Now is the time for the world 
     to know perseverance carries us to other worlds
          to sow compassion carries us to each other
     to forget all that it thought it knew
          to regret all that it thought was progress
     to despair of ever getting everything right
          to repair some of what it got wrong
     to stay still when all we want is movement
          to pray when all we want is talk

Now is the time for me
     to know perseverance that carries me into old age
          to sow compassion that carries me towards others 
     to forget all the times I hated myself
          to regret all the times I hated others
     to despair of ever loving well enough
          to repair the damage of not loving well enough
     to stay still when all I want is movement
          to pray
               to pray
                    to pray

Quiet now
     listen now
          hope now
               wait now
                    open now 

To a holy, wholly-other God
     beyond my words
          beyond my time
               bound never by my command to speak
                    but only ever speaks to my silence

My non-thoughts go to a God not of my making 
          who waits beyond the knowing of the world 
                    whose silence proves her very existence

Now is the time for me to remember 
          that the world never knows

“Columbus found a world and had no chart 
save one that faith deciphered in the skies 
to trust in God was all his science and his only art”

I have only just begun to know that I know nothing.
All of my theologies
are not God,
but only pretend, in their arrogance, to know God.

What does it mean
to begin to know that I do not know,
can never know
the limns and limits of a supreme being?

A god encompassed within my knowing
is no God at all.

What can I do? 
(This "I" that I do not always know)
How can this mysterious I pray?

How do I avoid the golden calf,
the tall white man nailed to the Roman cross
in Christian churches 
usurping the small -
almost certainly smaller than the usual now –
dark Palestinian Jew?

Ah, there is so much unknowing to accept.
How shall the unknown "I" worship the unknowable divine
without losing both?

I think I shall go walk in my garden,
spread mulch under the azaleas,
admire the upright daffodils and the drooping Lenten roses,
search, uselessly, too early, for signs of Solomon’s seal,
smell the spiked rosemary,
feel the fuzzy soft sage,
fill the wheelbarrow again,
mulch the walkway to the back garden,
with its stream and pond,
its shade and benches
its too rarely used yoga platform.
Then I will go up and check on Mom,
go to the store for sweet potatoes
to fix for dinner tonight
with the turkey breast Woody is frying.

I think I shall rest from knowing
and pray from doing.

What gentle house wren
longs to be a flashy cardinal?

Do drooping Lenten roses
wish for daffodil’s bright height?

Will bare-branched poplars
murmur against budding maples?

How can thyme be content
when rosemary grows so tall?

What thinks the scampering squirrel
of the wandering deer?

Are bees satisfied with hives
or do they long for nests?

And why, dear God,
in all your creation
must only humans
be cursed with envy?

Everything that happens is sacred
Sure, sure, so the poets, philosophers, priests and popes say
Everything is sacred
Have they ever, I wonder, shit in their pants while in the grocery store
Because their bowels don’t know that only the toilet is sacred to them
Have they ever lost their temper and screamed at their sister over the phone
Because their anger doesn’t know that only self-control is sacred
Have they ever had to look at the chewing tobacco spit out on the sidewalk
Because the old man doesn’t know that, well, that chewing tobacco is never sacred
Unless lung cancer and COPD are sacred

But washing out my mother’s soiled underwear
That I feel is sacred
Getting angry at injustice, at deliberate ignorance, cultivated and cherished
That I feel is sacred
Caring for that lonely old man, even though he stinks of tobacco
Even though you hate his smell and his beliefs and his unknowing arrogance
Just because he is himself
That I feel is sacred

Do you agree, God?
Or can you see the sacred in my own dirty underwear
In my embarrassment
Can you see the sacred in my unwise anger
In my estrangement
In my temper
Can you see the sacred in that heap of sodden chaw
In over-plowed fields
In feeding lots
In caged children

Is there a divine powerful enough to help me see the sacred 
in the ordinary
in the profane

[This poem was prompted by reading John O’Donohue’s poem A New Beginning]

At my age to have a new beginning quietly forming
Seems more than miraculous
But I have trouble believing that I will hear it
My hearing not being what it once was
And if my new beginning is unheard
What am I left with
What of the old will replace the new that never got born
An aborted new beginning
An empty womb
Where once the promise of new life was forming
Attached to me
Growing with me
Helping me grow
Now ripped away
To die as I die
Alone

Ah, God, this, I fear, is all that is left
Until the new beginning in a different life
Or maybe just a new ending in this one
The shroud, I suppose, is not just enveloping
But soft

I write and try and try
To not try, as Alan Watts once advised
Before that wet bath tile
Brought him to an unexpected end
And perhaps a new beginning
Did he meet Thomas Merton, do you think
Another man much enamored of new beginnings
And, apparently, of one young nurse
Ah, so many bright new beginnings
Wander down into so-called sin
Much like Adam and Eve
In Eden’s Garden

That prototypical new beginning
That did not end very well
Shame and eventually a sibling murder
And through it all
Did Eve stand by her man
Naked or clothed

What was her sin, really
To listen to a snake
Or to reach for a forbidden fruit
Forbidden by Adam’s God

Who was Eve’s goddess
Would she have forbidden Eve
To reach for a new beginning
To reach for that fresh fruit
To stretch high
To stand on tiptoe
To shake the branch
Pluck the fruit
Feel it
Smell it
Lick it
Like two year old Milo smells and licks just about everything
His world beginning to be discovered
By touch and smell and taste

Did Eve boldly bite
Or gingerly lick
Did she wonder at the juice of it
Was she afraid
Or was she excited?

This we know:
She wanted to share that new beginning
“Adam, you have to try this”
Was God jealous?
His new beginnings all done
Creation finished
But here were his creatures
Enjoying something new
Something the woman dared to reach for
Touch, smell, taste, share

That is the new beginning I want
Just something ordinary
To greet with wonder
And share with my partner
My partner in new beginnings
After loss
After widowed
After grown children
Into each other’s houses
To our new beginning
Life together
Until death do us make yet another
New beginning

The nights are long
The days are slow

The big spider
       really big spider
       with brindle body and bristle limbs
hangs out
       at the top of the green bedroom curtains
       with meaningless threat
intending only to find warmth
       a safe place to nest

But when I look up
      pillowed in my warm safe bed
I sense danger

I would like to only wonder
Simply celebrate another life
Wish her well
Welcome her to share my world

But I imagine her breeding
I imagine being cast from my own room
       by hundreds of her tiny immigrants
       who do not belong here

So I turn my face
       and let my husband kill her

Yahweh answered Moses, “Is MY arm too short?” Numbers 11:23

How often, so often
have I complained
My arm is too short

To reach
What I want

To finish
What I start

To keep
What I need

To succeed
When I plead

Too short
to hold my dreams

Too short
to stifle my screams

How often, so often
have I forgotten
God’s arm is not.

The white noise of the dehumidifier
squatting in the corner
The mock sun of the over-achieving lamp
lording over the bedside table
The slept-in warmth of the disheveled bed
expanding across the room
The filled wonder of the tall bookshelves
standing guard across one wall
The cluttered top of the chipped dresser
resting comfortably beneath the fake window
The latticed doors of three closets
marching across the opposite wall
The closed door

Here I dream of life
rich and full
busy and boisterous

Yet here I linger
notebook open
pen poised
quiet if not quite content
but safe

Here I pray
to a God of my own making
in a room of my own making
easy if not quite satisfying

In a moment
I will click my pen point
close my notebook
crawl out of my covers
ignore my books
open drawers and closets
get dressed
open the door

Can I find God Herself
in a world of Her own making?
Will it be
Satisfying if not quite easy?

Where does God go when I forget about Her?
Does She sit in a dark corner and sulk?
Or go shopping for a pink polka dot umbrella?

Perhaps She gets down on Her knees
and prays that I will remember Her?
Or does She pray I won’t?

Does She like the freedom from my worries?

Can She fly higher on Her golden wings
without the weight of my expectations
without the burden of my sins?

Must I free God from me?
Or is She OK with a forever fickle child?

Blackbird returns
time and again
to the dark red blood
spilled long ago
seeped into the earth’s ages

Blackbird carries a
wriggling worm of grief
soft in its mouth
to feed fledgling sorrows

Blackbird returns
in summer’s bright blooms
in winter’s frightful frosts
to its hidden nest
high in this olding oak

No dove with ah bright wings
nor raven croaking nevermore
unthreatening haint
merely sad
always sad

My blackbird returns
doesn’t stay
comes and goes
now and again
giving body and voice
to living with my dead