Upon a throne severe she sits,
Made of stone enduring,
The color of ancient bone
Stable,
Unmovable,
Clothed in grey, her face set, stern.
Buffeted by life's sorrows and tragedies,
Passing the test that endurance brings.

The sword in her hand, not for battle against others,
If wisdom has been attained.
Rather a symbol of discernment cutting through illusion,
Leading to compassion that is seen in her eyes,
By those with the courage to engage.

Wisdom comes from the embracing of life,
Overcoming fear, bitterness, rage, and the desire for revenge.
Her scars and sufferings are her glory,
Her compassion and empathy her healing.
For women often a reality,
Men an archetypal figure to embrace if balance is to be achieved,
Allowing inner wisdom to flow.

The human heart seeks that, which it desires most,
Sometimes desperate in its search,
Often self destructive in the solace it seeks,
Attracted to that which often brings death,
Heartbreak,
It fruit rage, anger, the seeking after revenge,
Leading only to further pain and isolation.

In the before
Where even nothing had no meaning,
No energy was,
Nor matter,
Space and time where simply not yet,
Then.......
Time began,
Matter and energy in space micro-infinite
Exploded in light
Space began as energy expelled,
Expansion speeding up
Universe flying apart
Hurling through space,
Until,
Energy gone, only cold inert space left.
The end comes from beginnings.
Beginnings have causes
The uncaused with no beginning the source of all
That which was before ‘nothing' had any meaning

Nonsense

God is not something high up in the sky,
Not invisible,
Not a object to seek.

Nor are our ideas complementary,
Even the best,
An idol in the end
No matter how refined,
Each needing to be destroyed one by one
As we journey deeper into the mystery.

We are beings,
God is not,
Nothingness is the center.
No thing.

The experience of God is just life,
To talk,
Walk,
Sing and cry,
To love and hate,
And yes to finally die.

God is there,
Not separate,
Other, yes,
But one,
Fused with creation,
Even what I am saying is nonsense.

Infinite love is the best,
Incomprehensible yes understandable,
Since we love deeply if not infinitely.

Life is filled with tragic events,
The chalice overflowing with its wine of suffering spilled out,
Dark red, the color of blood,
Pungent, leading to extremes behaviors,
Heartbreaking in it's' intensity, causing others to flee,
The naked pain too much to absorbed,
Like a flood sweeping across the land unstoppable,
Flows the dark red wine from the golden chalice
Forcing all to drink,
Some drown; sink to the bottom never seen again,
Others survive for a while until the peace of death finally takes them.
Life can be so hard, one damn thing after another,
Yet people love, share, help and heal,
In small ways and great,
Pain and healing, death and life, joy and pain,
Both in balance, though at times it cannot be seen.
Faith may be needed for that,
To see the light in the darkness,
The healing amidst the pain
Hoping against hope of God's love
In a world often seeming to have gone mad

Memory from 1970

With my date on an energy filled Friday night,
Waiting for the sounds to begin,
Deep bass guitar,
The pounding drums,
The screaming vocals let loose,
Allowing the threads of rhythm
So powerful and intense
To enter the blood and set it afire,
An intimate exchange between body and sound.

The band at last was ready to start,
Those addicted entered the arena
Anxious for the magic to begin
Where lifted up from ordinary time
Into the sphere of golden primitive noise.

I stood with my date head bowed
Almost as if in worship,
Perhaps it was,
God present in all music,
Touching the soul in diverse ways.

The first twang entered the silent waiting,
Then the drums with its incessant call,
At last the bass deep and profound
Sparked a joy in my heart as freedom showed its face,
The thread entered my blood and set it afire
I stepped on the highway of beauty and it took me away.

I lifted my hands into the air,
Hips moved as if on their own violation
Feet soon followed in joyful movement
We were off flying,
Weightless,
As free as it can possibly be in bodies heavy,
Flying is what dancing is,
If one with the rhythm;
Such joy.

The hours flew by as if minutes,
Hours of dancing,
Sweat,
Going higher and higher as the evening progressed,
Until last call,
The last dance,
A sort of a death,
It ended
Lights out we left until next time.

I wish for the eternal dance,
The ecstatic movement of my soul,
Diving and flying into the infinite,
The music unending,
Singing not for me,
I will dance before the Lord,
Leaving the song to others.

Fanfare

About once a week I take William a hamburger at East Side Hospital. He likes them simple, just the meat piled with onions. So on the way I stop at Burger King, or Wendy's and get him supper. In fact he has got me on that kick also. I just add a little mustard with double onions, best hamburger in the world. Yes the KISS principle can be used in many areas of life, hamburgers included.

So being the mighty hunter I am, I got supper in no time, and got to the hospital. I went up to the second floor, and signed in. The nurse told me at the station, that she would go in and get William for me. As I was waiting I noticed two elderly women also come up and sit by the door that leads to the lock down unit. They were genteel looking, southern bells no doubt about it, treasures of the south. One was a neighbor, the other the wife. They have been living next to each other for 35 years, and I was told that they were closer than family. Extended families usually are and it was easy to see the comfort and ease they had in each others presence.

Soon a nurse was helping a man through the door, a big man, about 6 feet tall, still well built, and I guess like the ladies between 85 and 90 years old. At first I was worried that he would not recognize his wife, but he did, he reached out and gently took her hand, raised it to his lips and gave it a courtly kiss, filled with love, respect, and a quiet joy in seeing her. The friend beamed, happy to see them together again. Then they slowly bent over and gave each other a big kiss on the lips, again gentle, but filled with a gentle love, the kind that comes after years of being together. Then they quietly went over and sat down and just talked.

I was touched by the simplicity of what I had just seen. A faithful relationship lived out quietly with no fanfare, no noise, just something that is. The enduring, the strong seems that way, quiet, not causing much attention. I guess fanfare needs noise, something flashy going on that catches others attention, so that they can somehow live through what the fanfare is all about. Usually, it is not about anything that is deeply rooted in what is good and healthy, the opposite really. How we love sugar, the sweetness that only makes us hungrier, instead of giving anything substantial, lasting.

There is a lot of good in our culture, we just need to look closely around all the lights and glitter and noise, to see the many who live quiet lives, that truly build community, deeply rooted in the reality of what life is all about. Commitment is a big part of it.

Chi

She was short, under five feet tall,
Yet for all of that she was a fire cracker, full of life, spunk and anger,
With words that would cause a sailors ears to go red,
Flowed like a river from her mouth,
Her voice sharp like a whip, demanding to be heard at all cost.
Yes she was a fighter, a pit bull in a very small body,
Her hair curly, grey with the texture of cotton,
Two stubby pig tails on the side of her little head,
Yet it fit her this strange woman, whom I found beautiful
Her skin darkest black..... Black is beautiful so says the Song of Songs,
This I have found to be true.

(I am not white, I am pink, hence my love of skin darker,
Sun worthy, noble, gleaming in the sun,
While I merely cringe, burn and peel, turning lobster red.)

Her eyes wide, watching everything, not smiling
Yet she reached out and shook my hand as I walked by,
Looking me right in the eye along with her strong grip.
The staff loved her this I can see,
People with a lot of chi are loved or at least admired by others,
No she will not go gently into the dark night,
She will fight, and claw for her life,
Such is her nature this strange beautiful woman,
Impossible to ignore,
A warrior in a small woman's body.
It is her right to be the way she is,
Her own way of giving glory to God.

Some people are quiet, gentle,
These have their own kind of strength,
None better than the other,
Such is their right, to be who they are,
Respected,
Loved and cared for,
Gifts from God.
The more difficult teachers unappreciated
In the very difficulty in caring for them.
Each a work of art, unique, here only once,
Rough or fine, each truly a masterpiece,
Even if hidden from many.
Perhaps that is why they are here, the difficult ones
To make those who take care of them to look deeper,
Stretch, grow, which is often painful,
The fruit unsurpassed.

It was a beautiful evening one of those you cherish because you know that the summer is just around the corner, so it is best to truly enjoy the soothing cool weather that is Spring's gift. Sun was out, clouds a delight to look at, and the other drivers for the most part seemed to be in a good mood.

As I arrived at East Side Hospital I noticed that a man was entering with a dog that looked like a Golden Retriever. I figured it was a Seeing Eye dog and thought no more about it. When I arrived at the elevator I noticed the dog there with it's what I supposed to be owner. The dog was truly beautiful, well taken care of, shining coat of fur and quiet; the way trained dogs are. I waked up and asked the man what the dog was trained for, since he himself was not blind. He told me that it was a "patient dog", trained to be around sick people and hopefully to lighten their spirits, or simply to draw them out. Now Golden Retriever's are very popular as pets, they are intelligent, gentle, and good with children and from what some of their owners tell me, very easy to train.

This particular dog, stood out for me from other trained dogs that I have had the privilege to come in contact with. This dog seemed very solemn, perhaps even a little sad but in a way that ‘seemed' almost human. Its eyes were intelligent and wise in way that I am not used to seeing in dogs, even the most intelligent. There was no urgency to be petted, even from its owner. It allowed me pet it; the dog even came up to me for some more petting after I did my bit with it and withdrew. There was also a silence that seemed to emanate from it, a deep peace, centered, something I have not experience from any dog before. Of course perhaps I was just more observant because it was in a place where dogs are usually not allowed. Who knows?

These little experiences make me think, that perhaps the neat world I live in, where dogs and other things have their place, may simply not be the way things really are. Years ago I came upon a mother with her infant son which was probably one of the strangest encounters that ever happened to me, perhaps because I was taken completely off guard. An outsider would have thought nothing of this encounter, it seemed so normal. As I walked by I looked down at the child, with the usual smile that adults have for babies, perhaps a silly one, never seen my ‘smile for babies' in a photo. The infant could not have been more than six months old, was perhaps a little younger. In any case, the baby looked up at me and made eye contact, real eye contact, the way you do with an adult. This was not my imagination. I stopped in my tracks, shook my head, turned around and went in front of the infant, squatted and looked more closely. The mother did not seem nervous but she was keeping an eye on me for sure. The child looked at me like it was an old friend; it smiled a real smile, its eyes wise, and seemed to be full of knowledge and compassion. I told the mother my experience and she started crying, she told me that one other man told her the same thing a few weeks earlier. What to make of this experience? I have no idea. In my world a baby can't be wise, can't know me, certainly can't feel compassion, yet perhaps that is what I experienced. Again maybe it was a simple projection on my part for some reason. That baby was a perfect mirror for me to look into. Or I am just trying to find a comfortable niche to put this experience into?

I get the sneaky suspicion at times that perhaps I really do have it wrong. Or perhaps the better way to put it is; I am just scratching the surface, and while what I believe may be true, again it is only the surface. People have told me that they remember being born, and the information that they gave to their families was veridical. What do you do with that? If true, then our understanding of human consciousness is severely lacking and perhaps we should pay more attention to these experiences.

NDE's, ADC's, and other experience that people have usually do not fit into any secular, religious or set theological understanding of what happens when we die. Do we take these seriously? The easy answer is to make them all hallucinations, or a true favorite is, make them demonic. That way a broader picture does not have to be looked into. Perhaps Carl Jung is right. After he came back from his NDE that called this world "a place of boxes".

Unbeknownst

The old man sat at the table by himself,
Unnoticed if not ignored by others,
Quiet,
Looking down at the book he was reading,
An aura of peace surrounding him,
Content with his solitude
Focused on the world within the book.

The waitress has a kind heart,
Easy to see in the gentle way she talks to him,
Touching his shoulder,
Asking in a whisper if he wants more coffee.

He returns in kind,
Smiling such a gentle way,
I can see why she dotes on him.
They see each other,
In that comes a knowing,
Yes a species of love that binds,
Perhaps only for an hour,
Or for longer periods if he comes often.

Little islands of healing often overlooked,
Since we can be healers unbeknownst to ourselves.

A touch,
The smile giving freely,
Little thing true,
However the seeds planted take root,
Who knows what fruit comes to fruition
When we become healers unbeknownst to ourselves.

I went for my visit with William yesterday afternoon, at the psyche hospital he is at for a few days. I noticed that they put him in a different wing this time. Larger, nicer, with more room to walk around in, more windows to look out of etc. I was surprised at this and asked the nurse about it. She told me the doctor wanted to see how he did in a larger environment, but it was not working out too well, he wanders about too much and they have a hard time keeping an eye on him. So he will be put into one of the smaller wards later that afternoon. When I got there, he was in someone else's room, trying on their clothes. It is a continual minor problem for them. The patients get confused and try on each others clothes. Funny actually, every time I bring someone home from that hospital it is usually with a different set of clothes. Not a real problem, he always goes in with those sweat clothes outfits that you get at Target or Wal-mart.

He wanted to talk, so we went to his room, which luckily he was the only patient in it. Each room as two beds with a curtain for separation. So I sat on one bed and he on the other and we talked. We talked about a lot of things, the usual things, but again for him it was for the first time. His home, family, his life playing jazz in a band for many years, just little things, important to him, achingly important.

I have known William for twenty years, long before he needed me to take care of him. One thing I always noticed is his love of prayer, something he would spend a great deal of time at, a special gift, or grace, if you want to use religious language about it. He seemed drawn to it, and I feel that it showed up in his life in unique ways, for he was a very unusual person in my own eyes, I have never known anyone quite like him. He was a man prone to extremes in just about everything. In his compliments to people he was effusive, overflowing with telling others how special they were; one of his favorites is "you are a breath of fresh air". He would say it a very expansive and often loving way. When he got angry it was explosive, in your face kind of thing, but he got it out and it was over. He was not what I would call a repressed personality, what you see is what you get. In other words he was very child like and open. These extremes often hid from others his intelligence, which was deeper than many expected. He used to love to read the New York Times, often spending hours doing so, deeply immersed it its pages and sometimes discussing some of the articles he read and of his concerns over them.

As we talked, I brought up his love of prayer, and how much I admired that about him over the years. With that his eyes light up and he began to speak about his prayer life.

So we had this little discussion:

Me:

So William, just how do you pray? How is it that you can spend so much time just sitting and communing with God?

William:

Well how do you pray? He countered.

Me:

Well I said, I pray a lot on the run, that is why I often use my prayer rope, or my beads, to keep myself focused and my heart opened to God. Is that how you pray?

William:

I don't use beads much, I just go in and sit down, and then I open my mind (at this point he brought up his hands on either side of his head and his eyes light up) and then at a certain point, whoooosh I am there; after that the hours just fly by, or melt, well they seem not to matter to me ( while saying that, he spread out his arms in a very expansive gesture to try to signify the event. )

Me:

Do you think about anything when this happens?

William:

No, I am just there in the Presence of God.

I was moved by what he said, for he had shown me that this outwardly simple man, was in actuality a man of deep prayer, high in the ways of contemplation. Yet he just looked upon it as something common, that he did everyday. He went on telling me how lately, for some reason, he can't do that like he did in the old days, that he often forgets. So we talked some more, and I said that I thought that he prayed deeply for so many years that it was God's turn to carry him in prayer, that his soul is always open, so it just might be the same thing, the path deeper and more hidden than before, but that his disease did not lessen his love of God, or his prayer in any way. He bowed his head, then looked up and smiled at me.

I gave him the Eucharist, and he prayed his thanksgiving, and I got up to leave. As he hugged me goodbye I felt a deep reverence and thankfulness that I could be graced to be close to such a man of God, whose greatness and holiness is hidden

A fool's errand

Here I sit,
Quiet and alone,
In the presence of the Eternal,
My soul naked before the gaze.

The truth,
Pretense stripped away,
Nothing hidden,
All laid bare,
Exposed
Transparency not an option.

All is known,
The gaze deeper than my own,
Truth unrelenting
Filled with infinite love's understanding.

Running,
Hiding an illusion,
A fool's errand,
Best to be still.

Closed doors

I first saw her as I entered into the unit,
An old woman perhaps in her eighties,
Frail looking as people of that age often look,
Bent over, very fired looking,
Safely placed in her chair,
Or perhaps imprisoned would be a better word,
Something very sad but necessary,
Yet I doubt that she understood the reason for it.
Both of her eyes blackened from what I do not know,
Though from abuse I doubt since she did not seem in physical pain.
I said "hi",
She gave me a weak smile in return and I continued on.

William was disturbed and was glad to see me,
At first I was worried he was paranoid again
For his eyes had that look of fear and inner pain.
Thankfully this was not so,
Though for him it was something serious, immediate.
"I have no money he said, to pay for the food,
Two men had to leave because they could not pay".
I could feel the anxiety flowing from him and the fear.
Of course he was hallucinating or trapped in some past event.
Rose was with me again and she stayed while I looked into the matter,
At least that is what we told William,
I merely stepped out for a minute pretending to deal with his problem,
Real to him, hence needed to be dealt with.

I saw the women with no name again,
Noticed that she was shivering, skin pale, miserable,
Missed it when I entered, I am not always observant of others,
There is so much I often miss, sad to say.
I got a blanket and wrapped her in it,
Not sure it would help,
Went back,
Told William everything was dealt with, so it is ok.

He said to Rose and I that he was afraid,
When he was by himself he would forget where he was at;
Everything strange, unfamiliar, frightening to him.
His disease continues to make inroads into his life,
Showing no mercy as it continues on its deadly march.

Concern over how we are going to be able to deal with this,
But deal with it we must, no other option will be considered.
We prayed for William and those in the unit,
Gave him the Eucharist,
Talked some more.

As we were going I could see he was afraid,
Alone again,
Another door closed that he can't go through,
The lock keeping him from going outside,
Imprisoning in a place unfamiliar.
It is hard to do, but if I stay too long it only gets harder,
So we left.
Before I went out the door I said to him:
"Tomorrow I will bring you supper,
A hamburger, with only onions, fries and a coke"
His favorite food, oh yes and lots of salt,
He loves salt so.
He gave me a small smile.
When he hugs, he clings a bit.
So later today I will call so that supper will not be given him,
Take him supper and Eucharist.
There is so little I can do for him,
Perhaps it lets him know that he is still loved,
These little things done people do.

I often don't know how I feel about things,
As if there is a box deep within and I keep my emotions there,
Something I wish were not so, but maybe necessary for me.
The lid however is not tightly locked; it opens from time to time,
Allowing feelings and emotions to be experienced.

I at times think the world is drowning in pain,
Yet,
I know this is not so,
There is joy as well, and yes love and concern,
Christ walks the earth in those around me,
We are his arms and hands that comfort.
He is also the one we comfort,
For Christ is not merely in us,
Christ is us, one to a degree not understood,
That is what immanence is all about,
It goes with transcendence,
They are one.

Rich in texture

The chalice is golden
Inlaid with fine jewels of great beauty,
Its elegance unparalleled,
Unique.
Rubies large surround its handle,
Inviting a response,
To take and drink the wine of life,
Rich in texture
Intoxicating in its effect.
Bringing the joy of youth with all its pleasures,
As well as its struggles and pitfalls,
It goes down smoothly this wine of youth,
Leading one down life's pilgrimage,
Its path slowly rising up to the mountain path,
Getting steeper as the years fly by.
Success and failure,
Love, desire and yes lust must be experienced,
Hatred and indifference towards some,
The same experienced from others,
At times wounding and yes wounded,
Part of the path that must be taken
If the chalice is to be drank fully from.
Falling and rising necessary,
Sin brings us back to ourselves,
To reflect and learn,
Slowly ignorance over come hopefully,
If not,
Well,
The chalices never emptied,
It contents can only be emptied when life is embraced,
The wholeness and brokenness each a part,
Equal in value,
One without the other useless.
So do not fear to drink boldly with large gulps,
Not fearing the mistakes,
The falling down
Or the getting up,
Nor the taking of blame and yes forgiveness.
We become real from living life,
Not from running away.
Each has their own path known only by the One,
The Eternal,
Who dwells in the depths and knows the true name of each.
When broken and worn with age,
The chalice empty,
Then the dark gate calls us,
The spirit if ready born into yet another life,
A larger womb perhaps that too must be outgrown,
Our growth eternal as we dive into the Eternal ocean of life and love
The mystery unending.

Joseph

He was a runner when younger,
Races won up to his fifties,
A runner's body long and lean,
Lost as the years slipped by,
Loosing little by little his youth,
Strength and agility,
As we all do, if we hold on as the years pile up.
His life in his last years limited by his infirmities,
Some physical and others from other sources,
Quiet too a fault,
His deafness contributing to his apparent isolation,
Either unable or unwilling to wear a hearing aid.
Though when he smiled it was like a beautiful sunrise,
Always getting a smile in return.
Eating in silence bent over in his chair,
As the years flowed by he ate less with each passing year.
He was also a scholar,
Many hours spent in study,
Tomes stacked on his desk,
Writing copious notes,
Mostly read only by himself,
Though he did teach for awhile,
Though not something he liked all that much.
In his last month he pretty much stopped eating,
Mostly drinking milk, and sipping soups.
Then one day he plummeted,
The plateau left for a steep decline.
In the early evening he became agitated,
Struggling, gasping, so we put him on oxygen,
Also gave medicines to help with his suffering,
Which in time, calmed him down and he slept.
The nurse ever kind, deeply concerned,
Over Joseph not wanting him to go just yet,
We just had a death a week earlier.
So I decided to stay,
He was anointed for his final journey, if his time had come,
Or if not, it would be a sacrament of healing,
His pilgrimage not yet ended.
I sat with him,
Prayed as is my custom,
Read the psalms,
Said my beads,
Or just breathed with him, reciting the holy name in rhythm with.
As the hours sped by,
Slowly his breathing changed,
Slowed down,
Then as I have seen so many times before,
Stopped.
In his last moments I prayed for him and with him.
Then another custom,
I prepared the body,
Cleaned it,
Put clean sheets on the bed,
Put a large draw sheet under him for easy removal,
Covered him up to his chin with another clean sheet,
Called the superior who came and sat with him,
Funeral home contacted,
Another wait until they came.
I walked the front drive, long, nice, perfect for such things,
Thinking of Joseph,
Thankful that I was honored,
Graced,
With spending his last hours with him,
A man I did not know too well, so quiet was he,
Yet now feeling bonded in some way, as if I helped give him birth.
The caravan came and we worked together with the body,
Folding the clean sheets as a covering
Moving it onto the trolley.
That was it,
His room empty,
Cold, dead,
Like his soulless body
Riding in the back of the caravan.
Most likely for the next few days,
As is another of my customs,
Not alone in this,
I will simply open the door to his room,
Look inside,
And his death will hit me again,
So it goes,
Life,
One by one we leave through the dark door,
Into the light that faith says is there, though not yet seen.

Unbeknownst

The old man sat at the table by himself,
Unnoticed if not ignored by others,
Quiet,
Looking down at the book he was reading,
An aura of peace surrounding him,
Content with his solitude
Focused on the world within the book.

The waitress has a kind heart,
Easy to see in the gentle way she talks to him,
Touching his shoulder,
Asking in a whisper if he wants more coffee.

He returns in kind,
Smiling such a gentle way,
I can see why she dotes on him.
They see each other,
In that comes a knowing,
Yes a species of love that binds,
Perhaps only for an hour,
Or for longer periods if he comes often.

Little islands of healing often overlooked,
Since we can be healers unbeknownst to ourselves.

A touch,
The smile giving freely,
Little thing true,
However the seeds planted take root,
Who knows what fruit comes to fruition
When we become healers unbeknownst to ourselves.