Solitude

Alone with my thoughts

I can reflect

With my music

My heart sings

With my books

My imagination roams

With gardening

I am at peace

With poetry

My spirit soars

With writing

I can dream

With cooking

My senses awaken

In nature

I am free

In silence

I can hear you

And in solitude

I feel your presence

Igualmente or basic Spanish

For Marty and Jerry

I didn't have mi cuaderno
That afternoon at BreadCo.
Luckily I found in mi mochila
Un papel para escribir un poema

Later on with nuestros amigos
Sharing food y anécdotas
Gracias a la vida y a Dios
I couldn't be more contenta

With our amazing hosts Marty and Jerry
We gathered in su sala elegante
I couldn't help but be a little triste
That we're saying adiós esa tarde

By the fireplace de mármol verde
I read mi poema lentamente
It said I love you mi amigo
And someone said igualmente

Muchas gracias said los amigos
Their warm smiles such regalos
It was a silly poem about la comida
Good friends y buena compañía

To the Kings, gracias said los amigos
As I finished mi poema lentamente
It said I love you mi amigo
And someone said igualmente

My couscous says I love you

My couscous says I love you

Every recipe I sought 
Every meal I concocted    
Every dessert I baked 
Says : My friend, I love you!        

For every event I’ve missed
For all the emails I've neglected
For all the times I was too busy to write 
And the few times I was too lazy to go out
This dish is to say : My friend, I love you!

If my couscous could sing for you                                                                                                                   
And my curry chicken entertain you 
Every grain would serenade you                                                                                                         
And every bite would delight you  
Just to say: My friend, I love you!

For all the feelings I struggle to express
And the missed opportunities I dearly regret   
And in gratitude for unexpected friendships                                                                                             
And for all of life’s sweet surprise gifts    
Know when I’m cooking I’m loving you!

Didn't you hear the hummus and falafel
The sweet treats and crème caramel    
The pies, the soups, the homemade bread?                                                                                                     
Everything I do cook, bake and create 
Is here to say: My friend, I so love you!

Nightmare in Two rooms

 nightmares crawl from the walls of the house
into the maze of the mind where
they sit, repeating their mantra
over and over and over
lulling themselves into a frantic cage of no being
money flying out bat-green, searching,
flying with no direction (or a direction mapped out by fear)
lured into the room of justification and doubt.

where did this begin?
who has opened the door to this world of webs and strings?
navigating blindly beneath a cloud-covered sun, a dark moon -
where did this begin?

Truth and untruth are so closely related
to step from one to the other
is just a matter of centimeters, of nanoseconds in time.

in the first room the shouts rang out during deep night's sleep
calling with anxiety, with fear of the erasing game
infected by a virus, sick and fading from reality (or non-reality)
sick and fading into non-reality (or reality)
hidden from the view of anyone who had eyes
it faded - infected, ill,
taking the whole of the drive with it
down the rabbit hole to god knows what self-computed death.

Earlier there were cigarette incantations, rung round
by food and more food for the nourishment of who knows what body,
of what man or woman and it was all so confusing
as to whether it was to be fed or drugged and whether
the computer was fed/unfed, drugged/not drugged
and why wait on the corner by the drug houses for the
car from Illinois carrying the man who would heal it?
why say the Domino's order was wrong
three hours later and who will fix it
and how will it be fixed except by money?

If there were no response to the howling calls
there would be none
if there were no response to the pleas and prayers
there would be none
but the calls and pleas and prayers go on
and the fear of retribution creeps in
and now, alone in the second room
wondering, wondering if the noise in the front room
is the wind or someone jealous of a life

the hope is confounded by confusion
confusion is generated by truth/not truth
truth/not truth is co-opted by lies/not lies
and the foundations crumble, unable to bear the weight of unknowing.

the possibilities are few, but endless,
truth obscured by doubt
and doubt our daily bread
the cup of wine, our nightly draught of chaos

moving slowly with determination,
ignoring the hints of knowing/not-knowing,
the nightmare is erased
from the mind,
from the room,
possibilities arise from the cauldron of hope and not-knowing
and I sleep.                      

Mount Everest

Utter gratitude cascaded and rippled through all my aching and trembling veins and muscles. I thanked God over and over again for the strength to do this, and after each thanks I could feel the pain siphon steadily out of my thighs as I careened effortlessly downhill. While I don't know if this was God's doing, I do know that I could only feel more thankful. I was laughing on the inside, panting on the outside. Ripples, just ripples, of gratitude and self-joy laughed and moved through me, top to bottom.

The sun was setting in its usual brilliantly coalesced exuberance of yellow and orange, sterling in its brightness. I laughed out loud upon seeing the marked silhouette of College Church, having just taken a moment to thank God.

Treachery had been etched through every molten inch of that road in that final stretch of hill. My legs and lungs burned. Each furlong, each pedal was a desperate thrust of a lifeline. Just a little bit closer... I didn't want to stop and walk the rest, like I usually stopped and walked (always at that same breaking point). It always seemed silly to stop (seemingly) so close to the top. It would be so much easier if I just walked the rest, my legs need a break, my lungs are stretching... I am mightier than this hill. Not today. No.

I used every mental trick I knew. I distracted myself, I looked at the (slowly) passing buildings, I looked down between my pedals, seeing the white bits of grit in the road rush past in spurts, each pedal, each push moving, moving, moving, it would be easier to walk... I would talk out loud, I talked in my head, I yelled in my head, the mantra didn't stop, my lungs are burning "You are so close you can do this ignore the pain don't you dare give in to that other voice the quiet one look how much faster you're moving on bike than on foot look how much closer you are my thighs are screaming, they are screaming, my muscles can't take it don't listen! what did I just tell you baby steps look down look up see the buildings passing by what doesn't kill you makes you stronger...you can do this..." I switched gears on my bike, I shifted the burden from calves to knees to buttocks back to thighs stand up sit down switch gears switch back...I measured each furlong from each pedal, gaining indelible energy from measured progress...

I could do this. I could do this. More and more, more distractions, more mantra my legs and lungs are burning Don't listen!

One...two...three...and more. And more. At an indefinite point...after some innumerable, aching pedals later, on the highest uphill gear I could manage, lungs heaving, calves burning...I reached the top, and greeted the sunset.

Some Poems

I.
Old people,
Many of them anyway,
Will just look at you
Really stare at you
Somehow feeling no obligation
To say a word.
II.
Young people,
Appear fascinating
His skin will not be so smooth
For so long
So I’m getting a good look now.


Call Me By My Name
Call me by a different name
Call me circle
Call me tongue
Call me mountain summit
Most importantly,
Call me.
And take in
my everything
Take me in
Till my name
is the only word you’d use to describe me



Cleaning Up Poop
I only use paper towels
When someone has pooped
On the floor.
No other material makes sense.
I tear off sheet after sheet.
Otherwise I use a cloth,
A sponge, a duster, my hand, what have you,
a rag.
I try to avoid adding to the trash heap
But sometimes, where I live,
Someone poops on the floor
And I don’t know
An alternative.

Standing up to show my soul...and shivering

the words of Clarissa Pinkola Estes in her text "We Were Made for These Times":

It is not given to us to know which acts, or by whom, will cause the critical mass to tip toward an enduring good. What is needed for dramatic change is an accumulation of acts, adding, adding to, adding more, continuing…

One of the most calming and powerful actions you can do to intervene in a stormy world is to stand up and show your soul. Soul on deck shines like gold in dark times.

To display the lantern of soul in shadowy times like these - to be fierce and to show mercy toward others; both are acts of immense bravery and of the greatest necessity. Struggling souls catch light from other souls who are fully lit and willing to show it. If you would help to calm the tumult, this is one of the strongest things you can do.

Stand up and show your soul!

On Your 20 Minutes of Writing Practice (Scribbled While “Hey Jude” Was on Repeat outside the World Community Center)

For Annie Fitzgerald


That was something
A waterfall
A dam burst
A noonday sun without a cloud in sight
All that emerging out of that co-counseled Buddha mind of yours

I feel the stirrings of greed inside me
Did you ever hear of the band
“Me First and the Gimmee Gimmees”?
Gimme some more of that mind

I know some people who did me the kindness
Of reading all 400 pages
(OK, maybe they skimmed some of part 2)
Of a book I wrote about some 10+ years of my life
Do they ever consider I’d want to read a book from their brain?
Could you yourself contemplate such a wonder?

20 minutes of writing like a bodhisattva bursting outta hell
All that pain and humor
Pain touched with humor
One snapshot of the topic:
"Where I was four years ago”

You’ve got a thousand and one such snapshots
In the mind swirl of stillness

Gandhi taught the world
“Satyagraha”—
Holding on to truth
a.k.a., soul-force

All the wealth you’ve got
To lavish on us
=
The wealth of your soul-force

(Some morning come to my front porch
4514 Chouteau
And play your new-used flute
That’s soul-force too)

You can ignore me
OK
But I know that you know
Somewhere deep inside you
That what I’m saying
Is accurate
All too true
Just the way you read it aloud to me
As we sat outside at Northwest Coffee
Told me you knew the treasure you had there before you

So the truth is out
I know it
You know it
No need to feel proud
Or self-effacing
It’s just the way it is

If you want
100 Saturdays
With me
At the various coffeehouses of Midwest USA
Sitting inside or outside
Noon or nighttime
I’ll do it

100?, you protest
Isn’t that over the top?
Let it be over the top
Let it be unreasonable
Let the demoncriticcrowdofNazihighschoolEnglishteachersinyourhead
Say whatever they want

100 Saturdays of writing practice
= one Annie Fitzgerald book

I’m saying this to you
Straight from the heart
The broken & bleary
Neurotic & neuralgic world
Needs your lines in English
Of Beauty, Contemplation and Healing

Thus spaketh Shimmelstoy
Om shanti shalom salaam
Na na na na hey Jude
Namaste forever
And ever

Amen

Some People Are Relentless

For Annie Fitzgerald


Tomorrow may I come over to Sophia House
Borrow your notebook
Take it to my house
Copy the pages you wrote
And read to me at Northwest Coffee
(Saturday 21 April)
Return to Sophia House
Hand the notebook  back to you
So that I can then return home
Type up those said pages
And send them out into cyberworld 

For the relief of all suffering, sentient Facebookers
For the metta toward all graduate students enduring the gross grind of it all?

Safa and the Marine Face to Face In the Parking Lot

Dear Professor
You asked how things are going in grad school
Here’s today’s highlight

Before going to school today
I stopped at Starbucks to get a latte
As I was walking back to my car
An SUV pulled up to me
A young man with a crew cut popped his head out the window
And said in a loud voice
“I survived Fallujah
Only to come back home—"
He stuck his arm out the window and pointed at me
His voice increasingly tense—
“To see my country filled with terrorists like you!”

OK
So what if he was probably a foot taller than me
And weighed way more than 100 pounds than me
I stopped and looked at him
And remembered that teaching you passed on:
“Just like me, he wants to be happy
He doesn’t want to suffer”
I repeated that in my mind
As I looked at him for ten seconds
His jaw began to unclench
And before I turned to get into my car I said slowly
“I hope you have a good day”

Safa


--from novel-in-progress,  Dear Layla

At My Wake, Someone Will Hear Someone Else Say...

"He was always telling me to share my writing..."

"You, too?  He said that to me, like... weekly!"

"Weekly?  He'd badger me  daily for a fortnight until I gave up."

"He was relentless."

"Verdad. Yep, he could be a pain, but when I think about it now, he was on to something."

"How many times did he quote someone the scripture, 'Don't put your light under a bushel basket'?"

Seven people within a earshot raise their hands...

I Blame Jonathan Richman

I had to take out
A restraining order
On "that summer feeling"

It's been haunting me

I Have Two Mentors by Jerry King

I have two mentors, maybe role models is a better word. They are both old men—both 83, in fact. Both are afflicted with a major illness—one with Parkinson’s, the other with emphysema and cancer. Neither complains. Both are happy with their lives, in very different ways, despite very difficult and life-changing episodes.

Ed Browning is the retired Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church in the U.S. He served for 12 years—I believe the last Presiding Bishop to serve that long, as the Church realized that it was taking such a toll on its best people during the modern era. During his tenure, he championed the ordination of gay men and women; the consecration of women bishops; and the role of his Church in opposition to Reagan’s support of the contras and Bush I’s entrance into the Gulf War. And he did so at great cost. The conservatives in his Church reviled him. They made his life miserable whenever possible, and when they saw a unique opportunity to make him suffer toward the end of his tenure. They took full advantage.

One of Ed’s great gifts is his gentleness and willingness to forgive. The other side of that gift, as is often the case, is also a great weakness, the willingness to trust in others beyond a reasonable point. And so, Ed trusted too much in an employee who he had brought in as the Chief Financial Officer of the Church. By the time her transgressions were uncovered, she had embezzled $2MM from the Church treasury. When this came to light, Ed’s opponents pounced, and they were vicious. And Ed still has not recovered, emotionally or physically, from the verbal abuse that he suffered. But despite his travail, Ed carries on his life with the greatest of good will and bears his physical and mental travails without complaint. 

When Ed retired from the Presiding Bishop position, he and his extraordinary spouse Patti purchased a home outside of Hood River, Oregon with a horse pasture, an acre of blueberry bushes, a grove of old-growth fir trees that shelter the house from the north winds, and a spectacular view of Mount Hood. For a dozen years now, he and Patti have presided over this wonderful slice of God’s earth with humility and gratitude. They share their bounty with their family, friends, associates and a basketful of animals. The annual proceeds from sale of the pick-your-own, honor-system blueberries go to Sabeel, an organization dedicated to justice for Palestinians and the effort to promote peace between Israel and the Palestinian people. And Ed’s care for his old dogs and even older horses reflects his tender care for all of God’s world and her creatures.

He truly is a man for all seasons; a man of faith, hope and courage beyond measure, and a lover of life and people. One of my two best role models.

Then there is Tom Mullen, Catholic ex-priest, sexual-abuse-victim turned counselor to other abuse survivors and story teller extraordinary. I first encountered Tom in the back pew at St. Cronan’s Church, the home of disaffected Catholics from around the St. Louis diocese, in 1990. Several years later, at a Mens’ Retreat for members of the parish, Tom revealed his abuse to his fellow retreatants. Tom had lived with his memories of that horrible experience for 50 years without sharing it with anyone except his beautiful wife Henrietta, but encouraged by the trust among the men in that group, he shared his story in front of a roaring fire on that memorable Saturday night, and thereby changed the retreat, and by extension the life of the parish, forever.

As the impact of Tom’s sharing rippled outward from that evening, the effect on Tom himself was even more remarkable than on the rest of us. He became more open to the suffering of others, and more forgiving to perpetrators, even the man who had raped him so violently those many years before. Eventually, Tom confronted his abuser, called him to acknowledge his sin, and forgave him. In doing so, he freed us all from the fear and loathing associated with that awful crime. And freed himself to be support and counsel to other victims, and to be a public voice, in letters to the editor as well as letters to Church officials, against the hypocrisy and abuse of power promulgated by the bishops.

If that were Tom’s only contribution to my life, it would be more than enough. But he is much, much more. As a lover of stories, I revel in Tom’s gift of merriment and folksy wisdom through his stories. His curiosity about the world of religion, faith and the life of the Spirit is unbounded. Often, his missives to me on Church affairs are qualified by his opening statement, “I know you don’t care, Jerry, but …..”. And the fact is, I do care, at least I care when Tom is the storyteller or the conveyor of a particular fact or happening that affects his beloved Holy Mother.

As with Ed, Tom is made whole by his remarkable partner, Henny. Their stories of meeting when Tom was still wearing the collar and Henny was a “secretary” at the Chancery office are both hilarious and blessed. And now Henny protects Tom in his physically-reduced state, racked by lung problems that were serious even before the cancer was diagnosed. But the two of them still laugh amidst the fears and tears, and Marty and I feel privileged to be a part of their lives, and guests in their living room.

I ask not much more than, “Lord, if you’re there and listening, can you help me be a little more like Ed and Tom. They are my patron saints, the ones who guide me as I grow older. Keep them with us as long as they are still able to cherish and laugh, as long as they continue to meet each day with the gift of joy that they bring to us all.  “

what kind of man is this?

What kind  of man is he?
We were walking down a gravel road near Lake of the Ozarks on a warm spring day, Lucey dog romping in the sun, not hot but pretty warm for sure.  We were enjoying some exercise, strolling, and waved to  him and his friend sitting in rockers on the front porch of a yellow house under the shade trees.  We kept walking on, picking up trash as we spied it on the side of the road.  A couple in a black car - GENZ was on their license plate - we noticed because the traffic was so non-existent - said we should get an award.  Jim told her how simple it is to walk along and carry a bag and put trash in it!  She laughed and rolled her eyes.  At the end of "our road" aptly named Paradise, we turned around and began to walk back.  At the yellow house, he had the hose out watering flowers.  He dropped the hose and rushed over across his lawn to us on the road, and invited us up on the porch for cold watermelon.  The other man was not there anymore.  I said "well, or course" and he turned off the hose, dusted off the rocking chairs and told us to sit down.  I told him my name and called him Jerry because he had a sign with "Jerry  Gillespie" hanging up pretty big and bold.  Jerry smiled and went inside.  Out he came with 2 plates, forks and huge slices of ice cold watermelon, and a salt shaker for us to use in his bib overalls pocket.  "to make the melon taste sweeter" which was news to me.  His warmth and generosity made conversation easy, us slurping, enjoying the cold wetness and shade, and he telling about his children and how they want him to move, how he enjoys the peace of the yard and nature, bits about the neighbors and weather and winter that wasn't this year.  He'd mentioned his wife once and how she'd thought about opening a bakery in town but didn't because there was only traffic during a few months of summer and not enough to keep a business going, you know.  I asked about her as we were leaving "was she inside?".  He got real quiet and said "she passed 2 years ago exactly today, the 24th".  I gasped and caught a glimpse of a tear before he turned his head to clear the plats.  "Real nice to meet you folks.  Come back anytime".  I went over and took his hand and said how sorry I was and thank you again for your kindness and the watermelon and the visit in the shade.  I am stunned by his gesture of reaching out to us - strangers walking on the road - on the anniversary of her death.  I can't even remember her name  - it was on the sign too but I'm embarrassed to say I didn't pay attention close enough.  We didn't walk to clean up the road and we didn't walk for exercise on the beautiful day.  According to an angel's plan, we walked to meet Jerry and  spend some simple holy time on his front porch.  Maybe easing loneliness - or maybe there is not easing of it, I don't know yet. Maybe my day will come.   I only know that sharing a day like today, gentle breeze and puffy clouds, watermelon with an old man - well, it's just a gift, a treasure really.  I want to walk down that gravel road again and spend more time sitting on Jerry's front porch.  What kind of a man is he anyway?

Are we not like horses?

MY DAUGHTER WAS IN A HORSE SHOW LAST WEEK. PERHAPS LIKE DOG SHOWS OR MISS AMERICA OR OUR EVERY DAY LIVES, THE BEING AND BEHAVIOR OF THE ANIMAL IS SO CONTRIVED IT BECOMES AN ABSURD SHOW,  -   ANYWAY, AFTERWARD I WROTE THIS

Are we not like horses?

Contained by our stalls of sleep

Corralling energy better expelled

Running at every opportunity?

Restraint, restraint

Certain movements, patterns of behavior

Learned, embeded deeply in each of us

Deeply into our bodies

All that balled up energy

Stamping feet, grunts and thrown heads

Ribbons for contrived behavior

For learning, achievements, a bucket of goodies

A well trained horse wins money

A well trained person earns a salary

The rest of them (and us) are left floundering in the field

Sick with anxiety or, for that matter, too many oats

How to break the bit of conformity without destroying the ability to be

Restraint, restraint from the beginning

Feeding schedules, nap schedules, outings (no running, please)

Restraint, restraint, quiet in the field

Quiet in the classroom, the church,  quiet in the bed at sunset

Restraint, restraint

Is god restrained, curtailed by good manners, bridled by convention?

Have we bridled god as we are bridled, as the horse is bridled?

Fitting god to our own needs?

And this bridled god, no doubt, laughs

Laughs uproariously at our predicament

Pities the restraint of the horse

And keeps singing his 1000 songs, spinning the earth alive.