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The color of things…

IMG_0667Overlooking the Bering Sea, Unalaska, AK

Life is the color of things:

of place, of thoughts, of people, of sky and trees.

(I have lived in gray, know that place well, for which I am grateful –

for its gift is to know, for the first time, the color of things).

Life is the color of things, and

it is good to breathe the riches of sky and earth,

of shadows across sky, of green grass that carries earth’s fragrance,

of long autumns and bright maples, of spring melting snow banks,

of a navy blue awakening, dawn.

The color of things lives in the eyes of friends, when sadness lurks,

when pain is not covered with dull happiness.  The color of things, this gift, earth, and all

that is in it,the heart, and all that is in it.

 

meb/01/2016

 

 

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Turning toward God

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My whole life I’ve been turning –
turning toward God.
However you have perceived this one life,
this one soul:
I have been turning, turning toward God.
I have turned through the ages,
I have turned for the ancestors,
I have turned out of sorrow and loneliness,
I have turned when I have been afraid to turn,
afraid I might fall, but still –
turning, turning.

I’ve been turning, turning toward God,
that silent  One,  the One I love I have not seen,
the One who holds the turning,
that turning toward God.

meb/12/2015 – Advent, 2015

 

 

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Exquisite moment, this moment

Life is simply, in its purest form, one exquisite moment – this moment, this moment, this moment, this…

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A few days ago, I captured one shining moment, right here, in my own backyard!

I happened to go into the bedroom, just as the sun was bringing to autumn life this tree.  I saw it!  For that, I am grateful.  I was enraptured by this tree, this shining, exquisite partner in the creation.

From Thomas Merton:  ‘As if the sorrows of this world could overwhelm me now that I realize what we are. I wish everyone could realize this. But there is no way of telling people they are all actually walking around shining like the brightest sun.’

When I think about my life – our lives –  our one wonderful, pain-filled, deep and rich life, I sometimes have the glory of knowing that life is one shining moment after another.  Mostly, I don’t see the shining moment.  I am preoccupied.  My inner state takes precedence over what I could witness if I became present.  I am busy.  I have too much to do, and so little time.  I am sad.  I have better things to do.

Sometimes, though, I witness one shining moment, and I remember that all is “shining like the brightest sun.”  This is a joy.  I don’t want it to end.  It is rich and deep and – ordinary – all at once.  I can only be present to it.  That is all I can do:  be present.

How difficult!  And how simple!

After I took this photo, I ran to the front of the house, to see how “my tree,” that wonderful witness to my later years, was taking in the shining moment of the setting sun.  Her west-ward leaning branches were shining, too.  I almost left the room to hurry to the back of the house to get my iPad so that I could take a picture.  But I didn’t.  Because of the witness of that shining tree in the yard, I plopped down on the sofa, instead, and watched, as moment to moment, one leaf after another, shone, and then dipped into twilight.

Sometimes life is so beautiful that I can hardly bear it.  I am grateful.

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In the morning distance, a train

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rumbles, marking work and action.
Here, hummingbird darts at the red feeder,
chases the giant sparrow away (chuckling, of course).
Squirrel hordes nuts and things for winter.

The small creatures of earth move as if there is no train in the distance,                                          as if this moment is all there is, which is truly true,                                                                                    busy, bursting bodies, breath.

A siren roars , cuts through silence in which the creatures  thrive,                                               part of the mystery, also.

meb/10/2015

***

Reflections, autumn morning, city

 

 

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“Houseplants,” a poem by Mary Elyn Bahlert

IMG_0525My little friends,
yellow and brown and purple and green,
I treasure you,
my hands among your leaves,
my fingers at your roots.

My little friends,
there is so little I am good at in this world:
my children want for what they cannot have –
I have only these hands among your leaves
and a few places of sunlight in the house.

My little friends,
my eyes drop tear-less on your stalks;
I protect you from the cold in this place.
I touch you with these worthless hands
and you flourish.

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I wrote “Houseplants”  as part of a series of poems that belong to my grandmother, Feodosia.  For these poems are the story of her life, told through me over the course of a year or two in the late 1980’s.  Surely our connection to the ancestors goes deeper than we know – or than we are taught to cherish, in our culture.  The magic my Grandma – a bent-over babushka in a long black coat walking through the slush of Milwaukee’s narrow alleys – must surely have come through me, the magic of our connection told through the words I recorded.

Enjoy.