfire pyre several stories tall or, later, in a larger city, fireworks that were loud and bright enough to be fascinatingly terrifying. I remember the quaking feeling inside brought about by the noise of the city fireworks, each one brighter and more complex than the last, until the “grand finale” with its extravagant profusion of light and noise. The day progressed predictably, and I knew the schedule by heart – knew where to stand for the best view of both the parade and the military honors ceremony in the town’s cemetery, with its rows of silent granite headstones among the spreading trees. As I remember, it never seemed to rain on the 4th – although my memory is probably wrong on that point. In my memory, the holiday lives as the archetypically perfect summer day in an archetypically perfect American small town – it would have been a perfect Norman Rockwell scene on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post.

As I was reliving that pristine set of memories today, with a friend, I realized painfully how naïve was our patriotic pride in those post World War II years – how blind we were to the many injustices and cruelties we perpetrated, not only worldwide but also in our own country. Today, I am more chastened as I think of being American on July 4, and reflect on the many ways in which this country still denies civil rights to many minorities, on the cruelty that we have repeatedly inflicted across the world in our prideful wars, on our partisan refusal as a country to move toward a just economy, on our hateful treatment of the poor of all descriptions. These injustices are not new. They existed in my childhood and we didn’t talk about them. At least now, I think, more people have become aware of how we lack in charity and kindness. Perhaps I should rejoice that this is progress, a step toward becoming a better country, “with liberty and justice for all.”

The Greatest Gift April 23 2011

I am pulling meat off carcass,

Reviewing bird anatomy,

Mindful that my bones and sinew aren’t so different

From those I’m disassembling on this chicken.

I’m pondering  omnivorousness –

On how I come off thinking it’s all right

To devour this chicken’s flesh, to make it mine.

And then I feel grateful for the order of creation,

For the food chain.

We all exchange our gifts with others, giving life,

Each in our own way. 

I am thankful to receive the gift this bird has given,

Expression of its mission here on earth.

I eat it, and it gives me strength —

Becomes a part of me as I, in turn,

Share with others my own gifts.

I’m humbled as I ken the ways in which we’re one —

I, the chicken, and the universe. 

Reflection: 

I’ve never before thought of preparing a cooked chicken as a sacred task.  Usually it’s a chore I’d prefer to skip – tedious, greasy, messy.  Today, though, for some reason I found myself experiencing a different perspective, honoring the cooked chicken I was about to eat, appreciating the gift it gave to me and understanding that  all creatures (perhaps with the exception of cockroaches and poison ivy…)  give something of value to others – and all our gifts are needed for the universe to work.  The energy wheel that’s the living world is awesomely beautiful and complex, as is every act that we perform in honoring life and love.

Some Faces of God — New York April 6 2011

I see God all around, in every friendly face.

Broad Buddha smile with round shaved skull,

Wide, welcoming brown face,

And a heavy New York accent,

He dances lightly as he talks and gestures,

Sharing his beliefs and vision.

I smile and relax to be with him.

Round sky-blue eyes,  aged 7

With flying long red halo hair — my grandson.

He greets me with a lightstick or a sword —

A hearty welcome,  both excited and intense.

I watch him running toward me, all jointed angles,

Full of love for life. 

I marvel at the fineness of his mouth and chin,

The translucent pinkness of his skin. 

Thin, graying hair that bares his freckled scalp,

With rounded back, he leans into his measured steps.

His sagging eyelids, deeply creased, yet hide a twinkle in his light brown eyes.

His ears and chin have coarsened and enlarged as he has aged,

His hands grown knuckly and veined. 

He may have weakened some, and yet he’s also strong,

He forms the core of family and of church;

He presides and I feel safe and sheltered from all harm. 

Every face I see expresses God — all one and yet unique

All beautiful and full of love,

Potential miracles await me in their presence and their love.

They make me whole as I enjoy the Love they bring. 

Reflection

I was sitting in class, looking at the lecturer, marveling at the uniqueness of his radiant self as he taught us about African religious beliefs – this native of Bronx streets who had lived in Africa and learned at the feet of tribal sages.  I daydreamed a little, thinking of other people’s unique ways of being  and how all of them, however different they appeared on the surface, and even whether they were human or belonged to another species – all of our fellow humans and other creatures allow us to experience infinitely varied and unique aspects of God’s love.  God looks out from all the faces I encounter in a day, week, or month.  I was in awe, as I honored in my heart this ongoing experience of love.

Goodbye Good Friend April 10 2011
Today I listened to a pile of voicemails on my cell phone,
And heard your voice, your words of love,
From before you died last week –
Like words from spirit-life —
A greeting in your voice
After my heart has said good-bye
And wept from missing you.

This weekend, too, upon finding friends

Who’d come across the country to a meeting.
I realized just how strong connection is
When we love each other in this world.

If it’s happy-making to connect again
Within this life,
How much more so it must be
When, travelers to another realm,
We find again the souls with whom
We’ve shared our love while here.

Reflection
I’ve learned that when people close to me leave this life a piece of me goes with them; likewise, a piece of them stays behind in my heart, where it’s always been. My good friend Carol died this past week. Yes, she’d been ill. But as long as she was here, present, and I experienced her friendship, feeling her life force, she was truly here, and I related to her in super-time, unmeasured and dimensionless. I called Carol last Sunday, a week ago. I found her in the hospital, again. This time she said good-bye, and said she was leaving this life. I called again on Tuesday, and she’d died. My heart has been mourning the hole where her delicious friendship, her vibrant wit, her down to earth common sense, her amazing fortitude and courage had resided.

Five years ago, I moved across the country coast to coast, leaving good friends to come back near family – grandchildren, especially. This weekend, I encountered these friends again, by surprise, at a professional meeting. We had a raucous, joyful, affectionate reunion. I knew again, as I’ve known before with others, how hearts that connect stay connected over time and space. We picked up where we had left off, as if we’d never been apart. 

I was surprised to find Carol’s voice mail message when I had a moment to check messages on my way home. I felt the same strong heart connection with Carol as with my California friends. Carol has left for another place. But our spirits’ link will live on, strong and loving. One day I will follow Carol on that trip and reconnect joyfully, raucously, blissfuly with those from whom I’ve been separated, even as I move away temporarily from others who will remain on earth. We are all one, and our unity is a joyful blessing.

A Time Blip April 1 2011

April fool… indeed!
I sat last night listening
As a folk singer from my youth performed in concert.
I was her fan.
I loved her voice, her songs, her beauty.
Then I didn’t think about her age, though it was also mine.
We were young. The world was ours.
The moment was enough. The songs inspired. We grooved with her.

Last night was different.
I saw her as the woman in the drawing,
Now a crone and now a lovely diva.
 My vision shifted back and forth —
Unbeckoned, unwelcome, unsettling change of focus.

My sense of self keeps shifting to and fro like that as well;
One moment I feel youthful still
And then a second later I’m all cramped and bent and old.

Last night I wept a moment for our vanished youth
And felt how fragile we have all become,
The ones who then were young and now are old.
She was a mirror,
Revealing back to us the jester’s sleight of mind;
Surprise! Who draped us thus with age?

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Reflection
It’s axiomatic that people continue to feel inside like young adults in their 30s no matter how old they become. We do age, of course, but it happens gradually for most of us, so we can relate to the person we see in the mirror, even though we’ve changed. It reminds me of having been on the faculty of the community college where I taught for 33 years from the time it opened. Teaching jobs had become scarce, so just about all who had gotten a job with the college as it opened spent our whole careers at the same college. After we had aged together, I became aware that people didn’t really look any different to me, even though I knew intellectually that we were all 30 plus years older. I’ve related to my aging self pretty much with the same level of denial. Attending that concert last evening, though, was like looking into a different mirror. Who was that woman on the stage? I had not seen her in decades, so in some ways she was as if I hadn’t seen her before. In watching her now while remembering her as she was, I had to acknowledge sharing with her the signs of age that I was seeing in her face and body. It was an odd and unsettling experience.

Shore Ride  March 21 2011

In childhood, our first impressions of the earth

Must mark us deeply.

I’m on a train today, following the long New England shore

To New York City. 

The houses, clapboard cubes in muted colors,

Are houses as they ought to be –

Triangled eaves, little windows, deeply sloping roofs,

Cozy shelters from the ice and snow. 

The granite crops out everywhere –

Whether angled or rubbed smooth,

Its hardness evident,

It calls to mind the dour and stubborn

View of life the grownups taught,

The need for discipline, endurance, steady strength

To weather life.

Even now, though spring has come,

The driving snow blots out the view.

I think back to my origins, remembering,

Remembering.  I feel my roots here in New England.

I know this light, this soil, these woods.

I’m grateful for the chance to visit once again

To sense my continuity of self,

To know belonging. 

Reflection

For most of my adult life, I’ve thought I didn’t have any roots.  But when I came back to New England, I knew that wasn’t true.  Now 72, I haven’t lived here for over 50 years.  However, each time I visit, I know this place in a way I know no other.  It’s part of me.  Its light, its ground, its geography, its houses, its rhythm – all permeated me once, and remain still within me, at my deepest level of being.  I listen to its cadences in speech and bird song,  smell its tangy air,  watch how people walk and smile and hold themselves – it’s all a part of me.  I’m a child of this place although I’ve lived elsewhere.  New England’s in my genes, my chromosomes, my atoms, and perhaps my soul.  Being here renews my life force – the power of Home.

Time Travel March 18 2011

Airport layover…

Traveling in space, back to where I came to earth,

I travel also back in time – back, back, back, and  back some more,

Searching for the bright, untrammeled spirit

That I must have been at birth.

I think of photos. 

I was that infant — on my belly, lifting up my head,

Photographed at three months old

Peering  at the world  with hope and interest.  

And the two year old — standing in my starched white dress,

Garden angel,  feet astraddle, balance still unsure,

Smiling ‘cause I’d plucked out all the landlord’s flowers,

Delighting in the beauty of each one.

By three, my face looked pained and puzzled,

Knowing that I’d lost my mother’s love.

When I find again the unscathed child deep inside me somewhere,

I’ll treasure her, and never let her go again.

I yearn to find her, to look now from her eyes,

To know again her world of joy and hope —

Her memory  of love and bliss.

Reflection:

I didn’t used to get it about babies  (or about a lot of other things) – what made them so special, so amazing.  Now I know they carry with them still the memory of that other world from which they came – where they were angels, unfettered spirits, bonded safely with the all of universal love and peace.  They’re new here, getting used to recalcitrant substance, struggling to survive the hurts imposed by people’s unawareness,  learning how to work the body that so strangely weighs them down and lets them interact with matter – burden and reward at the same time. 

Then the babies get entranced with the body and the world, greedy to extract every experience, every benefit, every moment of individual pride.  I did.  I forgot about the spirit world for a very long time, till, now I’m growing old, I find myself  wondering:   where DID I come from, anyway?  Where will I go when I leave this body?  I feel drawn back to beginnings, and find therein great peace.