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.

I need...

...this baby. 

Not a holy, Jesus baby, 

not someone sacred and sacrificial. 

No need for future parables

and making blind men see.

No, I do not need that baby. 

I just need to feel the babyness within. 

The small eager hands, the eyes searching. 

I need a belly-up way of being,

completely vulnerable, expectant, 

confident that I will be fed and loved. 

I do not need a manger or wisemen bearing gifts. 

The stars can be hidden beneath a cloudy midwestern cloak.  

My mother does not need to speak to angel, 

my father does not have to be a carpenter. 

In fact, he can be a retired banker with a smoker's cough. 

Please god, find me. 

Make me a muslim child, 

an asian buddhist baby with a big belly. 

Circumcise me following Jewish lore,

it does not matter. 

Just shed the years that hardened me, 

slough off the doubt. 

Take away my words, my walk, 

swaddle me in used muslin. 

Find me, sweet new me, and wrap me tight. 

  

sketchbook #2

If I told you what this is meant to be, 

you would laugh -- and by you, 

I am thinking of a specific person. 

So I will not tell you about the body, 

the seeds, the rooting, the strong cornerstone. 

I do not know if I believe what I believe anymore. 

Instead, I will point out the blue against the black, 

the interesting twist of turquoise against orange, 

the comfort of brown.  I will make you look at the green, 

yes, you would ask you to look at that a long while. 

Then I would take you back to Howe Elementary School, 

that huge art classroom in the basement.  

The teacher, whose name you cannot remember. 

I would take you back to the day 

when you were five and saw the color wheel.

When she talked to you about 

primary colors and secondary colors.

I would take you back to that exact second 

when you learned that green 

is made by mixing blue with yellow. 

How you folded the paint together and saw it happen,

this magic alchemy rolling together in so many shades. 

And I would ask you to remember that now, 

that green is made by mixing blue and yellow,

that newness springs -- in one quick twist -- 

from the deepest sadness finding its light. 

That's all it is, this lifetime.  

Making green.  So lay it on the paper, 

a big first grade blob of blue 

and turn to the brightness in your life --

that saint, that sanctuary, 

the new song that won't stop spinning.

Turn to the poet on Duncan Street, open that favorite book, 

eat three slices of warm pork tenderloin. 

Walk to the tree, hold the baby, 

do whatever it is, find whatever it is 

-- your yellow--and slather it in.  

Then start stirring, 

swirl one into the other, 

your sadness and your hope, 

until the new hue feels just right. 

homecoming

In the twenty three hours I was in the hospital, 

my front yard and porch were transformed into this. 

Have you ever seen anything like it? All love and sparkles?  

Gifts from my friends glowing me home. 

As someone who has easy grasp of words, 

and knows what to say in most settings, 

I fall silent.  All I can say is thank you to you, 

and thank you to God  for you.  How lucky am I?