Small Insurrection

5976 miles away, John tucked my prayer into the Wailing Wall. 

If I really believed in God's omnipresence, 

I would not have handed him the scroll.

I would know that my prayer is heard here, 

in my soggy front yard, in the tiled hallways of my school, 

walking down to Stone Oven, sitting by the huge oak tree, 

in my bed  each night before I go to sleep.

But, honestly, I feel better knowing where it is, 

who has held it --as if John's ordained hand 

tucking it into the holy hole will somehow summon 

some greater power than God, 

the higher power that God leans into when God is sad, 

alone, lost as I know He must sometimes be. 

I feel better knowing that it is on the man's side of the wall, 

not because men have more pull or say, but because now 

it is a rebel prayer.  The pink paper, the twine, 

the feminine print in that strong wall 

where men have rocked and worried. 

The words ask for my love to find me, so that I can 

know love again, feel love again, learn through love again, 

fulfilling what God asks us to do, living as God lives. 

A woman asking for a woman, 

delivered by a preacher to the men's side of wall. 

There is something radical about that.  

Something that I beg gets noticed, answered. 

I think spring is approaching

...not because the ice is dripping from my roof, 

or the sky has opened up its pupils blue. 

It's because of the crushes, the rushes, 

the instant tripping over my puppy tail. 

The woman at CVS waiting to check out, 

her mocha skin and long fingers. 

The way she turned and smiled, 

the way she called the pharmacist by name. 

The woman at Stone Oven, too young, 

way too young, and yet old somehow, 

like a Mill Valley redwood, 

like a piece of blue glass not yet thrown upon the shore.

The man in black, the weight of responsibility

on his thin runner's shoulders.  

The unexpected stubble, 

the wringing of his careful hands. 

The woman I have known forever, 

her hair crisp against her scalp, 

the way it makes me want to reach out

and rub the back of her head. 

The woman I last rested with, 

thinking of her thin waist, 

the way my legs looped so easily in hers, 

the way we looked up under a star soup sky. 

The woman so far away 

who must know in some way, 

that I have always loved the way her words

ting against the true bell. 

The tall man fumbling for his keys, 

the old woman pushing flowers in her cart, 

the man who smiled before opening the door.

Everyday, someone new falls 

into the lap of my heart

and that must mean something, 

doesn't it?  The racing, 

the needing, the wanting?

After so many months of staring 

at the cement path one step ahead of me, 

it is good to lift my head 

and see -- simply see -- 

how many people there are, 

as I circling the notion of love. 

some things run deep

...like Santonio Holmes, 

like an allegiance to a team, 

Steeler black and gold. 

Number 6.  Can you believe it? 

because she knew

...how to play,

to lean down on her honches then skitter in fun.

Because she knew how to run from one room to another,

carrying her squirrel, just shedding off some extra energy.

Because of her one small crooked eye,

because she could lick the bowl clean.

Because she knew how to sit, always along side of you,

a willing companion, a constant companion.

Because she always came to welcome you home,

and ease you to sleep.

Because she gave love when love was easy

and when love was gone.

Because maybe she's in heaven now too,

if one believes in that kind of thing,

eating chips handed down from someone

so surprised, yet happy, to see her.

We give thanks.

what are you looking for?

We gathered in a circle, read the text and then scattered. 

Off into cubbies, every nook and cranny of the church. 

Outside into the woods, down the walking trails, 

In the library, by the window alcove. 

What are you looking for, what are you looking for?

I knew my answer quickly and made circles within circles, 

all leaning into one idea that holds every idea: radical peace. 

A full uncompromised knowing that I am loved, 

I am known, I am cared for.  My life has meaning. 

Because, in that fearlessness, I know I will be free 

to love, know and fully care for others.  

When it was time to share, Scott spoke 

of hiking to an outcropping over the river

where he knew -- realized-- that only he and God where there 

at that time, in that place.  What an amazing idea that is:

God and I are the only ones writing this poem.  

God and you, whoever you are are, are the only ones reading it. 

God is somewhere fishing with a man on a wide river in Texas, 

God is folding laundry in Peoria, Illinois. 

God and child have just drifted off to sleep on Dellwood Road. 

Scott said that when he came back inside to write, 

it was more like a dialogue.  Him asking a question, 

and then, without explanation, a holy response. 

There were tears in his eyes when he spoke of this. 

Others shared.  Not really what they were looking for, 

but how it felt to think and write about the question. 

When we were done, I went straight over to Scott

and asked, "What did God say back?  What did he tell you?" 

Then Scott turned his body, and I turned mine 

as we made our own little circle apart from the others.

He read what he had written.  He whispered God's response, 

his hands shaking, the paper twitching. 

Round drops falling on the page. 

And it was beautiful what Scott wrote, 

and how God answered -- I can't tell you, 

I won't tell you as much as I want to -- 

that is Scott's poem to write.  All I know is this:  

that Scott and I and God were the only ones there, 

in the Sycamore Room of the River's Edge Retreat Center, 

in that moment, in that place, with and for each other, 

under our own tent of radical peace. 

It's freezing outside.

yet the sun is shining. 

A lone sparrow has been chirping

in the bush next to my front porch. 

I heard her as I awakened, 

and all through the morning. 

So much to say to no one.

So much to sing about. 

In a few hours I will fly 

across the country. 

Working on the long weekend, 

in a hotel by the airport. 

I am not excited to go, 

to be surrounded by people. 

But I will go, say more than I should, 

flirt with someone I will never see again. 

I will find a spot in the light, 

and soak in the California heat. 

There is something assuring 

about my new bird friend.

How she is self-sufficient, beckoning, 

willing to spout off, 

work through it, 

sing her way back to herself. 

It is freezing outside, 

yet the sun is shining. 

She knows it, and 

does not let it go to waste. 

Happy new year

It was icy last night,
Cleveland seems to be in a freeze thaw cycle,
and so a friend asked me to drive her home.
We looped around the block
so that I could get as close to her apartment as I could,
and as I slowly slid to a stop,
she said, "Thanks for the ride, Lisa."
Hmmm. Lisa? My name isn't Lisa.
So maybe this year, instead of being Jean,
a name that women over 65 have,
I will be Lisa. Lisa Jane maybe.

And, just because the calendar has flipped
from an even year into an odd year,
I will stretch my limits and be odd,
not divisible by two. Not a multiple of two.
I will be prime, a bit off.
Lisa the 7th, Lisa the 13th,
Lisa the 19th, queen of a new world order.

And I will do these things with intention and purpose:
be aggressive hospitable,
selfishly giving, quietly bold.
I will fish for details, listen with my eyes open,
get more than cement under my feet.
I will be an agent of insistent certainty,
not letting my heart and mind waver and dip.
I will love where I sit, do what I can, be who I am,
trusting in the soft grace of graciousness

to shine a new way home.