Masked by Sandstorms

Masked by Sandstorms

(…a darkness which may be felt.” Exodus 10:21b)

Every time I’m disconnected the lights go out.
Why do I sit in the dark, afraid that love has faded?
Why is it heavier than memory or the last syllable
of conversation?

You’ll tell me it’s all in my imagination. You’ll say
“you’re just fine, light a few candles this time.”
The wicks are dry, the candles are stored in the
junk drawer, the floods are high, the sun is masked by
sandstorms in the heat. I

Haven’t heard a word since the last time we talked,
haven’t seen your smile, cannot find the chalk-lines
that spelled my name on the driveway in pastel.

I know I fear the storm before the clouds ever form
below my feet and over the dead end of the street where
the water pools, where the mud pulls the wettened sand
infertile and the roses lose their petals.

You’ll tell me it’s all in my mind. You’ll say,
“You’ve overreacted again, turn the breakers back on.”
The breeze is naming you, the fruit trees don’t need to explain,
your fantasies have forsaken you, the darkness is
only the desert misapplied.

I’ve memorized every word. I chant them back to myself.
I’ve lost the rhythm though; I’ve forgotten the movement that
blazes lonely trails through midnight forests. I only remember
the ones I once knew when

The light was open, and I last saw your face.

Wishing for the Doula

Wishing for the Doula

I do not remember the moment, but my mother did.
She is no longer with us, so I cannot ask her again.
Like most births (and I was her first) it was a mess of
blood and tissue, anticipation and pain. I know I
kept her up all night,
arriving sometime around 2 a.m.
I do not remember going home the first time,
or the house where I was nursed and fed.
I know it was Marlin, TX, but I’ve never been there,
and perhaps never will. Scratch that,
of course I was there, helplessly bound to a
newborn’s memory. I depend on my parents’ stories
to remind me of my origin.

I am not sure I remember, either, the moment the Spirit
blew through me like
hot Texas wind. I am not sure the time when I first heard
the breeze circle around me pushing thunder and clouds
around my soul like
storms playing handball between hills and rivers.
I do know, however, the few times I have shuddered,
the handful of fingers that caressed my face, and felt
just like
a mother’s touch answering my tiny cry for cuddles
and swaddling.

I cannot recollect if, after all the labors, womb to
headfirst appearance, I had been born at all. Again,
I would read the inscriptions left for me
almost 7 decades ago, to find a story that meshes
with my mood.

You can call it flame, you can call it rebirth,
you can call it water, you can call it wind,
you can call it natural, you can call it divine,
you can call it anything you want if you have enough time.

I’m
only wishing for the doula to remind me
what it meant to be born once, or twice, or ever,
or at all.

The Dance Had Begun

The Dance Had Begun

You told her she had wasted her days, that she should have
spent more time dancing. But
you failed to ask her, or inquire about her,
why her breath came like gasps of sundown so
early in the morning.
You suggested she could do better,
you commanded her to smile,
and she did, so as not to upset you,
but her feet stay glued under your vision.
Her thoughts wound around her like smoke
from a burned-out village, like the steam from
a circus calliope. The clowns had gone home
before the bigtop collapsed.
You wasted her time with your inquisition,
you stole her soul with your invented advice.
She heard but could not listen; sighs were her
language and you
spoke in unknown tongues.
You could not answer the question in her eyes,
you had no language and made no reply. She
knew,
though untranslated,
you meant well but missed the target, missed the
heart of it all.
She would have cried if you had given her time,
she would have written her pain on a dozen
cocktail napkins.
She wished for semi-darkness, she hoped for
another song to begin. She looked for faces that
read her sadness. She searched for the one hand
that spoke more than
a dozen deductions. She could not move as long as
the suggestions shoved her into corners, over cliffs, and
into canyons while she waited for just one slice of
an
orange from China,
or chocolate from the Mexican coast.

She floated once the silence left her alone with
the one who offered to walk her home and silently
offered her cherries and wine. No one knew it,
but the dance had begun.

Unison

Unison

It’s a sort of sorcery, isn’t it,
untimely spells cast across the imagination
that subtract joy
from the souls of the innocent.
They make jazz feel like the ultimate
sin.
But their incantations contain nothing
but vacuous screeds disguised as melody.
Their long-form compositions only
repeat
hearsay
they say they learned online.

Most of us recognize the serenade
when we hear it. It sounds like manna,
it sounds like New Orleans and
powwows. It sounds like romance
and winding trails across the seaside dunes.

Only the still heart can read the music.
Only the graced embrace the truth that
that flies from heaven but takes root in
the deepest soil of earth.

It’s the pinnacle of reality with no
invocations needed. I hear the first two notes
and know,
if we will listen,
we can sing the rest together/
unison.

Her Name Was Not Hagar

Her Name Was Not Hagar

(I owe much of these thoughts to the excellent book by Karen Gonzalez, "The God Who Sees".)

https://www.amazon.com/God-Who-Sees-Immigrants-Journey/dp/151380412X

Hagar appears to us early in the 16th chapter of Genesis. She is a slave in Abraham's household, Sarah's "handmaiden". We know that Abraham means "father of many nations" and "Sarah" means "princess" or "noblewoman." Names are important. They identify us within families and culture.

So, how about Hagar? Would it surprise you that Hagar is most likely not a proper name at all? Probably coming to live with Abraham and Sarah during their time in Egypt, she becomes Sarah's servant. Her "name" means, roughly

"Foreign Thing". Variously it may also mean "dragged off" or "pressed into service."

We have no idea her given name; all we have is the label probably put upon her by Abraham and Sarah, identifying her position as "other".

Think how many labels we use to dehumanize others. "Immigrant", "Undocumented Worker", "Snowflake", "Reactionary", "Communist", (you can add to the list at your leisure.)

Hagar, or "The Foreign One" is given to Abraham by Sarah because Sarah has not borne any children. Even Hagar's body and offspring are not her own...let alone not having her own "name". After this Sarah and Hagar have a falling out, Sarah treats her harshly, and pregnant, Hagar runs away to the desert. The "Foreign One" becomes a refugee.

But here is the amazing part of the story. "Firsts" in the Scriptures can be important clues to valuable stories about God.

Guess what: Hagar is the first human in the Bible to give God a name! Yup. This "Foreign One" (btw, not even described as a foreign "woman", further dehumanizing her.)

A messenger from God appears and encourages her to return to Sarah, telling her that she also will bear many children. The messenger tells her to name the child in her womb Ishmael, that is, "God hears".

Stop. Right. There!

She certainly felt devalued and UNheard by both Sarah and Abraham. But her child Ishmael will forever remind her that God has truly "heard" her. What an impact that must have made. Certainly, given her "label", she must have felt isolated, unwelcome, and separated within the Abrahamic household.

But God would have NONE of that! She was "seen" by the God who is not limited by cultural and religious biases. And so, she gives God the first name recorded in the Book of Genesis:

"El Roi (the God who sees)" (Genesis 13). She continues, "Have I really seen the God who sees me?"

The story should inform us about how "seen" we all are. It should also move us to stop using dehumanizing labels. Learn a person's name. Learn their background. Hear their stories.

I'm sure you wore certain labels at one time or another. Meditate on how that felt. And consider the God who

Sees you personally. And begin to "see" others...not with labels, but with names that point to their worth and humanity.

A Package Arrived Today

A Package Arrived Today

A package arrived today winking at
my front door, a brown cardboard box,
fiber tape around the perimeter, my name,
my address,
my zip code. I forgot to open it.

While the sun shines my mood melts into
golden reflections that are obscured
by the winter rains. I still wish I could see
you
again.

The box was filled by human hands, there is
no doubt.
And yet, you have been gone so long, I hoped it
had been sent by angel mail, settling on my porch
with your voice, your laugh, even your tears inside.

And still the sun has not changed. I wrestle,
then reflect, then take a glass of chardonnay
standing erect between my pear and cherry trees
feeding me, shading me, telling me their secrets of
how many tongues have tasted their sweet inventory.
I passed a lemonade stand on my way home.

The sweat cooled my forehead, shadow and breeze;
the dogs followed lawnmowers across open fields and
I,
I hoped the box held something immaterial that would
permeate the losses of the years. I wonder

If the trees know more than they let on.
I wonder if the cherries can tell the difference
between the mouths old men living and young loves
too soon gone. And I taste one

Before I open the box, unwrap the plastic inside,
and, with the nectar still on my tongue,
hope to find the explanation within.

I Rarely Squint These Days

I Rarely Squint These Days

I used to fall for anything, hit the ground after one light
touch
of someone’s words. I used to crawl away afterwards,
after the “amens” and “holy spirit come” faded into
cars going home.

They believed every word they said. I wanted to.
They prayed for people, they said, that felt like praying for
refrigerators. I prayed alone. Punctuated with tears, caught
in a cedar jewelry box crafted by a seventh grader. I never
wanted to
fool
anyone, except myself.

I wanted everything they had. I wanted words as clear as
stone engravings. I wanted to touch the invisible, I wanted to
taste
the indiscernible. The circuits in my brain
conspired
against me, overheating to produce the yearning for fire.

If I squinted my eyes just right, so tight that greens and reds
would appear,
or if I stared long enough into the cup of wine until
I saw some presence there,
I thought Spring had sprouted in my soul.
I can still do it today. But it never changed my heart.

I rarely squint these days or I’ll miss the butterflies dancing
behind the towering walnut tree in my back yard. I rarely
listen for
inner voices so
I do not miss the buzz of hummingbirds dancing and mating before
they land on the feeder above my head.
I find the presence in quesadillas and margaritas,
at tables where moms and new babies laugh,
where toddlers peer into the strollers in simple joy at
the tiny man on his first excursion in the world.

I find the imago dei in a friend I haven’t seen in years,
who rushes to hug me and tells me her husband is
playing in the band.

I rarely squint these days.

In the Silence Between Thoughts

In the Silence Between Thoughts

In the silence between thoughts,
the milliseconds of listening; that
is where the peace is found. Unaccompanied music
swings us like leaves in the wind.

I know the endless narration, the novella we never
meant to write. But it is fiction, it is not your story
today.

Find someone to read it to you anew;
I will start at the beginning with a new
chapter every day. I will remind you that
those unmanaged words like rocks, the barbs
of fiery poison,
do not bear your name. They are not the holy space
where you hear secrets so sacred they are
barely breathed to life within you. I will
hold your tears, offer you the palms of my hands,
and if you need,
to let you cry again.

You have been scribbled on too long. Now
breathe your name slowly. Hear your own voice
tell the wounded child
you are not at fault. You are not less, you are not
minus in a world
of aggressive arithmetic.

In the sun, between the silences,
imbued with blue, let the artist paint your portrait.
Stilly. Sit within the loving gaze of all who
treasure the moments they spend with you.

In the purple night, separated from the blistering
rage that demands your perfection,
see the blinking above, the caress of cool grass
under your feet,

And let your name be more precious than even
saints can imagine. Let the namer of all things
call you like a mother rings the dinner bell.
Let all the wonders of you
seep in like a late summer waterfall.

Between the songs, unafraid of love,
let the rewriting begin. Your story.
Your song. Your name.
Your eyes and your lungs
steeped in the sacredness of simply
being. The perfume of heaven,
the shoulder to lay your head upon,
the stream washing your feet in the
silence between waking and dreams.

Windingly I Will Arrive

Windingly I Will Arrive

I apologize for coming so late,
the traffic was schismatic, and, as has
always
been my custom,
I did what I was told right up until now.
I promise, though,
I will be there by the day after tomorrow;
I swear I will make up for the time I spent away.

The blame does not lie outside me,
the choices were all mine. And everyone who
knows me
can stipulate that I never meant harm to anyone.

But looking in the mirror, seeing the headlights on my tail,
the tears of my ambitions were wiped from the windshields,
and fell on the highway behind us all.

The thunder clashed with my intentions,
the storm wrecked every itinerary on the way.
My father used to say that shortcuts were only
the longer road to get somewhere fast. I never found
one.

But, windingly I will arrive, pennies in my pockets,
pebbles in my shoes, gravel in the tire treads, and,
slightly embarrassed and more amused that
I could have walked across the street 40 years ago
to see you the way
I see you
today.

The Cape of Ennui

The Cape of Ennui

He could do little to move the mood, the
boulder that inhabited his chest. Stubborn as
saturated firewood, it was molten and smoldered,
scorching to the touch,
freezing to the joy he sought.
Moments landed like transient moths that
distracted him for only seconds at a time.
Then, reminded by the default setting, the
wistful discontent that inhabited him like
a second soul shrouding his own,
he wished for worlds that would never be.
Memories were failures,
old friends were suspended where he could
barely see their shadows against the waning sun.
Babies, grandchildren, memorized songs and
an unexpected phone call
all
lit his eyes with love. But
once they were gone, especially the songs,
the tears rose to their standard level again.

He thought he might visit the pub in hopes
of the holy laughter that cuts through the fog
and lifts the cape of ennui for an afternoon.

The World Feels Diluted

The World Feels Diluted

The world feels diluted today, though I know it is
full, brimming, flooding, overrun, sculpted carefully by
sun and moon. I am breathing just fine, but I ache like
I’ve chased after an elusive friend always on the edges
of periphery.

The world feels static today, though I know it is
swift, breezing, rounding, tick-tocking, waving slowly like
rushes on the riverbank. I am walking just fine, but I
need to make myself clear. I need to find where I left
the only daredevil self I ever knew.

There are footprints on my soul that are eroding. Some
left by ghosts
who will never walk the sand with me again.
Some left by men I shared meals and questions with,
whose words are now decades old. We should meet on
the beaches again, or the racquetball court, or a rec room
full of couples who decided laughing was better than lectures.

The world feels muddy today, though I know it is
fresh, bursting, greening, never done, molded like pottery
in a master’s hands. I lost my breath recently, my legs feeling
every reason to cut the journey short. But where would I
go if I stopped wandering? Where would I find you if I only
stayed
home?

Smoked Corn

Smoked Corn

I can tell by the way you smile you like the corn
that was smoked on the cob. Spice bites softly,
smoke grounds it, and each kernel is another bubble
of sweetness that combines with the butter in your mouth.
No wonder we talk more together when reaching for
the next bite of burger
grilled just moments ago.

Four adults and a rectangle table. One 2-week-old
baby, soaking up all the attention. Four dogs in our
daughter’s home, plus one alone from our home too.
One ancient cat that barely moves…couch to feed dish…
15 years and fluffy. Wherever she sits is her throne.

Nothing ever goes to waste; the minutes without voices,
potato salad dropped on the floor (that’s what the pack of
dogs is for), and the easy sleep of a baby passed around
the generations at the table.

There was no prayer, but for the bounty before us gratefulness
abounded.
We sang no hymns, but the Baby Man recently entering the world
filled us with song.
And no final benediction, save for hugs and “love-yous” as
we took our leave back home.

There is sanctity in communal meals, there is holiness in the
humility we share;
these bodies do not let us live long at all without
food. We share a table, we share mortality. And so we smile
broader knowing time will not capture us, space will not define us,

And church bells only remind us that eucharist is everywhere
we eat together with seen and unseen guests.

Plywood Exposed to the Sun

Plywood Exposed to the Sun

(“Then they sat on the ground with him seven days and nights, but no one spoke a word to him because they saw that his suffering was very intense.” Job 2:13)

Afterwards the plywood peeled after the rain,
exposed to the sun,
darkened by age,
with nails in the corners and
splinters in the grain.

The power went out overnight. The winds
grabbed ceilings and families in its teeth.
Shingled a year ago, the roof shuddered like
staccato notes played by sonic booms circling the
the town
just before the county fair.

The lawns had just been mowed,
the dew was stubborn in the early summer light,
the wine was spilled on broken concrete,
the silence moved in layers across the
river to the hills. The grieving began

Once the shock had worn off.

So they sat in the dust, mudded their faces,
turned their backs to the sun, ached and held their
tongues long enough to let the suffering sink, a heart
ballasted like a stone.

Taken on its own, the week changed very little.
Hours without songs, days with fire for bread,
nights with the moon mocking overhead.

But four bodies bore a single sorrow for
days without words. If only we knew the
power in the hands and eyes, the feet and fingers,
the heart that cannot find the downbeat anymore.
If only we stayed, took our sick days
and loved the way we are made: fully fleshy,
fully torn, complex and worn by time like

Plywood exposed to the sun.