The Poppies

If you feel sorry for yourself
this Valentine's Day, think of
the dozens of little paper poppies
left in the box when the last
of the candy is gone, how they
must feel, dried out and brown
in their sad old heart-shaped box,
without so much as a single finger
to scrabble around in their
crinkled petals, not even
one pimpled nose to root and snort
through their delicate pot pourri.
So before you make too much
of being neglected, I want you
to think how they feel.

(Ted Kosser, If You Feel Sorry)



It's true, that maybe this should have been posted yesterday morning - the crux of people's romantic sentiment. But it seemd more appropriate to me that it be this morning - the day after. I'm a fan of telling people you love them when you end a phone conversation. When you haven't seen them in weeks. When they're having a bad day. Or a good day. I'd rather send cards on a cloudy Saturday morning. My day is made by every-day gifts for no reason. Can't we share laughs over dinner more often? Do we need an occasion for a movie in? For poetry and cards? At the end of every day it should be about how well you loved others simply. Hallmark should look into designing more "Just Because" cards and stop making us feel like we need a day sanctioned for us. Then maybe come this time next year we won't feel neglected. Like we've been cheated or wronged. Maybe next year we'll get it.


In a light late-winter wind
the oak trees are scattering valentines
over the snow—dark red
like the deep-running, veinous blood
of the married, returning
again and again to the steady heart.

This leaf is yours, friend,
picked from the heart-shaped hoofprint
of a deer. She stood here
under the apple tree during the night,
kicking up sweetness, her great eyes
watching the sleeping house.
(Ted Kosser, In a Light Late-Winter Wind)

perfect unity

"Live in each season as it passes—breath
the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit,
& resign yourself to the influences of
each. Let them be your only diet
drink & botanical medicines. In August
live on berries, not dried meats as if
you were on shipboard making your
way through a waste ocean, or in
a northern desert. Be blown on by
all the winds. Open all your pores
& bathe in all the tides of nature
in all her streams & oceans at all
seasons."

Henry D. Thoreau



So to be faithful to St. John of the Cross, I’ve been sitting here for about an hour in the dark and listened to the rain through an open window in an attempt to focus myself long enough to be in a place that would even closely resemble contemplative prayer, though poorly. And I realize that this must be what it is to be taking in each season. This is what it means to breathe the air and resign myself to things and recognize they are what they are. To listen to the sounds of creation and feel the breeze and smell the rain only to be jarred out thought by a few of the loudest dogs I’ve ever heard.

But I’ve always been a “by the book” type of gal. I’ve planned my days to the minute. I’ve got things mapped out for weeks to come. My soul longs to throw it all to the wind and to make my way through this season feasting on what’s available. To allow myself to be directed by the wind and the streams. Not to neglect structure, for I’m sure I would breakdown and collapse in on myself, but to bask in all of the goodness that is this season – right now. To allow myself to be spiritually, emotionally and physically adrift. Not in a way that is flighty, but intentional, as not to fly through my day like so many calculated minutes, so much ignoring of moments.

And so I’ll listen to the rain. I’ll wait in the dark until that moment where I feel like my soul is in perfect union and rest there.

Ashes to ashes

Last night marked the beginning of Lent. I marked my Lenten Journey quite literally with ash. There's something about the Imposition of Ashes that's humbling and reflective. We're called to live a life of penitence, regretting our trangressions and recognizing our fatality. And yet Christ calls us out of ashes and invites us to live in freedom and grace. Do not walk around mourning and rending your garments, he says. Instead, rend your hearts to the Lord. cover yourself in oils and let your spirit be lifted up. I'm anticipating this Lenten season moreso than previous ones. I hope that this journey would be a time for reflection and preparation, that I may come to understand more fully the death and ressurection of Christ. From dust I was made, and to dust I will return.

Holy Father, you are near.
We tremble at your swift coming.
The day comes when you cause the sky to darken,
when you make the Earth empty and barren,
you dull the stars.
Our spirits tremble, like the Heavens.
We offer our hearts to you, torn.
We cry out for your mercy,
to find us without fault.
Lord, be slow to anger.
Relent!
We do not know whether this cup will pass;
we only hope that blessing is left,
and not curses.
And so we lift up our hearts to the Lord,
our weeping,
our transgressions,
our attempts at holiness.
We offer up these things to you,
our filthy rags.
Spare us, O God.
Have pity.
When the nations say,
"Where is their God?"
may we respond with joy,
He is among us.
He has restored us with the oil of gladness.
We are satisfied in him.
Amen.


(Litany based on Joel 2:1-2,12-18)

mornings with him.

It’s not yet light outside. The room is quiet, save the occasional sound the trees as they brush up against the window and the soft, rhythmic breathing of someone fast asleep. I need this moment, before the day starts. I’m still. I pretend not to be awake. I don’t want to rush anything along. On cue, I hear his voice. Usually he wakes me with the weather. “It’s going to be warm today,” “You’ll need a jacket this afternoon, it’ll be cold,” “Don’t forget your umbrella…” There’s something comforting in that familiar voice. I stay in bed for a few minutes, taking it all in. “It’s Tuesday. Ready for the New Hampshire primaries?” I groan a little. I can’t handle political discussion until I’ve had coffee. You should know this by now. He changes the subject. Something about a refrigerator that doubles as an iPod dock. I’m barely listening. I roll over and try to go back to sleep. “It’s 7:15.” I know. I need to get up. I’ll never make it to work on time if I stay here, but I’d rather stay in this moment. I know he’ll be there when I get out of the shower, but I don’t want to miss anything. I hang on his every word. But the promise of coffee finally pulls me from the bed. As I make my way to the kitchen I hear him call after me, “I’m Steve Inskeep, and you’re listening to NPR…” What I wouldn’t give for just five more minutes with him…