In Praise of Elephants
Oh, mountain of wrinkles with haunting eloquent eyes,
You thunder over plains raising dust, parting tall grasses,
Laughing at hopping gazelles.
Lovely gray one delicately raising your trunk to pluck dew
Laden leaves in the morning sun or to gently hold a tiny calf.
You nurture and soothe with a quiet humming.
Your dignity and grace mark you as surely as the tree trunk
Legs you stand upon. You teach two-legs the meaning of
Beauty as you dance to the wind's song and wave hello/goodbye
With your ears.
In the steadfast look of your gentle eyes you reveal a full heart
You comfort the sick, the old, the orphan with compassion.
You mourn death and rejoice in birth gathering as sisters to
nurse one another.
In the moonlit night such a full silence you keep, so many things
Unspoken, tokens of a hidden life.
Yesterday I spent the entire day at a workshop on Healing Racism. I am more in touch with my own prejudices today. I have learned prejudice is "an emotional commitment to ignorance." Too true! When I look back on my life, I see this was how I operated. I was ignorant of so much and afraid to question either myself or anyone else. It was the death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr that tore away my self imposed blinders. I do not blame my Father for this legacy of racial prejudice anymore than I blame him for my fair skin. His attitude was a product of ignorance and fear too. What I focus on instead is the amazing grace that has freed me. I did nothing to deserve this gift it was freely given.
My unbinding began the day Dr. King died on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in downtown Memphis. I was 23 years old, married and pregnant with my second child. Having been raised in a home where a person of color was either a maid or an "uppity nigger", the latter when they tried to claim their seats at the banquet of American Justice.
My parents were not bad people despite their views on racism. My Mother more than once voiced her compassion edged with shame over the living conditions she saw, but for her it never matured into something more as far as I know. Perhaps had she lived longer it would have, but she died in 1967. Time could well have made a difference for her as it did for me. As for my Dad, he definitely changed with the years. For instance, he had a woman named "Peaches" who worked for him. When he found out that she was married (but separated from a recently deceased Railroad worked) and her sister-in-law was taking her benefits in her place. He immediately went to work and procured justice for her which enabled her to retire with a much needed and deserved pension.
It is with an intense feeling of shame that I admit the depths of my prejudice against black people. Like some angry little child who closed her eyes to the truth and then places her fingers in her ears so as to not hear the truth - even humming to drown out the reality around her. I did that - drowning out the children murdered and young men and women set upon by police dogs for peacefully protesting against racial inequality. I chose not to know, not to understand, but there came a day when I could no longer ignore the cries of humanity. There came in that time and place a moment of truth and grace for me. I was standing in a neighbor's living room watching the scenes of chaos and violence on television. Four or five other young white women surrounded me with their children and babies. A voice behind me said, "It was his own fault! If he hadn't been there, it wouldn't have happened."
How can I find words to describe what happened to me in that moment? It was a if lightening had struck me, peeling away all the years of prejudice and self-imposed ignorance. I was naked before my God knowing deep within myself that something was wrong, terribly wrong. I knew that if a man believed so strongly in something as to lay down his life for it, I had to look, really look, at what he was saying in this sacrifice. Just as it was with Jesus Christ. I could no longer accept what I had been taught about the differences between blacks and whites. At that moment, I admitted I didn't know anything anymore. Then I was born again into someone completely different.
I am grateful, forever grateful for the unbinding love Dr. King gave me and others like me. Because of Dr. King, I have been gifted with love and understanding, forgiveness and acceptance from the very people I wronged so deeply. African American men and women have embraced me with a graciousness wither to unknown. I have been befriended and enriched by their love and laughter. I have shared my hopes and dreams, my sorrows and tears with them and they with me. I have seen myself reflected in their eyes. I know Our Heavenly Father loves us one and all.
I would like to end with a poem:
"He drew a circle to shut me out. Heretic, Rebel, a thing to flout, but love and I had wit to win, we drew a circle to draw him in."
I am in Dr. King! I'm in!
Pray for us
The place I have known God's loving presence the best is in St Patrick Church. It is here, on hallowed ground, that I knew for the first time that God loved me deeply and personally. I saw and felt it from the people around me and each time I received Jesus in Holy Communion.
Years ago, a small group of friends would gather in the chapel at St Patrick to pray for our community as it passed through a difficult time. This was when the chapel was behind a partition from the main church before restoration of the church as it is today. In the great silence of that place, I sensed the true meaning of the Communion of Saints. I felt the loving presence of those men and women who had worshipped there throughout it's many years, including my own forbearers. I felt them praying with us for our church family. The joys and tears of their lives blended to pour a blessing on all who follow in their footsteps. In the loving presence of the God who created and loved us into being, I knew in the core of my being whose child I was and who was calling me to be one with Him through the ages of eternity. I recognized that this loving Parent/God would sustain me and our community in all our trials.
I ask that you continue this tradition by praying for our church family as we pass through what must be a very difficult time for many of us. Ask a special blessing on our dear Father Dexter as he moves to another blessed church and for Father Robert, that he may find a loving home among us.
THE SINGING STONES
In empty places without the mercy of water.
In long forgotten canyons and along dry mesa tops.
I have sought my soul among the lost and the dead,
who do not rest.
The wind carries a song that calls me back to
firelight, smoke and memories.
Flesh that feels the approach of winter and
a heart that leaps with the joy of spring.
Voices raised in soft words, babble like water after rains.
Sweet sage & pine & scrubs scent the air.
To where do I wander? Can I find that moment, that day?
Come Great Spirit, lead me forward to that place to which you
have drawn me. To rocks that sing my name. I have
heard them in dreams.
Across the great desert and through the dwellings of another people
Into the rock womb where I was formed, into the beginning
place I go, to find my place among the living or perhaps my rest
among these dead. For seasons pass. Wind, snow and then
wailing winds in the canyons. Golden leaves, rabbit prints,
warmth of day, cold nights.
Sounds carry so far, chirping, night stars and moonlight
full of curious shadows, scents on the breeze,
bright sunsets and dawn light splitting the earth dark from light.
The rocks sing my name in this place.
My soul forever thirsts
for this beauty and weeps within me, like the
sounds of the flute echoing through the canyons.
Leading me to a cold kiva by a spruce tree, to rocks
there. These rocks shaped my body then and sing
my name now.
One Last Dream
I am awake. I awoke at about 2:30 AM after another dream of my ex husband telling me he is leaving me, which I have relived in my dreams over and over since he left me after 27 years of marriage.
Something about this dream was different. He looked young and well. Thin even as he was at twenty. In my dream he had been gone a long time and I was angry when he finally came home. I berated him for staying gone so long. He told me he wanted out of our marriage. After all, what good was he to me having no job? I was suddenly distracted by a woman on television winning the lottery. Her husband had left her too and I called his attention to it as if it was relevant.
Then, we talked and I told him I would miss him so much and asked didn't he love me anymore? Where upon he replied, he would always love me and I saw in his eyes, it was true. He took me warmly by the hand and smiled. Then I remembered the Catholic Church had given us an annulment. It was true, but this happened 28 years ago. I said, well, the Church had given us an annulment so I guess you are right to go, but I will miss you always and in truth, despite all the pain he caused me when we were married, I have missed the good man I knew in our earliest years together, for all these years since he left me.
He is now 81 and in very serious condition in the hospital. I am wondering if he has passed away this very night and he came to make peace and say goodbye. If so, welfare and rest in peace.
I'll know in the morning.
TEARS
Your face appears in passing dreams
Bring thoughts of things long past.
Why do I search the wide road along my sleeping way
Hoping for glimpses of you?
What would I say to your passing form?
For the years have ravished my inner storm.
The tears of my youth have salted my soul
Removing from sight the hoped for goal.
There is nothing left of the joy I knew,
All that remains is a sense of loss too true
A bitter taste marks my sleep,
All the unshared years soaked in tears.
The Oak
Silent sentinel you stand with arms out stretched
As if mindful of your Father's love.
Deep drifts of winter whiteness are His garments
Of innocence and April's promise is hidden within you.
I place my hand upon your bark to touch the meaning
Of the years. Seedling to sapling and acorn to oak
Generation upon generation bridged beneath your branches.
Springs of fullness and falls of sorrow. Each autumn
A blaze before the dying, each winter bleak branches
Sighing before the wind.
Yet, Spring's sweetness lives in the roots, unseen,
Unknow except by faith. It is the same with me.
Long the days of waiting and many the seasons
Of the soul.
When burdened I will remember your full leafed arms
Lifted to the Father and pray.
When my soul is brittle and dry with pain, I'll
Remember your autumn and seek the blaze of joy
And beauty within me.
And should sorrow come to dwell, I'll think of you in your
Linen wrappings of winter and remember Spring.
May you be a reminder of the life within me.
April's promise of Resurrection in the sepulcher stillness
Of my inner journey.
MESA VERDE WHISPERS
Goodbye my heart, for I have left you in the ruins of my people.
Along the cliffs where hawks float gently on the breeze.
I leave my kiva, ashes in the shadows, broken vessels that match
My broken heart.
Beneath my feet, in sacred places, are the remains of my people.
Long may my songs linger among the fragrant sage and cool recesses
Of the cliffs. Across the canyons in the rising morning haze, they will
Haunt those who follow, those who have ears to hear and hearts to
Understand.
My friends, whose names I do not know, say a prayer to the
Great Spirit, our Creator and remember me.
The Poem of the Watcher
The shadows still move across the canyons/
Where the Spruce tree breaks the spring's path,
I often linger there, waiting, watching for your return.
The ages are passing, one day as a year, one year as a day.
The earth continues to repeat the cycles of seasons.
Still, I am here, a ghost that shadows the moon.
I cast my murky reflection against the kiva walls.
My path is lit by the glitter of stars ancient as time.
When will you return for me?
When will I breath the breathe you took
From me by your leaving?
I remain a shade, a shadow, until the sun forgets to bring warmth
To the distant hills and shadows to these canyons.
Only in your return can I hope to find rest.
Come from the ends of the earth!
Return to this place and release me.
Oh, my beloved, if you still exist, come!
CROSSROADS
We meet upon your ancient paths, dusty and dry husks
Of humanity, still striving in your magic light,
Poets and pilgrims, merchants and millers come to pursue
Dreams. Bright colored dreams of freedom and peace wrought
With pottery and glass beads. Tokens of tomorrow and remnants
Of the past. We weave our lives of varied hues choosing from your
Vast array of summits and sunsets, serapes and silk. Such is Taos.
City of myths, teacher of mysteries. Exotic dancer at the western
Edge of heaven.
BENEATH THE ELMS
Gently the wind of autumn touches the leaves.
Upon my upturned face I feel the quickening breeze.
Within the circle of shadow a solitary Specter guides.
My heart thumps out, "How did you die, my lovely?"
In the failing darkness an answer comes.
"I heard the whippoorwill calling and sought my true love
Where the hyacinths bloom. Instead, Death took my hand.
Only a tiny sharpness, a moment of surprise and I lay down
To die.
No longer will I linger near the blooming flowers to await
His return with gladness. No greeting, no welcome kiss, no
Wedding white for me. He shall come to me, though I can not
Return to him.
Saying this, the shadow moved silently away and I stood in
Awe, for the moment I had known. Suddenly, it came to me.
Why had the Specter stopped me as I sped along my way?
Why was it the Specter spoke to me that day?
Beneath the ancient elms, from the corner of my eye, I saw a
Deadly snake slither silently by.
FEBRUARY WHISPER
When February rolls back the blanket of winter,
Stirring lazily with languid yawning,
I see the tinge of green beneath the dried husks
Of last year's finery.
The sky is lit with a new light,
Even the clouds have a happier look,
There is a sense of anticipation in
The wind that sends the leftover leaves
Chattering down the street.
Oh February! Don't pull that cover over
Your head again! Let Spring come forth
From the death like sleep that huddles
Over the earth!
Be gentle and kind to the small things
That peek skyward between the
Cracks of Winter's guise, making
My world a bit more bearable until
Sweet April comes to rescue me!
SHILOH
Dazzled by the beauty of May, I stand in a bright meadow
Birds whirling, dipping and singing in the grasses all around.
This vision of beauty hedged by elegant trees, Limbs
Heavy with the weight of leaves, nests, new life abounding.
Beneath all, the silence of long ago. Shiloh!
The trees surround the meadows filled with cannons and
Monuments to the dead, none forgotten, but not at rest.
In all the beauty there is a sense of sorrow.
Beneath all, deep unease abides. Shiloh!
Behind each shadow, within each sound, pain, deep loneliness
A living current of sound and vision not seen with the eyes.
Time has stopped. The frames of nature edged with black.
Beneath all, lives impaled on the rage of war. Shiloh!
Souls of the dead, fallen in battle, wander in this place
Tasting the bitter draught of death and defeat daily.
And the pond, the deep rust red of old blood, is calm, serene.
But, beneath, beneath all?
Rachel is still weeping for her children? Not home?
No heath and hearth? No passage to heaven? Too many linger here!
Awaiting the call that never comes - to leave this place, journey on.
Beneath the ground, the haunted ground. Shiloh!
Twilight Song
Weave a web of childhood graced with smiles and tears
I can hear my brother's laughter running
Through the years.
Down in the country of green and shadowed splendors
We are all playing, happy pretenders!
The deep purple blossoms hang heavy in the air
Twilight lasts forever without a moment's care.
Voices calling out, caught in ebbing light,
Stillness, falling suddenly as day
Melts into night.
Yes, we are gathered at a fireside's glow
The air is filled with stories of the
"Long, Long, Ago"
Her crisp clean linen smells of warm sunshine
Her voice in the darkness paints pictures
In my mind.
I can see her now, blue eyes and silver hair,
Telling the stories our loving hearts
Still bear.
Each face is ever present,
The moment lingers on,
Of such memories are woven
The heart's eternal song.
AWAITING SPRING
Spring begins in the ground,
Tiny shoots of grass greening all the land.
Bold faced daffodils peer toward the warming sun.
Yet the bare oaks lift skeletal branches heavenward,
As if in supplication.
Frenzied March whips the leftover leaves round and
Around while the tree trunks still wait for Spring’s
Sweet kiss.
Oh, those silly Bartlett Pears will early fling their white blossomed
Limbs in the frivolous March wind with Winter’s last frosty breathe
Still the giant oaks will slumber on.
Yes, all the earth will stretch and yawn with sun warmed breath
Till finally, with April’s magic touch, the great oaks shake their
Newly garnished bright green heads, for Spring has finally spread
Upward to embrace the last bare bough.
EUCHARIST
Eyes searching, hands reaching
“Body of Christ”
Mouths opening, hearts yearning
To receive Him.
“Body of Christ”
From the ends of the earth we come,
Brown, black, yellow, white
“Body of Christ”
All the shades of humankind,
We come gather into one.
“Body of Christ”
Wherever we are He is, receive Him
Be aware of Him, open to Him.
“Body of Christ”
We come to Him, become one in Him.
“Body of Christ”
Smooth hands, snarled hands, open hands
Reaching, touching, needing, pleading
“Body of Christ”
Faces taut, hopeful, expectant revealing a life
Unseen, unknown except to God
“Body of Christ”
As He knit us in the dark of our Mothers’
Wombs, He knits our beings our souls
Into His likeness, the gentle revelation
The transformation
“Body of Christ”
ONEATA, ONE AND TWO
My name is engraved on a granite headstone
With a date that isn’t mine.
I have seen her sepia pictures.
She was tall and dark with unspoken words
shaping her lips, hovering in her eyes.
She was named by my English Great Grandfather,
And I was named for her, my Grandfather’s beloved sister
As she lay dying in an agony of pain that oh, so
Slow summer, long ago.
Where did our name come from? I often
Wondered as I stood staring at her headstone nestled
In the long grass of Elmwood. Until today.
Today I discovered there is an island in the fabled land of Tongua
Named “Oneata”. How fitting that “Oneata” should be
A far away place with oceans and lands between here and there
As there are oceans of time and change lie between she and I.
Perhaps that old Englishman had heard of Oneata Island and thought it a
Good name for this daughter of his elder years. He may have thought
She would be an island of refuge and delight in the seas of his old age or
Then again maybe it was only romantic whimsy that caught his fancy.
This name, a source of family legend that has traveled further then her life, seems to me a
special link of kinship, a recognition of our shared essence though her thoughts are
hidden from me even as that tiny island floating in the vast Pacific ocean.
