While Looking at the Sooty Wings of a Crow

In Memory

2005-12-02T20:55:00.000-08:00

I began this blog one year ago, right after my employer, Irvin Bettman, passed away. As I searched for a sense of purpose, I began to watch nature more closely, especially the behavior of crows. Although I started writing about my observation of crows, I swiftly moved to the observation of disasters, political and natural. As the anniversary of Irvin's death approaches, as the first year of his not being here ends, I return to observation of the natural world, and to the writing of poetry.

Poetry was one of Irvin's passions, Robert Frost being his favorite. This, my last blog entry, is dedicated to the memory of a true gentleman, Irvin Bettman. My haibun about Irvin, Walking Toward Death Mountain, can be found at: http://haibun.net/

To Earthward
by Robert Frost

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air
That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of--was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Downhill at dusk?
I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.
I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.
Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain
Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.
When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,
The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

A Touch of Wistfulness

2005-11-24T19:32:00.000-08:00

rain
overflows metal bowl
more rain

The holidays bring their mix of joy and sadness. They remind us of time's passing, those no longer in our lives, and missed opportunities. Or maybe this is just my mood during the traditional holidays we celebrate collectively. My husband likes to remind me that he's the positive one, and I'm the negative half of our union. I prefer the word, sensitive.

After cooking, eating and cleaning-up, I'm physically full and spiritually reflective. I remember feeling this same wistfulness as a child. Even after Christmas gifts were unwrapped, there was a let-down, an unsaid disappointment. Maybe I was just a moody child, but I suspect a lot of people echo my feelings.

The world is in agony; we have suffered more disasters, natural and unnatural, than we can process. Ultimately, these events, the loss of life and property (who would have guessed we would lose the World Trade Center and New Orleans?) effect us on a spiritual/emotional level. There is a collective unconscious, an energy that includes each of us individually. Today, I feel a collective sadness, one that goes deeper than the holiday blues.

In spite of our losses, we have hope, always hope. And gratefulness. When we consider our lives, even the difficult times, we recognize intervention, being given particular insights and gifts. I'm grateful for family, friends, long walks, the dogs, IFC, poetry, the bed that greets me nightly. These are the things I'm grateful for throughout the year; so today, on this day of thanks, I am just as grateful as any other day. But grateful with a touch of wistfulness.

Vow

2005-11-06T07:06:00.000-08:00

As the truth continues to unfurl its ugly cloak in Washington, there is little satisfaction in having suspected early the dishonesty and subterfuge of this administration. There is instead profound relief that the truth is finally being revealed to the larger public.

We live in a country where the truth can be exposed, where the president's "rating" is broadcast daily by the media. The laws in existence are making it possible for us to ferret-out and bring to justice those who have lied, those who are responsible for the deaths of our sons and daughters in an unnecessary war.

If my parents were alive, Veteran's Day would be their anniversary. Veteran's Day, a day to honor all who have served in the military. My father served in England during WWII. My husband served for 22 years in the Air Force. My son gave four years of his youth to the Army. I'm intensely proud of each of them.

We cannot bring back the fallen, but we can stand in unison and say: Enough. Bring down Libby, bring down Rove, and bring home those who are fighting in the name of freedom. As misguided as the missions to Iraq and Afghanistan are, those fighting are victims of a monumental lie, and deserve our support and our respect. On Veteran's Day, let us remember their efforts; and let us vow to never allow a repeat of this travesty.

Oh, Osip

2005-10-23T12:49:00.000-07:00

Brothers, let us glorify freedom’s twilight

Brothers, let us glorify freedom’s twilight –
the great, darkening year.
Into the seething waters of the night
heavy forests of nets disappear.
O Sun, judge, people, your light
is rising over sombre years.

Let us glorify the deadly weight
the people’s leader lifts with tears.
Let us glorify the dark burden of fate,
power’s unbearable yoke of fears.
How your ship is sinking, straight,
he who has a heart, Time, hears.

We have bound swallows
into battle legions - and we,
we cannot see the sun: nature’s boughs
are living, twittering, moving, totally:
through the nets –the thick twilight - now
we cannot see the sun, and Earth floats free.

Let’s try: a huge, clumsy, turn then
of the creaking helm, and, see -
Earth floats free. Take heart, O men.
Slicing like a plough through the sea,
Earth, to us, we know, even in Lethe’s icy fen,
has been worth a dozen heavens’ eternity.

Osip Mandelstam

Since my last post, where I disrespectfully called our Commander and Chief a bonehead, I've thought about authority and how we've slipped into an age of anti-authority. Not too long ago, I would have never considered insulting the president of this nation, whether I agreed with him or not. But I no longer trust the man or believe what he says. And there are thousands of Americans who are coming to the same conclusion.

Our lack of trust for those "over us" has not come from a disregard for men and women who lead honorably, but from a repeated disappointment in those who claim to have our best interests in mind, while they feed us bold-face lies.

Disappointment does not have to lead to disrespect, but with our current leadership, it seems a natural. I lost respect for President Clinton, too, so it has little to do with party, and more to do with trust. Clinton lied to us. Bush has lied to us. There is little in either man's past behavior to engender trust, the cornerstone of any healthy relationship.

This magnificent nation has produced some of the best thinkers, the most compassionate humanitarians, incredible musicians and artists and writers. And leaders. We need a renaissance of leadership, men and women who care more about the truth than about their careers or the power they've been handed. Where will we find them, and will we find them in time? Let us pray that this is not our "freedom's twilight."

Skulls, Bones and the Bonehead in the White House

2005-10-08T11:22:00.000-07:00

What many Americans wanted after eight years of Bill Clinton, was a return to moral, conservative leadership. So, we voted in the slow-witted George W. Bush, knowing he wasn't a beacon of accomplishment, but someone who more than likely would keep his fly zipped.

9/11 gave Bush an opportunity to appear heroic; and we wanted to believe. But since then, our president, who cannot put a complete sentence together, let alone a plan to get us out of Iraq, has proven to be an impotent leader. Worse, George W. Bush is a dangerous man.

A dangerous man uses the words "Christian," "freedom," and "terror," to manipulate a naive audience. A dangerous man begins a "preemptive" war in the most politically tenuous area of the world. A dangerous man whips up those he's vowed to protect into a paranoid frenzy over terror attacks and the Asian flu. A dangerous man hires his buddies and Skull and Bones cronies to lead agencies in which they have no expertise. A dangerous man says he is acting on God's promptings to invade another country.

Ha'aretz, Israel's most reputable newspaper, in June 2003 reported that in a meeting among top Palestinian officials, including Prime Minister Mahmoud Abbas, Bush said "God told me to strike at al-Qaida and I struck them, and then he instructed me to strike at Saddam, which I did, and now I am determined to solve the problem in the Middle East."

Let's see what bones the White House tosses our way to get our minds off of the president's failed attempts to appear even remotely presidential, let alone intelligent. This week we've had the "coming soon" Asian flu, and a threat on New York's subway, coming suspiciously after the president's speech about terror and our need to carry on in Iraq. Maybe they can convince us a plague is brewing in New Orleans, a good old fashioned wipe um' out plague. Anything to take our minds off the dangerous man in the White House.

In the Wake

2005-09-25T09:13:00.000-07:00

In the wake of Rita, I sense a collective sigh. We are relieved the damage was less than expected, but awed by nature's ability to upend our lives. Whether stirred by the hot water of the Gulf, or God's hand, Katrina and Rita have humbled us. We recognize our fragility, our need for joining hands in the wake of disaster, either natural or man-made.

Our man-made disaster, the war in Iraq, is every bit as frightening as the strong winds of any hurricane. Yesterday, my father-in-law told me the epitaph that graces Nikos Kazantzakis' grave: "I want for nothing, I fear nothing, I am free." We discussed what these words mean, and how our president has created a well of fear from which we must extricate ourselves. These words are apropos today as our people march for peace in D.C., in S.F., and in other cities across our nation.

I wish I was in D.C. today, marching alongside my peace-loving friend, Bonnie. Instead I read of the march and wonder if the media will give it proper coverage, or in a Fox-like move, ignore its importance, report smaller numbers of marchers than present, and continue their endless coverage of the breech of levees in New Orleans. Safe news compared to the newly-revived peace movement.

An Oregonian who lived out his love of peace, William Stafford, would be proud of those who are balking at the war in Iraq, who are marching for peace, who are awake. In memory of both William and Nikos, and in memory of all those who have died (and who will die) in Afghanistan and Iraq, one of William's poems:

Untitled

This is the field where the battle did not happen,
where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the field where grass joined hands,
where no monument stands,
and the only heroic thing is the sky.

Birds fly here without any sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killed – or were killed – on this ground
hollowed by the neglect of an air so tame
that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.

William Stafford USA (1914-1993)

Four Years After 9/11

2005-09-11T08:28:00.000-07:00

"The people are so nice, but this place is really strange to me," said Desiree Thompson, who arrived in Albuquerque last Sunday with six of her children and two grandchildren, along with about 100 other evacuees. "The air is different. My nose feels all dry. The only thing I've seen that looks familiar is the McDonalds."

Although I've never experienced this kind of displacement, I have felt that feeling of being lost in a strange land. Moves from CA to CO, back to CA, to LA and to OH, back to CA, and finally to OR, have brought feelings of uprootedness, of not belonging, of starting over. But nothing like the feelings of shock and displacement hurricane victims are experiencing. Or those whose lives have been changed by the war in Iraq. Or those left behind when their loved ones perished in 9/11.

Almost immediately after 9/11, my personal life turned chaotic. We sold our house, moved into two apartments, depleted our savings, and nothing has been the same since. Looking back, of course, we realize that one bad choice led to another. But we were Americans, positive and hopeful. Downturns just meant trying harder and praying more.

Today, we're awash in sorrow, sorrow for our fellow-humans, those displaced in the South, those killed by Katrina's wide hand of destruction. Sorrow for all those lost in Iraq, in Afghanistan, both Christians and Muslims. For those killed in London, those lost in Asia's tsunami. And for the powerless and hungry in Darfur. The general mood of the world seems to be one of sad resignation. Too many hurts piled on top of each other, too many deaths to truly comprehend. We take this collective pain into ourselves, feel the losses like fists in our stomachs.

Stubborn Americans, faithful Americans, hopeful Americans. Our roots may be in Great Britain, in Africa, in Australia, or Hungary. Displaced from the Soviet Union or Cambodia, we may have started over in this country of opportunity. Our cultural identities are lost (no matter what the media and political activists tell us) in the soup of our common humanity. Everyone is being "sensitive" and politically correct these days, but the poor were poor generations back, long before Katrina. What will hold us together now is not another welfare program, but common goals and compassion.

I have heard the great hurricane blamed on God, on the president, on FEMA, on our dependence on fossil fuels. Nature took some blame, too, but who can hold a grudge against nature? It's time to drop the blaming, to gather under the same tent in this time of chaos. And it is time to put our ears to the ground, listening for leaders who tell the truth. We have had enough of trumped-up resumes, of trumped-up wars, of corrupt levee boards, of the lies, the waste, the greed that has decimated our country. Downturns mean trying harder and praying more, and one other thing: pulling our collective head out of the sand.

For Times Like These

2005-08-31T19:31:00.000-07:00

In Louisiana
by Albert Bigelow Paine

The long, gray moss that softly swings
In solemn grandeur from the trees,
Like mournful funeral draperies,--
A brown-winged bird that never sings.
A shallow, stagnant, inland sea,
Where rank swamp grasses wave, and where
A deadliness lurks in the air,--
A sere leaf falling silently.
The death-like calm on every hand,
That one might deem it sin to break,
So pure, so perfect,--these things make
The mournful beauty of this land.

This Thing Called Peace

2005-08-26T06:57:00.000-07:00

"The desire to rule is the mother of all heresies." St. John Chrysostom

It is too easy to think of peace and war as opposites that never touch. Like any supposed opposite, they touch in the middle, rubbing up against one another. How many peaceful anti-war demonstrations have turned ugly? How many soldiers have knelt on a battlefield knowing complete acceptance and peace? Like love and hatred, they are linked by the nearness of emotion, the passion of feeling that the right choice has been made.

Besides the usual reasons for disagreement, I've come to see the lack of common vision as a tremendous influence in our decisions. We envision something, we believe the person next to us understands our vision, and are shocked when we realize they haven't heard us at all. And that we have not heard them.

Partners and close friends experience this too, the divide between what is said and what is understood. We develop ways to listen, to be heard, or we let things slide in order to keep the relationships comfortable. Or we act out our frustrations in arguments or physical violence, in which case, we understand in microcosm the frustration of war.

Yes, war. Because what we experience in our personal lives is played out daily on a larger scale. If we feel anger at not being heard, hatred for even the flash of a second, our humanity tells us that war is not surprising. If war is not surprising, is in fact seemingly inevitable, what can be done?

The energy generated by hatred and fear can be halted long before it is acted on. When we are angry with a partner, we can say what we're thinking, or wait until we've pulled our projections back and have felt some subjectivity before speaking. It is hard and uncomfortable and thankless work. And it is also the only way for individuals or governments to act responsibly toward one another.

No matter our reasons for going to war with Iraq, the process should have been halted long before the energy to "shock and awe" was released. Instead of tying Iraq to 9/11, instead of tying two dictators to one another, instead of disrupting the already uneven peace in the Middle East, our leaders could have said no to retribution. They could have sat with their anger, their betrayal, their copious fears and made rational, adult decisions. Instead they acted on their fears, creating an entirely new set of fears set off by their own.

This world cannot support the kind of angry energy we are unleashing on one another. We cannot continue to approach each other spiritually or politically with violence. It does not work and the proof is the extreme suffering we observe in places where violence is unleashed. Whether in Darfur where women who gather firewood are being raped, to our "war on terror," each act of aggression will only create a secondary and more extreme reaction.

Our hope is in those who understand that being passive is acceptable, that listening, pondering, and waiting are all responsible and admirable traits. When we ask the president to pull our troops from Iraq, we are not asking for the collapse of Iraq, or even hinting that the sacrifices of our soldiers be forgotten. We are asking him and his administration to act with maturity, with dignity, and most importantly, with humility. We are asking them to see, to hear, to taste our vision of peace, this place where our "opposite" views touch.

Speak Up, I Can't Hear You

2005-08-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

If one is disappointed by any aspect of what Cindy Sheehan has done, however, the antidote is to go do something yourself. Alan Bock

I heard someone say we are still going to "win" the war in Iraq. How can we win something as lopsided and ethically bankrupt as the invasion of another country? And what would "winning" look like? Our soldiers finally coming home and the people of Iraq gifted with food, running water, and buildings instead of rubble, would be a start.

That is until we remembered that our soldiers bring the war home with them in visions of dead bodies, remembrances of decimated cities, of limbs blown off, of blindness, of deafness, of mental anguish. Until we remembered our injured soldiers in hospitals and rehab facilities, the families who will never open the door to see their husband, son or daughter standing there. Until we remembered the Iraqis who now live without their husbands, their fathers, their mothers, without their precious, irreplaceable children. The concept of winning in the face of such loss seems senseless and petty.

Another four years before we tie things up in Iraq; this is the latest magic number tossed to the world like a fat dog biscuit. As the number of American military killed nears 2,000, and the number of Iraqis killed is, at the very least, an unbelievable 23, 589 (not to mention the Iraqi soldiers who we are supposed to believe are less than human), are we still willing to accept that biscuit and chew on it? Or are we ready to spit it out like the poison that it is? Are we ready to speak out against this war?

I've heard it said that Cindy Sheehan has lost all respectability as a grieving mother because "she's become too political." Someone tell me what "too political" looks like. She lost a son in an unnecessary war; she's angry. If she'd kept her mouth closed, maybe she'd still be partners with her (spineless) husband. And maybe her mother wouldn't have gotten ill. Doesn't this sound like the same 70's rhetoric that shamed women into signing petitions against the ERA?

In other words, if Cindy had been meek and accepting, held the American flag in her lap at her son's funeral, and for heaven's sake, never said another word, the supporters of this war and of the president would have been so much happier. And maybe they wouldn't be reminded daily of the unwieldy price of this war. Cindy knows the price; I know it. I suspect you know it too.

Silence is as deadly as ignorance. Speak up, speak out. And please write letters, send e-mails, sign petitions, call your representatives.

In Peace,
Colette

http://www.truthout.org/index.htm

http://www.iraqbodycount.net/

http://www.antiwar.com/casualties/

http://www.meetwithcindy.org/

http://www.vaiw.org/vet/index.php

http://www.voicesinwartime.org/VoicesInWartime/Default.aspx

http://www.poetsagainstthewar.org/

Given

2005-08-05T21:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, as I leafed through Wendell Berry's new book of poems, Given, a few lines drew me in. Berry says that keeping promises is the most important thing we do. It gave me pause for thought. Promises. The word conjured up promise rings in high school, the devoted murmurings of lovers. And the uncomfortable remembrance of promises I've made, both spoken and unspoken, kept and unkept. It is too easy to promise something when we want something in return. So much harder to promise, or to keep a promise, when there is no immediate reward.

When I consider the word and its meanings: 1. WORD OF HONOR word, vow, pledge, oath, commitment, assurance, warranty, guarantee, contract, swearing. 2. POTENTIAL hope, prospect, expectation (thank you, JoAn, for the thesaurus), I realize that Berry is speaking from an honorable and holy place. A place of innocent expectation.

As I ponder 50 years on this earth and how little I've learned, the idea of promise is inviting, especially within the context of "potential hope." Knowing there are truthtellers in our midst, people like Wendell Berry and Terry Tempest Williams, brings me back to center. There is always reason for hope, for the continued effort of one or two, or two dozen. Nothing we do, no matter how quietly or fearfully done, goes unnoticed.

My promise to myself is to stay awake, to keep my mind and heart alert no matter the world situation, no matter my disappointment in our current government. It is the memory of devoted service to an ideal, of honorable men and women who made promises they kept, that makes me proud to be a patriot in the truest sense of the word.

Thank you, Wendell Berry, for reminding me that promises are as important today as they were when we were teenagers lost in the innocence of our first love, when promises were made with such intensity, we could not imagine not keeping them.

http://www.shoemakerhoard.com/catalog/given.html

Starving in Niger

2005-07-30T07:53:00.000-07:00

This morning, The BBC posted an article on the Internet on the desperate conditions in Niger. The people are experiencing the effects of drought and locusts who further decimated their land, losses of Biblical proportions. For those of us far from Africa, it appears as one more unfamiliar hot spot of starvation, and not the worst of them.

Having the ability to turn on our computer or television and see images of starving children, is an overwhelming assault on the human spirit. We look around us and imagine something better for the homeless on our streets, a half-way house, an education even. But seeing these stark images from about 15 degrees north of the equator, we can't fathom how to relieve the suffering. Some of us send money for relief, just as we would hand the guy on the corner a dollar bill, hoping it helps in some unseen, unknowable way. It relieves our guilt just slightly.

Survivor guilt, the why them and not me feeling, is natural. And empathy, or at the very least, sympathy, is necessary if we are to call ourselves human. Unlike Darfur, this is not a government fighting its own people, but an environment unresponsive to the needs of those who live there. The media has turned a bright light on Niger; we are responding. We open our wallets and pray it helps.

As I study the other images that compete for my attention this morning, the Space Shuttle with its faulty foam, the capture of men who instigated the failed London bombings, still more deaths in Iraq, I question if we'll ever get it right.

While our leaders discover new words to placate the people about our invasion of Iraq, I suggest we lay down our arms, bring our men and women home to their families, and spend our money on rebuilding what we've torn down. And on starving people. On assisting those who need basic agricultural knowledge to plant and maintain food supplies. We have the knowledge, we have the money, and we have the ability to turn from war-making to humble service in the face of so much suffering. These are the images I want to see on my computer screen.

http://www.fews.net/

An Occasional Bird Call

2005-06-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

A long hike through the burned-out area of Waldo Lake gave my muse something to work with. The bare arms of trees reaching upward, bark burned in the perfect imitation of miniature waves on the ocean, tiny branches curled into circles from the intense heat. It goes on for miles, this world of quiet loss.

After the fire ate acres of forest, killing plants and wildlife, upsetting habitats, there must have been a great silence. The quiet is still oddly present. No wind through the branches, few squirrels flashing by, or snakes. Human voices carry far, the rub of bicycle tires on dirt, an occasional bird call.

After nine years: clumps of beargrass, purple wildflowers spilling out from between rocks, knee-high pine trees with sweet, pale needles. The one word that comes to mind is hope. In spite of the devastation, in spite of the decades it will take for renewal, there are signs of recovery.

Where was I nine years ago? I had not heard of Waldo Lake, never imagined living in Oregon, and probably ignored the television report of acres being burned in a National Forest too far away to send charred scent and ashes downwind. This many years later, the images are my own; the eerie stretch of wasteland interspersed with pools of water housing floating pond lilies and innumerable mosquitoes, is now personal.

Unintentionally, my thoughts turn to Iraq, to a landscape equally devastated, to a people whose habitat has forever been changed by the unnatural act of war, not a random arc of lightning. When they walk through their towns, what do these people see? What are the smells that greet them? Nine years from now, what will be the sounds they hear on awakening?

Left With Reality

2005-06-17T07:37:00.000-07:00

The news today is that the president's ratings in the polls have taken a dive. I've determined there are two possible reasons for this. The first reason being that Americans are truly disenchanted with George Bush. These may be the same people who voted against John Kerry, as opposed to for Bush. I doubt those who voted supporting the president's policies and personality would pull back their support for any reason.

The second reason is more disconcerting. We are media addicts. Bush has pulled back his schmoozy ads and the American people aren't being fed daily doses of Bush the honest family man, Bush the patriot, Bush the religious man. What we are left with is reality. And reality isn't pretty right now. GM is desperately trying to hang on, Social Security reform scares us, and most importantly, we are still in Iraq.

This imaginary affair with democracy in the Middle East is using our loved ones as pawns. There is no promise of a disengagement, an end to a war that should have never begun. We not only have egg on our collective face, we have the precious blood of our loved ones on our hands.

If we cannot think for ourselves, but need a steady stream of reinforcement to convince us the president is a decent guy, we might as well turn "Survivor" on and turn our brains back off. After all, the premise of one person overcoming obstacles at any cost, tricking their opponents, and appearing to be something they are not, is a favorite theme of ours. We even invite people like that to live in the White House for eight years.

Sending Down Roots

2005-06-10T20:07:00.000-07:00

There is a new poetry journal, Windfall, that states, "We don't know who we are unless we know where we are." The idea being that we do well to stay in one place and appreciate and know that place and its people. Having moved repeatedly throughout childhood and adulthood, I'd say I agree.

Moving, leaving behind the familiar terrain, the faces of those we've shared our lives with, the problems and rewards of commitment, comes from a belief that starting over is better than staying put. Some moves are healthy moves, some necessary; yet many are made without enough forethought of what is to be left behind or how difficult it is to rebuild a life in an unfamiliar territory.

Settling into the Willamette Valley has been both heartening and heartbreaking. But the one constant I've found is the land. This area is replete with unabashed beauty. Being able to look out my window at Spencer Butte, the clouds scudding overhead, to hike or bike anywhere with ease, to awaken to complete silence, has created in me a calmer spirit. I'm finding in the company of nature, a peace I've never had.

My heart is turning over into itself, settling into a place I'd call contentment. There is comfort in knowing that the hills I climb, the Butte I see daily, are the same visuals my grandsons experience. These are our landmarks, places we experience together. For someone who has grown up in a rural environment, this may be a given. For someone who was born and raised in Southern California, this certitude is an unexpected blessing.

I choose to stay in this town, to send down roots, to settle finally somewhere. Like the Benedictines, I know now that staying in one place is the best of choices. We learn not from leaving, but from staying. The weather patterns, the relationships, the losses and gains, are best experienced in the realm of a familiar location called home.

Living Dangerously

2005-04-20T07:07:00.000-07:00

A recent conversation is testament to Jung's theory of synchronicity. After an insightful conversation with a woman about a book she's envisioned, one she wants to write to help people slow down, I was left with the memory of how she is making choices based on a theory that blessing others, giving of herself, is more important than monetary gain.

How do we open ourselves to this possibility, this place of trust and non-aggressiveness? In Western society, the very idea of non-seeking is ridiculed. To move ahead of the pack, gather material wealth, to be somebody--these ideas are what drive many of us. Without them, we flounder.

Is it our basic survival instinct, competitiveness, a desire to fill some emptiness that causes us to grasp, to add frivolous bounty to our lives? Does consumerism quiet our fears of loss, of death even? These questions are not asked as an esoteric exercise, but hard questions I have been asking myself.

We've gone from living in a large new home, to renting the bottom half of a house. Our rent is close to our previous mortgage payment. The feeling of having failed sometimes overcomes my desire to accept the reality of our situation. Loss of status and a sense of security have made me question my own motivations and decisions. Thus, the timing of the aforementioned conversation was crucial. It reminded me of my own intent, my uneven path toward inner-peace. My desire to pare back and live according to what life brings, to trust.

I realize that inner-peace is not earned, but practiced. It is in our approach to life, our attitude, our respect for others. It is found when we forget ourselves and what we can gain, add, pile onto our cart; and instead ask how we can assist others. It is asking what we have to give and giving it without thought of reward. It is a dangerous way to live in our culture, and I am grateful to have met someone who is living dangerously.

God's Other Face

2005-04-13T11:06:00.000-07:00

I awaken without an alarm clock. Coffee awaits in the pearl-white thermos. The quiet is all around me; and two black dogs doze in the companionable silence.

God lives in this quiet; silence is his language. We listen to the other's slow breathing. Love like this doesn't require words. I don't pray out loud often anymore. It seems my thoughts are prayers; what would separate my thoughts from God?

This morning the Shekina awakens with me. Two nights ago I was lost in her image, the photos taken by Leonard Nimoy of contrasting light and dark. When she speaks, my pastels are the only reply I have. I capture her words in hapless strokes of the pastel sticks. They are messy, crumbling over the paper, unmanageable. Like the female face of God, my lines of chalk are hardly discernable at first, but what joy erupts when they are finally, mysteriously comprehended.

I revel in the thought that the patriarchal God I've known might have this feminine counterpart, this breath of humanity come to bless us. How much easier to approach a God who gives flesh to the feminine--not as distraction or servant, as temptress or child-bearer, but as companion.

What We Leave

2005-04-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

We are offered a beautiful clear day this morning, a taste of spring in the windswept air. The temptation is to believe the last of the rain has fallen. In the PNW, that illusion will be replaced by the reality of more rain, and then some more rain. Friends in other parts of the country tell me of late snows, of vivid sunshine, of storms. I'm thinking of how each of us is offered such disparate circumstances.

The Eyes Wide Open exhibit brought many things to mind, despair and resolve of course, and an overwhelming pride in our men and women in the military. While packing the Army boots, the sense of remorse was strong, the futility of lives lost to this war so apparent. And then the final realization that what matters in this life is its transient preciousness.

No matter our status, our possessions, or our seemingly good health, there are no guarantees. Each of us is on a particular road to a definite end. What we leave is probably not what we expect to leave. The time we listened to someone, held their hand, called them unexpectedly, those moments will be remembered. The sound of our voice, our laugh, the feel of our skin. These seeming incidentals, the things we take for granted, may after all, be what is recalled.

There were letters left inside the Army boots, California state flags, Oregon stuffed beavers, dried and crumbling flowers from Texas: mementos sent from parents and wives and grandparents. I will remember the mother who brought her son's real Army boots to put in the exhibit. And the mother who stuffed poems into each boot from her son's state. And the countless others who sit at home remembering their son or daughter: the slick wedge of their hair, the dimple in their left cheek, the smell of them after a steamy childhood bath or a heated high school basketball game. What they are remembering is probably not at all what their loved one thought they had left behind, but those precious intangibles.

The Moon and Empty Shoes

2005-03-25T06:05:00.000-08:00

The moon was high in the east last night. This morning it hovered in the west, reflecting the sun's light, brilliant and foreign. I called my husband to the backyard to share the view, the unusual morning light. We stood in slippers and bare feet observing the unexpected.

I'm regaining my footing after two weeks in California, shifting gears from the rush of a large city to the crawl of Eugene, the geography of place evident in my every decision. Should I walk or drive to the library? Will we be too cold riding our bikes downtown? And next week assisting with an exhibition of shoes, will I be able to keep my composure?

Shoes of the dead, or representing the dead. Shoes of Americans and Iraqis. I've thought of shoes before, their emptiness when someone has died. What is more personal, more intimate, than the footwear we traverse the earth in? Each shoe formed to our particular foot, each shoe carrying our scent, our stamp of originality.

The Quakers have begun this traveling project: http://www.afsc.org/eyes/. As the wife of a man who devoted himself to the military for many years, as the mother of a son who spent four years of his youth in the Army, I am anxious to glimpse the unexpected. Not a whole moon above the roof of the Adventist Church, but rows and rows of empty shoes: testament to service in the face of fear, devotion to an ideal, and to the ugly, shoe-emptying act of war.

Into the Present

2005-02-27T19:42:00.000-08:00

We hiked six and a half miles yesterday, traversing the woods above the Pacific Ocean, just beyond Highway 101. The first mile was uphill, strenuous and breathtaking, literally. After that the trail was gentle, mostly downhill with a few unspectacular climbs. Miles of crushed pine needles, dry splintered branches, the sound of water on rock.

My mind wandered incessantly while I hiked--so many issues from the past came alive and danced across the screen of my thoughts. It took effort to continually pull myself into the present, to make myself attentive to the ferns, the moss-covered trees, black-edged mushrooms, and more ferns. The sides of hills covered themselves in bright green clover. Red and yellow wildflowers, new buds, soft white thorns, all reminded us that spring is imminent.

By the fourth mile my mind was brought into the present by fatigue, by the pounding of feet on continuous trail. For a short while I lived totally in the present, wanting nothing. Then the past and present receded as the future crooked its finger at me--come sit down, eat a Fuji apple, some crackers, pieces of chocolate, rest your pain-filled shins.

While taking off my shoes and socks and propping my feet on the dashboard for the ride home, I realized I had not felt such an influx of joy for many, many months. The physical exertion, the companionship, the rhymic flow of Gwynn Creek, petite waterfalls, every shade of green, the spectacular blue of the Pacific, all joined to form one word: peace.

Weeks ago, along the same pathway, I had walked in trepidation, memory of the recent Asian tsunami never far from my thoughts. But yesterday the earth had tuned many times and I had, at least momentarily, known the peace of wanting nothing more than living in the moment.

Crow Again

2005-02-18T18:34:00.000-08:00

The other morning I watched a crow repeatedly drive his beak into the ground, hoping for some remnant of summer, some dropped morsel to breakfast on. It was 45 degrees and breezy; birds and people were beginning to stir from their wintry Pacific Northwest stupor, a little dazed by the unfamiliar sunshine.

The crow reminded me of myself, pecking at the barrenness of the last months, while praying something might ignite my soul. He left unsatisfied, wings holding morning's light, while I watched from my kitchen window.

Crows again. So easy to believe a common bird is a sign of something more, especially now as winter eases into small buds and lady bugs cocooned in curled leaves. I believe in synchronicity; it has always been this way. A word, a gesture, some stranger offering an opinion--enough to change the trajectory of my day, possibly my life. And now a crow had come to wander the patch of grass between the sidewalk and the curb, a rainbow-tinted crow determined to find something. Anything.

Are we all like this, destined to search for fulfillment of our seemingly insatiable needs? I suspect we are. Each being in our own vulnerable skin, stretching toward that one taste, that one experience, that will make everything up until that moment pale and indistinguishable.

The Buddhists discourage attachment, the neediness of desire. There was a time when I agreed, wanted to do away with the messiness of my own desires. But something softened within me; I realized to not want was only one more way to attempt control of my emotions and my imagination. Now, no matter the resulting pain, I say, come desire, come attachment. For what is life without either? What is life if not the pecking of the crow, the possibility of finding something to satiate a wild hunger in late winter's fallow ground?

256 Pages of Hope

2005-02-12T12:19:00.000-08:00

I'm not much for modern-day icons: Winfrey, Dr. Phil, The Daily Show's Jon Stewart, etc. (Stewart resembles a man I used to date, so I allow myself a little fascination with him.) Until recently, Deepak Chopra has been among those whose fame has sky-rocketed via the media, and who I rarely listened to.

A PBS fundraiser brought a different view of Chopra to me, allowing me to drop the image I'd previously constructed. He was quiet and humble during his interview, unhurried. Not once did he interrupt the interviewee to make a point. And his concerns went well beyond selling books. I found I liked the man behind the public image, the slightly older version of someone I'd seen on dozens of book covers.

Chopra's latest book, Peace Is the Way, is a welcome relief from the negativity found in our media, and in my own heart. The author tells us that being for peace is not enough, there must be positive action which takes us beyond anti-war demonstrations. He quotes Mother Teresa: "People ask me why I don't join in the anti-war movement, and I say, I will join when you can show me a pro-peace movement." Deepak Chopra is offering us a concrete pro-peace movement with the ideas he's proposed in his book.

The book continues to excite me, its message of hope something I cherish. Chopra reminds us that our efforts and prayers are never in vain. And that there are an increasing number of people who believe peace is the only answer left to us.

Poem

2005-02-03T22:37:00.000-08:00

Moving to Higher Ground--a haibun

Cape Perpetua, Oregon, January 2005

i.
We hike the cliffs above the ocean, the air ten degrees warmer here than inland. Sword ferns reach their spindly fingers toward our thighs and knees.

ii.
Pine needles, brown and flattened underfoot, release the scent of Christmas remembered: my father in his plaid robe belted at the waist, my mother’s unruly hair, the waiting to open gifts while coffee brewed. What odd memories as we breathe heavily into the sea air, suspended above the Pacific, her waters calm and even.

this new year
we watch for whales
swimming south

iii.
Tsunami signs warn us to move to higher ground if a wave outgrows itself and pushes inland. I imagine the ocean receding, and then growing beyond belief, beyond our ability to outrun its need to enfold.

a boy stacks
broken pieces of trees
limbs unearthed

iv.
The day after Christmas, along Asia’s coast—tourists washed to sea with the locals. Thousands let go in unison; their unending silence haunts me still. I didn’t watch television at first, and then huddled in pajamas for an entire morning with images of fishing boats and cars piled like discarded toys, miles of gutted land, bodies stacked for burning.

v.
The path off the loop trail is steeper than we’d thought; we force ourselves to continue upward to make it a five-mile hike. Our breathing is steady now, thoughts slowed to the rhythm of each footfall. We talk quietly about our good fortune that it isn’t raining, that there are so few people on the trails; we talk of anything but death.

vi.
A tree has split itself and fallen into the branches of another tree, crossing overhead. I take a photograph of its trajectory, the timing of it. As we climb higher, the slight sway of trees draws our eyes upward. Their wooden arms rub together; create the single keening sound of loss.

every March
gray whales swim north
calves in their wake

Just Four Words

2005-02-03T09:38:00.000-08:00

"All Poetry is Prayer." - Samuel Beckett

I was greeted with this early morning e-mail, moved deeply by its succinct message.

If you write, or know writers, you understand the anxiety of a new project, the uncertainty that follows our first steps into murky water. Maybe some writers just "know" what they are going to say, how they will organize chapters, what research should be kept. My own pattern is to muddle through ideas and papers, books and more books, until something gels.

I sit amid handwritten notes, opened books, pages printed off the Internet, and a good deal of doubt. The initial excitement for this project is being clouded by a thought: Who am I to write about such-and-such when so-and-so has already done a stellar job on the same subject? This is the killer thought that probably puts most projects in the circular file before they've had a chance to stand on their spindly little legs.

My book is about writing and reading poetry, about the radical/spiritual poets I most admire. I turn to Beckett for confirmation: All poetry is prayer. I guess I am writing a book about prayer, not a bad idea in difficult times.

What a Fool Believes

2005-02-02T08:53:00.000-08:00

Positive is the sight of Iraqis taking part in their own future. Positive is the idea that this election will move them toward independence (from us, as well as for themselves). Positive is the image of our soldiers coming home.

As positive as I'd like to be just days after the Iraqi election, I am not naive. This war was a bad idea, no a disastrous idea, an unnecessary act of aggression on a Muslim country. An act which will have unknown long-term political, religious, and moral ramifications. The end-justifies-the-means mentality of our government will haunt us for decades. How ironic that we are giving Iraq the tools of democracy as we see our freedoms slip away.

What most Americans want is to just to get on with life as it was before 9/11, before we entered Iraq, before our innocence was lost. As the president lays out his plans for his "legacy" years, we would like to believe this man has his fingers on the pulse of the nation. And maybe he does, but only on the wrists of those who simply will not admit that the conclusive report of an absense of WMD in Iraq proves we were lied to, that a privatized Social Security system is a sham, that we cannot afford another eighty-billion dollars for this war, and that rhetoric isn't the same as a spontaneous (and honest) response to questions.

Just when I start to feel a tinge of hope, I learn of journalists accepting money to further this administration's agenda: No Child Left Behind and the anti-gay marriage campaign. I'd like to believe the president when he says he was unaware of this practice and would never condone it. But then I wanted to believe him when he said we went into Iraq because of WMD. I want to believe, really I do.

Maybe The Doobie Brothers were onto something...

But what a fool believes he sees/No wise man has the power to reason away/What seems to be/Is always better than nothing/There’s nothing at all/But what a fool believes he sees...

What War Really Looks Like

2005-01-27T11:10:00.000-08:00

http://nationalcatholicreporter.org/fwis/fw012705.htm

This link will take you to an article written by Joan Chittister, OSB. She is a favorite of mine, often saying what I wish I'd said. Her new book, Called to Question, is always in my backpack.

If you read her article and open the link to the BBC photos, be prepared for a jarring experience. These are children, not "collateral damage." As I looked from picture to picture, I realized the soldiers are not too far past childhood themselves. They too are victims in this war.

These men and women went to Iraq believing either it was in defense of their country or to "free" the Iraqis. They were no more prepared than we would be to deal with the lack of boundaries they've found. They do not know whether the Iraqis are their enemies or their allies; a car could be carrying a bomb or a family of seven.

Please read Joan's article and consider her words.

Today the Number is 1,578

2005-01-26T07:18:00.000-08:00

At what point will American citizens finally wake up? How many deaths in Iraq will it take for us to pause and reconsider the president's desire to "spread freedom" across the world? Today the number is 1,578.

A friend and I determined that this awakening will only come when it is personal: when a loved one does not come home from Iraq, or when our finances are unsettled. She mentioned Germany before WWII, how complacency led to disaster. The people refused to awaken, to pull the dark cloth of denial from their faces until it was too late. We are a complacent people.

Our allies are awake and they are stunned. Their belief that we had made an honest mistake in electing Bush the first time, is now replaced by the fear that he represents the mind-set of most Americans. That we do, after all, favor pre-emptive strikes against non-threatening countries; that we've chosen a nationalistic view that excludes anyone who does not think, feel, or worship as we do.

We are a nation of sleepers, comfortable enough in our own lives not to question the status quo. But sleeping has its price. And eventually we awaken, even from the most seductive dream, to light streaming in our window, to a new morning. And to the wasteland of our collective soul.

I have not given up; hope is the tenacious companion that reminds me of our tremendous past, of the founding fathers who knew the difference between religious certitude and religious freedom. Who knew that like religion, democracy and freedom cannot be "given" to anyone. And that the loss of even one life is too high a price to pay in order to further the agenda of a man who is himself fast asleep.

On the Side of Good

2005-01-14T08:25:00.000-08:00

I'm reading the Qur'an, reading about Muslim women and men, the richness of their heritage, their intense devotion to Allah. How alike we are, our Bible and the Qur'an almost repeating themselves in places. How alike we are in wanting to serve the "right" Other, in demonstrating that we are on the side of good. How alike we are in believing we alone have "the" answer.

The U.S. does not have the answer for Iraq. The experiment is failing, as any such aggressive action must. People do not want to be "given" a different way of life, especially one that challenges or denies their most basic beliefs. And one introduced by leveling the infrastructures of their cities and killing the inhabitants of those cities.

Defense of what we believe must be in the form of a peaceful, rational expression of faith. The saints I've known in this life are almost indistinguishable from anyone else. The difference is that they've discovered peace within themselves and radiate peace outwards. Their goodness is quiet, gentle, and always unannounced.

While we add to our largesse, to our collections of cars and wines, our expensive homes and electronic gadgets, while we sleep soundly, a good portion of the world is in misery. Some of that misery is being perpetrated by our country with our taxes. In the name of God.

Our collective awakening is going to be painful, is painful. There is a quiet movement toward a more sane way of living in this world. It begins with prayer, and it ends with holding our hand out in peace instead of conquest. It brings to mind the word "good," because it harms no one.

What About Suffering?

2005-01-12T08:31:00.000-08:00

I am held within a feeling of sadness that does not lift. It is more than the recent loss of a friend and employer. It is the constant reminder on the media that our world is in trouble. If we believed in the gods of the Greeks, we would say that Poseidon is angry. And that Zeus is emptying every available bucket over California. But our beliefs seem to fall on the side of one God; and that God is either in charge, watching as we are, or nonexistent.

My quandary is that I believe he is in fact very much in charge. I am torn between my belief in a compassionate God and the idea that any being could cause or watch the disasters befalling us. This is the age-old question that all religions seek to answer: What about suffering?

We are suddenly reminded of what is important in our lives. When we strip away the materialism of the Western World, what is left? Who are we holding onto when the waves of grief recede? What ideology gives us strength when the world is wobbling and so many people are suffering?

We control so little. Humility is our companion as we watch the unfolding of so many pockets of disaster. I realize I am the woman whose child was swept from her arms, the man who lost hold of his wife, the boy under tons of mud in a previously idyllic hillside community, the woman surrounded by her starving children in Darfur.

Staggering

2005-01-03T10:50:00.000-08:00

The number of those killed in the December 2004 tsunami are staggering, too many to comprehend. I have stayed away from television reports until today, preferring newspapers and Internet sites.

While waiting for Roto-Rooter to come and unstop the tub, I clicked on the television and was immediately brought into the reality of number of people lost, those who have not yet been reached, and those who will die from disease and untreated injuries. My compassion is immense, as well as my sense of frustration.

Whatever we can do to help, we must. Those who can physically help are rushing to the region; those who can financially help are filling out checks and giving credit card numbers over the telephone. Although I'm entering this note, my response is mostly one of silence.

"In the long run, the discipline of creative silence demands a certain kind of faith. For when we come face to face with ourselves in the lonely ground of our own being, we confront many questions about the value of our existence, the reality of our commitments, the authenticity of our everyday lives." Thomas Merton

No television, no Internet, no distractions. Prayer, tonglen, meditation, "face to face with ourselves in the lonely ground of our own being." Merton had it right.

Endangered Species

2004-12-28T20:33:00.000-08:00

I took two trips to a bookstore today, one quiet, the other chaotic. Within hours of each other, the tension of one playing off the other. The first was with a cup of coffee, gathered books stacked in front of me on a mahogany table. Time to think, to allow the noise from the holidays to settle, time to plan for a new year where writing could be the driving force. On the sale tables, I found a book on the unsettling of the natural world, detailed information about endangered species. I had four dollars and it was $4.99. I felt it was a book I was supposed to have, but put it back on the table. As I was leaving, I saw a sign that said red dots on sale books meant $1.99. I went back to get the book and saw it had a red sticker. Two dollars. The synchronicity was familiar, energy from outside myself guiding me. I only had to be open to it.

Then later, I took my two grandsons to see Thomas the Train and his friends--an elaborate train track set-up to keep parents too long in the children's book department. My younger grandson is struggling to talk, to control his temper. We suspect autism and deal with his outbursts as best we can. When we decided to leave, he lost his temper--was yelling and crying--dropping a shoe on the way out. His older brother ran back for it, I could see he was trying to comfort both of us, to comprehend his brother's outbursts. He's only one year older, but the burden of protection is already his.

Two trips to the same store. One left me emotionally filled, at peace, believing in a God who cares about the smallest of desires. The second left me disturbed, unquiet, and frightened for my grandson. Did I question God? Of course. And at the same time I questioned the deaths of over 44,000 people in Asia. Those still alive: homeless, hungry, grieving with memories we can only imagine.

I wondered at the reasons for loss, for misery, and determined that we can accept life as it comes, or we can fight it. We can rail at God, at nature, at chance. Or we can accept and do our best to assist anyone in need, be they across the world or at our knee. I worried too that we humans are an endangered species--not only physically, but spiritually.

On the bookshelf in the religion isle: rows of "Left Behind" books. I pulled a non-fiction book off the shelf--still another by the same authors. It was about those who "would not be left behind." It seems these men know ahead of time which of us will or will not be left. There are too many dichotomies, too many unanswered questions, too many things left in shambles. I too believe in God. His ways are often incomprehensible, his methods mysterious, but he is large enough to hold thousands of drowned, bloated bodies; even those of us the evangelicals would leave behind; and the chubby hand of a three year old while he yells "Thomas" as we hustle out of the bookstore. That God is the only one I'm interested in.

What We Say and What Others Hear

2004-12-19T09:08:00.000-08:00

I was reading on Ursula K. LeGuin's website how she is disturbed by what the producers and director have done to her Earthsea series, how the director did not even understand the basic premise of her story. We write to express as much of our truth (reality) as we can. Others interpret our thoughts, run them through their own filters, determine what we've said. It is a messy and inexact business. I'm wondering if most of our communications aren't like this--our personal conversations simply us reacting and feeding back our own projections. How hard it is to listen and to hear what another is actually saying.

http://www.ursulakleguin.com/UKL_info.html

Signs

2004-12-18T10:35:00.000-08:00

We all look for signs: the way the fork is positioned next to our salad plate, the height of the moon in the night sky, the slant of a signature. We want direction, some sense that God in all his mysterious workings is keeping us in mind. The day after my employer died, I walked away from the accounting firm after dropping off a stack of time cards. A crow was standing near. His black oil-slicked wings caught my attention. His slow wandering into the street reminded me there was no reason to hurry. I knew it was a sign, a sign that it is time for me to write. A friend is just now busily painting a crow for the cover of my new chapbook. Crows suddenly mean more than scavengers hopping across the streets of Eugene. There have been other signs, but this particular crow will forever be my opening to mystery and trust, my return to the world of words.

Poem

2004-12-18T10:15:00.000-08:00

Three Nights with Crow

To climb through layered
dreams and lift the last
tissue of waking, to

find soot on the pillow,
prints splayed and wet.
For three nights there

are nameless children in
cribs, faceless people I’ve
forgotten to feed and

coddle. When the nursery
door opens, they move
into the next room

through walls, like ghosts.
I’ve given names to
even earrings and the

tags around the dog’s
neck—names like
sweet ones, and

low-jingles—now
when it matters, there
are only crossword

puzzles with boxes
half-filled, the forgotten
syllable, the blind

hope of touch. He
dips his beaked face
over mine, eyes widely

spaced, sore from flying
into the sun—grips the
off-green egg with

care—lays it
within the slippery-walled
nest among wood

shavings, kapok and
horse hair for its
eighteen-day gestation.

Deeper still, to the
place truths unrobe,
where children

wear avian heads
(feathers bristled along
their spines), where

he removes human
offspring, arcs overhead,
returns for the mother.

Crows Everywhere

2004-12-18T10:13:00.000-08:00

This week I noticed crows everywhere: standing in the wet Eugene grass; walking across the street, disrupting traffic, slowing things down to their rediculous, unhurried speed. We think of them as scavengers, simple birds; yet we study them, allow them to cross in front of us, discover the intelligence held in their sooty bird bodies. And we envy them their ability to lift and fly overhead, leaving us beneath the steady beat of their wings.