Eastern Angel

Photo credit here.

Eastern Angel
Blow upon this sea
Thick with reeds
And re-create
Dry land from 
Water’s depth
So all of us
Living in captivity,
Awaiting salvation,
Needing a new land-
A new life-
A new way of being
May make it to 
The other side
Dry shod
Dancing,
Singing the stories
Of prisoner’s set free,
Bound wounds,
Reignited flames
And kept promises
Especially, kept promises
Returning us
To our home.
 
4/4/26
And so we reach the end of Lent. For those reading, thank you. I do not normally post during the rest of the year, but I may begin to add in writings for Advent. Subscribe if you’d like to be kept in the loop when I am writing and posting! 
 
Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!
 
Happy Easter!

Zen Gardening

Local Botanical Garden's Japanese Zen Garden

 

J and I ran from a local park to the local botanical gardens to see what was left of the blooming cherry trees. We visited the area close to the tea room which also contains a Zen Garden. I have been to the garden numerous times between high school and present day. I have seen this garden a multitude of times, looking at it, over it, beyond it. Even when J and I travelled to Kyoto and saw the Ginkakuji temple, I viewed the “sea of silver sand” and wondered the meaning of these large areas of gravel with rocks arranged within it in a purposeful, random way. 

 

All this time, the gardens meant little to me. I did not see how it lent itself to meditation or represented the struggle between “impermanence and stasis in human life.”[i] And I was okay with this ignorance. But my feelings changed on our run to the gardens a week ago.

 

I admired the garden and looked at the concentric circles around what I considered the “living objects” of moss, boulders and a bonsai-type cedar. The circles emanated from the living objects, stretching in more encompassing circumferences. 

 

In an instant, I felt the Zen masters knew something about reality I did not. They intuited what Einstein would formalize. They “saw” how particles, waves, molecules, quarks existed beyond the large, splashy and utterly embodied objects which hold and distract sight. 

 

I also thought of my grandmother’s death vision of Christ. When my mother first told the story, she said Granny’s words were “everywhere He goes is love and peace,” and in my mind, maybe even viscerally, I “felt” the force of the love and peace. They had weight, girth, and strength – the forces invisible, but experienced as enveloping. . .

 

Much like the gravel in the garden – the circles at once emanating out AND radiating in. The material world being both the originator of these forces while also being created and molded by them.

 

But also and ultimately all are connected and interconnected in the never-ending flow of permanence and impermanence. All material things creating waves, forces which bind us, repel us, link us together – the actions not purely physical, but metaphysical – existing in a plane we cannot see, but sometimes experience.

 

As Eric Cunningham posits, “One is very cautious about drawing any deep conclusion concerning what all this [Zen Gardening] ‘means,’ knowing that meanings will change.”[ii]

 

But this revelation strikes me as truth in a moment where so many seek to separate and divide us. We are connected in more ways than we can imagine and it seems wise to act like we are.

 

4/3/26

 

---

[i] https://www.asianstudies.org/publications/eaa/archives/cultivating-enlightenment-the-manifold-meaning-of-japanese-zen-gardens/#:~:text=Although%20Zen%20gardens%20as%20landscape,faithful”%20into%20a%20metaphysical%20space.

[ii] Ibid.

 

Deep in the Dirt

Photo credit here.

 

Deep in the dirt,
We ripped growth
knotted with time
And the striving, which
makes each of us.
 
The elephant danced
on rooftops
While the dog
lapped the pool,
laid in the dirt
 
Dug out all those rocks
making up the world
Or at least our section,
Thrown to hold the earth 
in place, just this once. 
 
Buried treasures.
All around us
waiting for discovery
Whispering of past lives forgotten
Deep in the dirt.

3/28/26

Subversive Acts

Photo credit here.

The House of Coffee had their Grand Opening today beginning at 3pm. J and I arrived fashionably late but just in time for the party. A crowd stood outside the coffee shop. Gold and black balloon arches framed a small hut where hibiscus tea and mint lemonade awaited tasting. Gold and black bags emblazoned with The House of Coffee and their logo held party favors: A pen, a keychain, a coaster and a small coffee cup – all carrying the name and emblem of the shop. In addition, a small note with “thank you for celebrating with us” and a tea bag sized sample of coffee rounded out the gift’s contents. 

 

Men in – you guessed it – gold and black danced around in a circle as an older gentleman kept time to the music with a drum. The leader of the dancing men carried a staff similar to a drum major and began throwing it to other men in the crowd, inviting them to join the dance. About half of the men came out to dance and half did not. All of the would-be recruits were dressed in suits and ties – a terribly hot choice on a sunny, 80-degree day. 

 

Bayt Al Qahwah (The House of Coffee) is a Yemeni coffee house which officially opened its doors with music and dance, food and drink, smiles and welcoming.

 

J commented as we left, given the political climate of the country these days, he was glad the event went off so smoothly. I shared his relief. So many things could have happened to infuse the event with fear or hate. Instead, people smiled, laughed, danced, ate great food, imbibed fruity concoctions as well as caffeinated beverages and celebrated a new type of coffee shop in our area. 

 

I am glad to celebrate the opening of a Yemeni coffeehouse. I am grateful for the diversity of this world. I pray every act of celebration will break down the walls which separate us.

3/27/26

Emergency Room

 

Photo Credit here.

Having just spent 7 hours in the ER with my father (after a fall, which fortunately did not end up with broken bones or bleeds), I am "worn slap out" as my Granny used to say. 

No musings on the ER at the moment, but maybe it will arrive another night. 

Now, to bed.

3/23/26

Different

Photo credit here.

 

3/21/25

Resilience

 

They had taken the metro to the island in the middle of the Dnieper River. The war had not yet begun, the Orange Revolution had not yet shifted the political landscape. The catacombs remained intact, St. Michael’s gleamed golden in the sun, Lady Victory signaled an era which recently passed into history. This moment culminated a few weeks of planning between the English teachers and students which included gathering at the island to experience a cookout in the “usual” Ukrainian style. 

 

By this time the snow had given up and warming temperatures melted what remained. The teachers followed the university students on an unmarked path back into the woods. They found a clearing and a barbeque by magic, and soon, the students were unpacking their backpacks with the different snacks and food they brought. 

 

Potato salad, bread with dried fish, butter and dill; a dish called Shuba (layered fish, carrot, beet, mayonnaise) and Sala (or pig’s fat) came forward one by one. While the other dishes were cold, they heated the Sala a bit, then passed it around. They told stories of how Stalin, during World War II, starved the people of Ukraine. When they could no longer buy meat, Sala provided calories to keep them alive another day with hopes to see Stalin defeated. They were survivors. 

 

The English speakers sat silent – how does one respond to resilience of this magnitude in the face of vicious hate? 

 

With awe and respect. 

The picture was a Writer's Workshop prompt from February of 2023. I gave myself 15 minutes to write on the picture prompt and it took me to my time in Kyiv, Ukraine '98-'99. 3/20/26

Loblolly Pines

Photo credit here.

Pines provide the boundary for our property and have since I was a child. My great grandfather seemingly cleared this land for farming, then my grandfather took over the few acres given to him when he married Granny. In elementary school, a neighboring house stood at a distance from ours, surrounded by woods, mainly Loblolly Pines. As a teenager, the family who owned the house sold the land to someone who created a subdivision and all the pines disappeared – the land scalped, the earth paved over. 

Across the street a similar story: one home on the hillside, surrounded by woods. Then a sale and bald earth and finally a subdivision with two and three-story homes. Some of the pines remained, but most were gone. 

 

When we moved back to my home place 5 ½ years ago, my aunt and uncle removed one, maybe two, of the pines at the roadway. Mom, Dad, J and I sat on our porch watching the theatrics and death-defying stunts of the tree removal crew. I sensed sadness for all the years of life felled in a few hours. The tree had definitely watched over the land when my grandparents still thought of growing old; watched when my mom and dad first kissed; watched as our home was built bit-by-bit by my father. 

 

Little is a stately and grand as a Loblolly Pine, decades old, wide and thick, branches reaching towards the sky. A giant reminding you how small you truly are. A teacher of how to weather storms. A sage whispering “carpe diem, your life, Little One, is brief.”

 

When our neighbor asked if we would remove one of our Loblollies a couple of years ago, I simply could not do it. I have watched the skyline since childhood and these trees have been a part of it. It seemed wrong to simply cut it down. . .

well tonight, it chose to take itself out. Or maybe the high winds helped it make up its mind. 

 

I heard cracks and pops for a bit, just outside the office window. I thought the wind was blowing debris against the house. These noises occurred on and off for five to ten minutes. Then a loud crack followed by the shaking of the house. I met my husband’s startled face in the hallway. Something big had happened. 

 

We went outside to see the pine draped across our front lawn and the ramp for my dad. The scent of pine fragranced the air while bent gutters spilled water onto the hedges. For tonight, it is the only damage – and miraculously so. 

 

I will miss the tree, though maybe not its yellow pollen. I wonder if this tree produced the large pine cones of wonder which litter the yard and drive? Maybe I will investigate tomorrow. 

 

But tonight, I offer this eulogy: 

Thank you, pine, 

    For providing shade, for giving us pine straw for our garden beds

    For being a resting place for birds, a playground for squirrels, a haven for the blue-tailed                 skinks (who are anything but Common)

    For providing enough edges for cicadas to shed their skins, enough grooves to commute ant         colonies and enough natural wood for busy carpenter bees. 

May you rest in peace. 

3/9/26

Envenomations

Photo credits here.

She watched as her mother took his hand again. 

She had begun counting the days between her taking his hand as he cooed,"There is no one else but you, Baby. I never mean to hurt you. . .it's just my drinkin', but I promise I'll do better. Jerry is picking me up tonight for that AA meetin' at the church. . ." and the "G-d this house is a mess, I work so G-d hard and for what? This lousy excuse of a home? What kind of helpmate are you, you lazy cow?" 

Down to 1 week.

Then the uptick in yelling eventually ended in him cursing her mom, "You are the reason I drink, you know that? I slave at work all day long and just want to come home and relax, but then, all you do is complain: 'we need groceries,' 'I thought you'd be home earlier,' 'why isn't the rent paid?' Woman, I do my part. Why in the hell do you not do yours," and inevitably he hit her.

At first her mom tried to get out of the war zone, but he just chased her - further enraged by her impudence; seeing her flight as a sign of opposition. She eventually just sat there crying, trying to appease him, "Honey, I'm so sorry. I know you work so hard. I know your job is stressful. I'll be better, I promise," and then another blow usually to her chest. She yelped, unable to breathe and sometimes passed out.

This level took another week.

Her step-father would leave her mother splayed on the ground. Jess then moved from her hiding space between the couch and the wall and ran to her mom.

Jess learned from a TV doctor show how to be sure people were still alive. She would find a mirror and place it under her mother's nose. When the mirror fogged, Jess released her breath. 

She had only called 911 once - the first time her mom lost consciousness, but her mother made her swear she would never do it again. "I could lose you, Jessie," she chided the child, "Child Protective Services would take you from me in a second, and we don't want that, right?"

Jess shook her head.

"I'll be fine, Jessie. Tom is just going through a rough patch - as soon as his work is less stressful, we'll be snugger than 3 peas in a pod. Just wait and see." 

This was 5 years ago. Nothing had changed.

She begged her mother to leave him - especially after her mother regained consciousness and alcohol had finally blacked out Tom.

She'd look at Jess and shake her head, "You just don't understand, my sweet girl. I can't leave. We can't leave." 

- March 20, 2025. An article I read said 90% of the envenomations in my area are from copperhead and cottonmouth snake bites. I would beg to differ. 

Our Golgothas

photo credits:Tjeerd Wiersma

This year the name Golgotha has intrigued me. While archeologist Google claims the area known as Golgotha is so named due to a rock formation at the site, it makes sense to me that the name represented the area's connection with death. Who knows, maybe beheaded enemies of the state sat atop spears like sentinels on the path to the crucifixion area - welcoming the soon-to-be-dead and warning others away. Tonight, during Maundy Thursday services, I thought how we all may have our personal Golgothas, but we certainly have public ones, and this is a poem for them.

Our Golgothas 

Places of skulls

Where death lurks

Devastatingly explosive,

Waltzing through a side door,

Flying in from overhead.

 

Across the globe, 

Golgothas –

Where the innocent

Are sacrificed

With the guilty;

 

Made to carry

A burden, which

Never belonged to them.

The powerful cursing them

For simply being who they are.

 

For spending their days

in classrooms and playgrounds.

For standing up to oppression.

For choosing – striving – 

to be free.

 

Do we wash our hands of these Golgothas? 

Or cry for more bloodshed? 

Do we jeer with the powerful - 

denying these Golgothas exist?

Maybe, we weep with the grieving. . .

 

The story says

the guilty found salvation on that Golgotha.

Yet the Light still was extinguished.

A punctuated exhale, 

and He was gone.

 

A punctuated exhale,

And they were all gone.

(4.6.23)

photo found on: https://www.frommers.com/slideshows/819378-the-8-spookiest-catacombs-and-tombs-on-the-planet