Washing Feet—A Maundy Thursday Psalm

I remember the little room

Where I passed in front of men

Affirming my right-standing

With God and fellow man

Cleared then to enter the tiny room

Where tubs and towels prepared

Nervously pulling off pantyhose

Feet splashed with tepid water

By a sister or a sister

Then dried with white towel

Today I had a pedicure

Relaxed in a reclining chair

The young Vietnamese woman

Perched on rolling stool in front of me

She tends to my toes

Then rubs my legs and feet with lotion

Carefully painting each toe

The blue polish I selected for myself

It’s Maundy Thursday 

And feet washing happened here

5.29.18

Vacuuming

I sit with my coffee

And a good book

Throw back some Advil 

With big gulps of water

I vacuumed today

My least favorite household task

Thank goodness I left

Perfectionism behind

And I don’t feel compelled 

To return to this task

As often as I used to

I no longer fear

Dust bunnies 

I have too many things I’d

Rather be doing

Sorry mother...

2.21.18

Community of Yoga

Our mats, the pews
Our breaths, the prayers
Our stretches, poses and groans,
    the praise
Our yogi leader, our spirit guide
We gather faithfully
To work on body, soul and spirit
A delicate chime brings us
To seated prayer

Namaste

Then off we go
Restored and a bit sore
To calmly face the day
To do our errands
Prepare meals, vacuum and dust
We pause, drink tea and rest
Then unrolling mats
We practice again

Namaste

Belonging

I followed my heart
off the road
onto a well-worn path

Among the
quaking beech tree leaves
the swaying southern pines
the fallen logs
the leafy beds
the bird song and the wind

I fell into
that deepest truth
known from Eden time

I belong to all of this
and it all belongs to me

Black Panther

I went to see Black Panther

And once again my heart was broken

The sins of my fathers—my sins

Are so apparent and starkly portrayed 

We are thieves

We stole human beings from their

Families, homes their land

Their civilizations and potentials

We are white supremacists

We collected up lands and people and resources 

And made them our own

Without thought or regard

We are liars

We make up our stories to suit our cause

Stories of our godliness, intellect and goodness

To cover the truth of our hatred and fear

All this, carried out under the gaze

Of the Father who made each his beloved

Thinking if we use his name our sins

Will go unnoticed 

My heart is broken open as I watch the scenes unfold

The beauty and wisdom of those we call savage

There are not enough tears to cry

To wash away the wrongs that we have done

Black Panther 

Call forth the courage of your children

Call forth their beauty and their glory

Give names to those whose names we’ve stolen

Perhaps your time has come...

The First Sunday

It’s the first Sunday of lent. 

Jesus in the wilderness 

Giving up sweets and Facebook 

Trying to be closer to God. 

It’s the first Sunday after the release of 

   Black Panther 

A story so rich and sad and unforgivable 

Probability stolen from a whole continent 

Gone. Never get it back 

It’s the first Sunday that seventeen families

Go to church without the loved one 

That was gunned down with an AR-15

In a nation that worships at the altar of the 

    NRA

We sing

We share the peace

We kneel at the rail

We taste the bread and wine

I am angry 

and sad 

and resentful 

And disappointed 

and angry 

and sad

“Look with compassion, O Lord, on this your  

    people

That rightly observing this holy season,

They may learn to know You more fully

And to serve you with a more perfect will.”

What does it even mean...

A Golden Thread

Oh come Emanuel 

And advent and the holidays

They’ve come and gone

And I rallied myself to hope

And faith for the coming days

Then comes one financial challenge 

Then another then another

And hope is a distant gleam

As anxiety and fear swoop in

And keep me awake at night

And angry through the day

I rise and make my morning coffee

I watch the birds come and go 

From the feeders in the yard

Under the watery wintry glow of the sun

I sit quietly and listen for a word

Of reassurance of presence of love

It’s nothing big

But I’m reminded of the birds

How they make it through the cold 

And the flowers that now lie dead

With roots and seeds that come to life in 

     spring 

Of the strength and courage of my children 

Of the love of family

With silent tears comes the knowing 

That today and tomorrow will come

And the next week and month and year

And I’ll look back once again

And see the thread of grace 

That even now is weaving gold and silver

Through my days