Looking at the Moon

"Barn burned down. Now I can see the moon." - Mizuta Masahide

Saturday morning ,my husband and I took a "staycation." We wandered down to German Village to go exploring and found Helen Winnemore's. Helen Winnemore's  is a beautiful shop with handcrafted art items, to wear, to use and to just be beautiful, too. As you come through the door, you are offered coffee, tea or water as you browse. It's like coming to your cool artist friend's house and hanging out.

As I sipped on my coffee (handed to me in a handmade pottery mug) I spotted the pendant pictured above from across the room. I was intrigued by the shapes and metals that went into making it. As the crowd looking at the display cleared away a bit, I moved over to get a closer look and was caught off guard by the quote on it.

Tears sprang to my eyes and my throat closed around the cold lump that used to be my voice. "Yes, the barn has certainly burned to the ground," I thought.

Every now and then, I allow myself a moment of grief over my voice. And that's what this was - a moment.

Somehow, this quote, centuries old and composed of nine words, put into perspective three years of upheaval. From the thyroidectomy that stole my voice and career, to my children's marital struggles, to the birth of two new grandchildren, to a new major, a new career, and new home, this past three years has been a lesson in change management to rival all others. We have lost so much, yet we have gained immeasurably.

Most people would see Masahide's quote as somewhat Pollyanna-ish, but I don't. In thinking about the idea of a barn, we must realize that the barn is a link between past, present, and future. It is not just a place of shelter, but a place of storage as well as a place of investment. In losing the barn, Masahide has lost his food, his animals, his shelter, all of his security and possibly his memories, too. In other words, the loss of a barn is no small thing.

But instead of grieving, he focuses in the next sentence on the positive - he can see the moon. The moon, with all her elusive and silvery beauty is a symbol of dreams and inspiration, but in addition, the moon inspires the movement of tides and is feminine, so it's a symbol of new life, as well.

What the 17th century samurai has to say to us is more prescient than we might imagine. It is in chaining ourselves to the things that we have stored up for ourselves, in clinging to the memories of what has come before, in making plans for the future that may never yield a harvest --in short, imagining that we have control over our lives --that we lose our ability to live.

In trying to control what comes next, we lose the opportunity to see things that are unusual and paths that take us to more beautiful places than we had planned for ourselves. In mooring ourselves in the memories of what has come before, we lose the ability to see the places where we might go next, or even worse, fall into the hole we didn't see while looking over our shoulders. In feeling smugly satisfied with our present state, we lock ourselves into a stasis where we refuse to take risks, and therefore, refuse to grow.

In my own life, I can see these opportunities presenting themselves to me again. I miss singing and directing a choir, but I enjoy my new career, too. Renovating people's lives through the provision of education is very rewarding work and I get to participate in that work every day.  But even now the world is shifting under my feet again. Rather than thinking of these tremors as bad things, I can choose to think of them simply as change. Heraclitus tells us, "One cannot step into the same river twice."  I think this is true.

Relationships shift, projects get complex, and change is the only constant in our lives. How we look at that change makes all the difference. So, instead of crying over the smouldering remnants of the barn, I believe I'll look at the moon and see what path she illuminates for me.

Photo Credit: PacificGallery.net, 2015 - Pendant for sale on their site found here. 

#Five Favorites: Dante Gabriel and Christina Rossetti

So, I have been drowning myself in Victorian art and poetry for about three weeks now and the fruits of this labor are about to be presented to my class at 2 pm tomorrow. Theoretically, I'll be awake for that class.

It's kind of odd that all of this should coincide with Ash Wednesday, which also happens to be the 6th Anniversary of my 39th birthday and the big follow-up for my thyroid surgery. Depending on what my blood work looks like, I may, or may not, have to have more tests/treatments etc...

So Tuesday, as you might imagine, was a bit stressful, and I flipped my lid.
Really, I lost it.
I had to spend several hours just making myself sit still. I managed, but it was hard. I still have to go to confession. Good thing it's Lent, eh?

So, looking at the idealized and lovely ladies of Dante Gabriel (who, by the way was somewhat of a toad) and listening to the beautiful, stern verses of Christina have been a balm for my soul and I'd like to share them with you.

The Rossettis often collaborated on their work. They were a big Anglo-Italian family who were artists and poets and scholars. Imperfect, but working hard. It's a family after my own heart.

1.) "Buy From Us With Golden Curl"

An engraving by Dante Gabriel Rossetti for "Goblin Market" by Christina Rossetti

This engraving shows the anti-heroine, Laura, of "Goblin Market" preparing to sell a lock of her hair for some fruit that will fail to satisfy, but looks and tastes delicious.  The only problem is that she can;t get enough of it. C. Rossetti uses her poetry to remind us of the reality of temptation and its ultimately unsatisfying ends. She even uses Laura's sister, Lizzie, to cure her, by an act of self-sacrifice. Sounds like a couple of other women we know, doesn't it?

2.) Ecce Ancilla Domini (The Annunciation) 

An oil painting by Dante Gabriel with his sister, Christina (as a teen) as The Virgin Mary.

I just love this picture. What can I say? "Behold, I am the Handmaid of the Lord..."

 3.) The Blessed Damozel

 Here Dante Gabriel's poetry and art come together, much like William Blake in the Romantic Period, Dante Gabriel used poetry and art together to magnify the reader's experience.

here's the first stanza of the poem:

The blessed damozel leaned out 

From the gold bar of Heaven; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 

Of waters stilled at even; 

She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 

No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift, 

For service meetly worn; 

Her hair that lay along her back 

Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Herseemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers;

 4.) "In The Bleak Midwinter"

Yup. It's still winter here in Ohio. And it looks pretty bleak. Although this carol is sung at Christmas, I'm sharing the whole poem anyway. It is a beautiful reflection on humility: both the humility and simplicity embraced by Our Lord in becoming incarnate for us to die on a cross for our sins, and of the Blessed Mother, who trusted God and said, "Yes."

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;

Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.

In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed

The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,

Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;

Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,

The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,

Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;

But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,

Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;

Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

5.) And More from "Goblin Market"

At the end of Christina Rossetti's poem, Laura finds that her sister has taken on the punishment of a beating from the goblins in order to get the antidote to the poisonous fruit. And in addition, she watches through the night as Laura goes through withdrawal.

You've heard it said that you can't pick your relatives, but you can pick your family. It's the truth. One of my "sisters" came to my rescue yesterday, too. I'm very grateful. Reading this poem made me think of our conversation.

Here are the last seven lines of "Goblin Market":

"For there is no friend like a sister

In calm or stormy weather;

To cheer one on the tedious way,

To fetch one if one goes astray,

To life one if one totters down,

To strengthen whilst one stands."

Let's remember to be a sister to someone today. Please pray for me, and I will pray for you.

The Lunch Date

With shuffling steps

They entered the shop.

He held the door for her

(He always does.)

She asked about soups,

“Why’dja run outta broccoli?”

The man smiled and joked,

“’Cause they knew you were comin’.”

He gave her a chuckle.

She hid a smirk.

They decided on coffee and donuts instead.

“I’d like that on china,” he politely requested.

“But I’ll take mine in paper,” she quietly contested.

With battle lines drawn

They’ll continue their flirting

‘Til the last drop is drunk

And the sun,

(which shines so brightly)

Is called the moon.

Teenagers

An acrostic poem for an assignment

Teenagers

Tickety-tackety, texting non-stop,
ever in doubt of where she'll end up,
endlessly fumes she's not pretty enough,
never predictable, always in flux,
a teenage girl is a wonder, it's true. She's
gentle one moment,
egregious the next,
rages against all authority, but
she sighs in your arms as you wipe all her tears.


Comments? Suggestions?

Spring

O, gracious and bountiful spring!
Your breezes, soft and sweet, call me from my kitchen.
"Forget your books! Forget your chores!
Come and bask in my glories!" you sigh.
Emerging from my sleepy haze of work as you beckon,
The magnolias, narcissus awaken my longing for movement and light.
I begin to believe.
I tentatively hope.
But ever fickle, your coldness and wrath threaten.
Clouds mount in the west and as the breeze turns colder,
I remember that you are just a flirt.

Haiku from Last Night*

I can't find my pills
Dude, where the hell did they go?
Oh wait - here they are...

-Celia O'Keefe

* Based on the popular "Texts from Last Night", "Haiku from Last Night" is evidently the way that my insomniac daughter has chosen to communicate with me. I found this and 3 others written on a piece of paper laying across my keyboard this morning. This was the best one.

While we are in a poetic mood...

You need to read this poem.
And this one, too
Because Kate is Awesome.
Seriously.
With a capital "A".

Dancing Cardbord to Cardboard

My cardboard cutout dances across the floor with yours, smiling.
It is always good to dance with you,
but tonight feels different.

I can feel the touch of your hands,
but it doesn't feel like your hands.
Imperfection

I can feel their weight through my dress,
but it doesn't feel like my dress touching my skin.
Implication

I can hear the words coming from your lips,
but I am certain that they are not yours.
Impossibility

I can see your eyes,
but they are only relentless reflections of your lively eyes.
Impenetrable

We bow, and part, and promise to dance again.
We return to our places to wait our turn.
Impassively

Love like an Ocean

This love is like the ocean:
As vast as it is beautiful.
Turbulent and tranquil all at once.
It could swallow me whole,
but instead I lie on it,
floating weightless...
Trusting.
I have forgotten all about the storms.

We will miss you, Grandpa D

Missing Man Formation

I am re-posting a blog from many months ago. Today we lost my husband's grandfather. This post was written with him in mind. We will miss him, but I am sure in the knowledge that he has gone to be with his beautiful wife and is no longer in pain or confused.


I'm going to put in a plug here for "The Writer's Almanac", published by Garrison Keillor. The Writer's Almanac comes to my mailbox daily with a poem and then tidbits and biographies about authors who had significant events on this day in history.

Today's poem was written by a man who, to my knowledge had only one poem to his name: John Gillespie Magee, Jr. He was a pilot in WWII and flew with the Royal Canadian Air Force, before the US entered the war. Today is his birthday. Like me, you have probably heard this poem before, but today, it really moved me. I'll tell you why after you read it.

High Flight (an Airman's Ecstasy) by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, nor even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

My grandfather-in-law is an aviator. He flew at around the same time as Magee, fighting in WWII and then again in Korea. After he retired from the Army Air Corps, he continued to teach in his flight school in Texas. One of his students was my brother who tells me that Grandpa has nerves of steel. Yep, I'll bet he does.

This brave man has more decorations than you could shake a stick at, including several Purple Hearts and at least one Bronze Star. In WWII, he was shot down in enemy territory and crawled out on his belly with a broken jaw, after watching his friend be killed. And yet, he is good hearted, humble and kind. His love for his grandchildren and great-grandchildren so very great. It even extends to me, outsider that I am, and I am doted upon.

But now, he suffers from Alzheimer's and we are watching this fantastic man slip away. But he is not slipping away into nothing. He is still the kind hearted, humble, loving grandfather I have always known him to be. True, he no longer teaches flight. True, he needs a little more help, but would I give back even one second of this time we still have with him? No. Do my children benefit for having him in their lives even in a diminished capacity? Yes. I do not believe that any time that we have left with this great man is a waste in any way. I am so honored to know him one of our great American Heroes and to be loved as one of his children.

And when he does finally pass on from us, though right now he cannot take flight, I know that he will be going to touch the face of God once again.


As we sat with Grandpa last night for the last time, holding his hands and reading to him from the bible, I realized that, though he was unresponsive, every time one of my children spoke, he would twitch his hands and his face would relax. I am grateful for the time we had with Grandpa. My kids are so lucky to have been able to get to know and love him, and he to get to know and love them.

A guest contributor

My husband works in a cafeteria. He is a short order cook and is a wonderful one at that. One of the most popular items of equipment in the kitchen is the ice cream machine. But, alas, the ice cream machine is somewhat fragile and breaks on a fairly regular basis. So, instead of a simple "Out Of Order" sign, my husband penned the following:

An Ode to our Old Friend

Oh, sweet milk maid!
Oh, sweet frozen stream of cream!
How we shall miss thee;
Whose glinting body
And black knobbed rack
Brought delight to men and women alike;
We grieve thee at thy passing.

Gone, but not forgotten,
Thy devoted turn to jello
Whose red body wiggles,
Cool and fruity,
To remind us of the sweetness we found in thee.

The powers that be made him take it down. Some people have no sense of humor.

Fire and belief

Without belief the phoenix
is just a bird on fire.
-Kate Horowitz

I have recently spent a lot of time "on fire". These past few weeks, especially, with Easter tuning, all the liturgies to prepare for Holy Week, family "fun", traveling, sickness. The doldrums hit me like a truck on Monday. The weather wasn't helping any either in going from overcast, to rainy, to continual downpour. I was burned out, wasting away, and sure of nothing except my weaknesses. And just when I was ready to stay in my bed and never get out again...the sun came out. Literally and literarily. (OK...I made that word up.)

When I checked in with all my blogs this morning, the half-haiku above was sitting in my "to read" box. It took me only a second to understand. The reason I was feeling burnt to a crisp was that I had allowed myself to stop believing that I could do it. I was the "bird on fire".

I just have to thank God for all the wonderful people in my life who believe in me enough to make me back into a phoenix again.

Delicious

We kiss
and the passion rises in my heart
like the sap of a sugar maple,
welling up,
overflowing,
and filling the world with sweetness.





Photo from Southernmost Maple

Even in the silence

Even in the silence I hear your voice.
Every night in the darkness I see your face,
Elegiac in its dolefulness. Yet,
Each glance from your dark eyes warms my soul;
Enough to blush
Even as I dream.
Early light breaks and your memory, and the darkness,
Ease beneath the light-infused surface of wakefulness.
Eden passes away to harsh reality.

Photo: (2008-08-13) Downtown 0058_9_0
Originally uploaded by Joseph L. Harris (www.jlh-photo.com)

Coming Clean

She surveys the rain-washed city
Through the bus window
The garbage trucks are out in force
To carry away the debris of lives
Spent in endless pursuit of things.

She surveys her life
And wishes that the rain could wash her clean.
She longs for a garbage truck
That could cart away the debris of a life
Spent in endless pursuit of people as things.

Finding the File

Finding the File

First I asked St. Anthony.
He didn't come around.
I guess there are more important things
Waiting to be found.

Maybe I'll ask Cecilia,
She might know where to find it.
I'll have the contract for her Church
And know just when they signed it.

Jude is busy saving lives.
He's got no time for drama.
But if I don't find this file soon
There's going to be a trauma.

Maybe I'm looking for the wrong thing.
It wouldn't be the first time
My frail, disordered life has wrought
A distraction I can't overcome
And the searching for an answer,
An Act of Contrition becomes.
____________________________________________________

St. Anthony, please come around. Something's lost that must be found.

What I find when I go blogging...

One of my favorite blogs to visit is the wonderful Churnings and Burnings, by Utah artist, Cassandra Barney. Cassandra is the daughter of artist James Christensen and her sister, Emily McPhie, is also a wonderful artist. A friend of mine introduced me to Cassandra's blog back a few months ago, when I asked him for a lesson in art appreciation. I knew remarkably little about art, except that of the church persuasion, and wanted to learn more. So, one of the first people he introduced me to was Cassandra.

Only, I have found so much more than art in her blogs. She has, for instance, great taste in music and frequently involves the work of other artists in her blogs. It is a great "jumping off" place, if you are not sure what to look at and you are interested in the arts. Cassandra will post music, other visual artists' works and poetry. In addition, she gives little glimpses of what her life is like, day-to-day. It is a lovely place to visit.

I have also met Cassandra's sister, Emily, who paints from her experience as a mother of three young children. I find her art very poignant and moving. It speaks to the trials and joys of being an artist, mother and wife in a way that resonates with my own experiences as a musician, mother and wife. Her blog is called Tenderness and Toil. It is interesting to see Cassandra and Emily, as compared to their father. Their styles are so very different from one another, but there are definite "family resemblances". They are currently working on a project together called "The Tree of Life". I can't wait to see what they all come up with.

In addition to meeting Emily through Cassandra's blog, I have met a poet, Kate Horowitz. Cassandra and Kate recently combined their artistic forces in an exhibit in Oregon called "She Dreamed in Verse and Rhyme".

Kate recently wrote a poem that describes her experience with blogging that I think sums all this activity up quite nicely, called "On Blogging, In Gratitude".

On Blogging, In Gratitude
Small birds, all of us,
chirping without aim. And when
the breeze parts the branches
we discover one another, fat with song,
blinded by the sudden sunshine.

She is a way better poet than I will ever be. If you like poetry, check her stuff out at her Blog: Things Written Down.

I enjoy the people that I have met through the blogging scene, very much, and I am very glad to have the opportunity to expand my view of the world from right here at my computer desk. It is an amazing thing to me to be able to connect with artists, musicians and writers from all over the US (and even the world) and find such commonality of experience, yet deepening the richness of the fabric of my life with their own personal glimpses and wisdom.

I hope that you take some time to check out these blogs and enjoy some really wonderful, funny, and smart ladies in the art world!

French Fries: A poem

French Fries

We sat eating French Fries,
He, with a fork,
I, with my fingers.

We sat at the McDonald’s,
He, with a napkin in his lap,
I, with my elbow on the table.

We sat together,
Ignoring each other’s flaws,
Appreciating each other’s company.

Marriages are made of this.

Sunburned

I can feel the heat radiating from my skin
As if I were spontaneously combusting.
The smell of the sun is burned into my skin.
I carry the summer with me,
In my office,
In my kitchen,
To my bed
Where I burn to touch you,
But dare not, lest I scorch myself further.

To Write Love on Her Arm

This poem is based on the name of a cause that you can join on MySpace or on Facebook. The goal is to raise awareness of teen suicides and self-mutilation. It is staggering, the number of people who suffer from these horrors. And what's even more amazing is the number of adults who have done this and still do, in times of great stress. The group encourages people considering suicide or self-mutilation to write "love" on their arms to remind them that no matter how bad it gets, you don't have to cut. Someone loves you.


Through Sunday, To Write Love on Her Arm is encouraging people to write the word "Love" on their arms to show support for these kids and adults to let them know they are not alone.


I was so moved by the title of this cause, that I wrote a poem based on it. I hesitated in sharing it because it is very emotionally charged. It has been written for several days. But, today, after my daughter spent last evening talking two of her friends off their own ledges (so to speak), I feel compelled to share it.


It is rather graphic, so please, if it disturbs you, forgive me. If you like it or you know someone who needs to hear it, please share it.


To Write Love on Her Arm



So many ways to write Love on her arm
But she chose a knife.
The cuts remind her that she is alive
Carefully she avoids killing,
but not the pain.
Pain makes her feel real
The grief, the frustration, the boredom, the ennui fade
Diluted in the blood.


But there are so many ways to write love on her arm.
I take her into my own arms,
For love is written on mine in the indelible marker of motherhood:
The grace that lasts longer than any marker you could buy.
Grieving for the pain that I cannot heal alone


I begin to write love on her arm.
A reminder that she does not have to hurt, to feel.
There is always someone to hear.
There is always someone who cares.I
hold my baby close and help her know
She does not have to grieve alone.


There is more than one way to write love on her arm.