#88

Friday night, I walked the streets with my husband, my son and some newly met friends from Church. We visited the art gallery for a local show greeted by community members in cosplay as the Krampus- a dark counterpart to the saint memorialized for gifts. We kept our tiny one away from the half-demon and half-goat costumery to keep his thoughts and dreams free of the dark imagery. It worked. We asked him what he thought of the people pretending to be bad guys and he said "they're kind of scary." And so the night went. Saturday night, we returned as a family of three to the same downtown streets for a lighting of the community Christmas tree. My husband, always the claustrophobe, took the stairs in the parking garage and I teased him for being scared of the elevator. My son loves elevators, so in we went and pushed the button, and there was my husband on the ground floor, waiting for us. We giggled as a family and found our way, a little early, to the tree-lighting. We enjoyed the lights in the adjacent park, took a family selfie, and cheered as the Mayor and his grand-daughter turned on the Christmas tree. We asked our son if he wanted to stay for a picture with Santa. "Umm, no thanks," he replied. "He's kind of weird." We walked back to the car as a family. Little one asked what the button with the firefighter's hat was for and I told him, "It's so people can get help if they need it. But we only press it in times when someone really needs help." "Okay," he cheered, as his Dad appeared at the opening elevator door. Sunday night, I read an opinion letter in the local newspaper. A member of the religion I profess tried to explain the importance of human life inelegantly. My mother soul longed for the children I've lost, the time I thought I would die, so I wrote a letter back, asking for empathy and kindess as those claiming Christ wade into the messy debate about abortion. Wednesday night, in the same little city, the same block, the same elevator, someone I-don't-know-if-I-know was raped, by a man with identified twin demons of schizophrenia, and methamphetamine addiction. The darkness runs deeper than the coming solstice. Another woman opened the elevator door, exposing darkness with light. Thursday night, in the only local newspaper, I read about the crime. Pray with me for the women: violently victimized and a brave-enough upstander. My empath soul weeps with the woman who opened the door of the elevator to witness a crime and had to make an immediate choice that allowed everyone involved to live. The woman attacked described fear of dying, of never seeing her children. The darkness in the story is so thick you can reach and hold it in your fingers. This is the tension of Advent, the waiting, the darkness longing for hope. Sin is real and fights and tries to destroy and kill and rob families. Krampus and St. Nicholas are fiction, but characters personifying darkness and light. Oh Jesus, come. Let Light win. Let Life win.

#87

What used to reign in your soul in this same spot now overflowing with rage and pain and passion? Did anger crowd out joy or thoughtfulness? How do you see the world change with your message of distaste and distrust? Is there life? Light? Hope? I'm asking because I want to know, how you transformed into who you have joined and who that leaves you to be.

#86

The dawn blossoms into morning, real morning even as the Autumn air retains her chill. Bark chips sliver into my toes, my soles, and my soul. I dig. I clip. I remove and replant. Growth gives way to compost, storing energy for the Winter ahead. Surrounded with life, and death. No sweat decorates my brow, it's far too cold. Still, I feel the responsibility to manage the Earth. Our appanage even before the Curse. O, but what is time for I am in the Garden.

#85

 What was it even for, George,

the war?

Why did my generation

and the generation of my students

lose their freedom and many

their lives?

How did four airplanes

change the flight path of every near adult

with a conflict that Congress

couldn't be bothered to discuss?

What do you say to the women,

prisoner again in a homeland

that bares the lasting marks

of ravage?

Why have we been ravaged?

#84

 Settling back into the warmed indent in the couch,

return to the dream

and rest again.

Sleep is always best in 

a safe place.

#83

 tender, damaged soul

you may weep and mourn

and wail, as you need.

You can be both

broken and restored

at once.

Time may heal,

or healing may change time entirely

and you can be

simultaneously

fine and not fine

in any and every moment.

#82

 Take your time.

Stand as tall as you can on tippy toes.

Reach each "puzzleberry" with care.

Little love, you're growing up.

I'm so grateful to be here.

#81

Donde estan mis milagros?

I trust the numbers, the transcription,

the Creator and still

...waiting on miracles. 

#80

 No one blames the flower

when it fades.

Rather, we enjoy the beauty

while it lives

a fleeting,

fragile

moment.

Nuzzle the fragrance

and marvel at the tiny, well-formed petals

counting them and checking again to be sure.

Dar la luz,

we dream. We pray.

All we get,

la luz se fue.

#79

 Hostage to the coulds and shoulds

I grapple with the reality

that is,

preferring the multiverse.

#78

 quietly and gently

the Whisper rises

stronger than the waves

brighter than the fire

and more revealing than the light.

This peace,

this perfect peace,

cuts deeper than the pain

and sears with healing.

#77

 I want to grieve,

to wallow and rest in this sadness.

My soul lacks space for anything

smaller than this grief.

There isn't the room to talk about anything

and I haven't the desire to be happy, just yet.

I am looking, I am longing for those who will sit

and rest

and weep with me instead of demanding space for

their otherness.

Am I selfish?

Sure.

I am also grieving.

#76

 It's quiet, I guess-- 

The kind of background noise that blurs altogether

like a conversation on the TV in the next room over

or the steady whir of the refrigerator and the semis on the freeway

that kind of rhythm you accept that will never be

silent.

Resting here in the middle of the waves,

I am sad.

I am tired,

I am lonely,

I am angry, too.

But overall, I am deeply,

profoundly,

sad.

#75

 Did I sit idly by

as you took your last breath?

What's the scope of this

mortal wound, the breadth?

Can our schism be settled

over broken bread?

Or is fellowship

finally dead?

#74

 My favorite telling of the Gospel

was written only a few hundred years ago

in France.

A miserable journey

of judgment and redemption,

of power and forgiveness,

of rebellion and restoration.

So, I wonder, how 

the musical would play

were Monseigneur Bienvenue armed

like a pastor in my own land?

This Gospel has moved me to always

keep the garden gate open

for the fugitive,

the whore,

the sinner like me.

This Gospel gave breath to the

restoration made possible

when we see Jesus in the refugee

instead of letting a piece of paper

restrain a man to his past alone.

In my nation,

pastors approach fugitives with

firearms

instead of encouraging Jean Valjean

to take the candlesticks, as well.

I lament,

I confess,

I repent.

But I am one woman in a Church far larger.

Is it possible to even

reason with Javert?