Sift flour
Discard the hard to digest bits

Cream butter
Keep working at it until all the hard parts are soft and fluffy

Add generous amount of sugar
Discard bitterness

Break the eggs
But do not separate
(There’s been enough of that already)

Add baking powder
To help them rise
(With humor)

Add cream of tartar
To soften them at the end

Add lots of spices
Even if you have to go out of your way and spend money
To get ones you’ve never used before

Mix it all together lightly
Lightly, lightly
Stop obsessing
It’s all mixed up and time to move on

Roll into small balls and pat down gently
Don’t try to make each one exactly right
Don’t worry about the ones already done
Just keep making more

Bake in a very hot oven for a short time
Be patient, the baking time will end

Take the hot cookie sheets out of the oven
Be careful not to burn yourself

Let the cookies sit for awhile on the cookie sheets
It may look like nothing is happening
But this resting time is important

Move the cookies to wire racks to finish cooling
The hard part is over now

Your new cookies are ready to eat!
Treat yourself and enjoy
You deserve it.

When I was young, strong winds blew in the wide spaces between my thoughts.
My thoughts tumbled and twisted in that wind, sometimes holy, sometimes wholly profane.
Slowly those spaces closed.
Enclosed with walls I chose to build: husband, children, career, busyness, importance.
The winds battered walls instead of rushing through the spaces.
I learned, I chose the close, closed life behind walls.
I myself enslaved and subjugated myself, my imagination.
I think this is not unusual.
Not for women of my age and culture.
And now this is the gift of old age.
The spaces, the spaces are opening.
The walls are cracking, tumbling.
Can I be kind without the walls?
Can I be faithful living in the spaces?
Will the winds bow and batter me, or lift me to new flight and new life?
Will the winds blow strong again or have they died to gentle breezes?
Welcome but unthreatening, felt but weakly, suggested not known.
Have the locust eaten my years?
Have the walls tamed my winds forever?
If God is in the quiet, is God enough compensation?
I think not; I want my winds.

To know what makes you happy
is insight.
To not know what makes you happy
is sadness.

To want what makes you happy
is hope.
To not want what makes you happy
is troubling.

To be able to do what makes you happy
is privilege.
To not be able to do what makes you happy
is hard.

To know what makes you happy,
to want what makes you happy,
to be able to do what makes you happy,
but never have the energy to do it
is depression.

night horses
run wanton wild
thru tangled thorny pastures
of my dreams

night horses
rear high hooves
trample bramble bracken
of my fears

night horses
snort fiery fumes
forge fierce flames
of my past

night horses
resist brindle bridle
yank rough reins
of my rest

night horses
no mild mares
no gentle geldings
savage stallions
slaughter sleep

[This is inspired by and modeled after a “psalm” by Benjamín González Buelta, SJ, translated by Damian A. Howard, SJ.]

Dear God,

Here are my beliefs:

Not that I must seek You
but that You pursue each of us.

Not that I must call You by the right name
but that You call us each by our name.

Not that I must know prayers and hymns to You
but that You groan with each of us when we suffer.

Not that I must bring others to my faith in You
but that You come to each of us where we are.

Not that I must pretend to know You completely
but that You know the deep mystery of each of us completely.

Not that I must strive to love You
but that I can rest secure in Your love for each of us.

Not that I must kneel in church to worship You
but that I get to work in service to those You love.

Not that I should shout of my faith
but that I can whisper of my service.

Thankfully yours,

Sometimes
God hides
Especially in church

Behind doctrine
Behind liturgy
Behind men in fancy dress

Behind exclusions
Behind prejudices
Behind privileges unrecognized

That’s when I focus

On the hair of people
Seated around me

Hair
Of all colors
Thick and thin
Short and long
Combed and uncombed
Curly and straight

And on the shoes of people
Walking up to Communion

Shoes
Of all styles
Heels and flip-flops
Sneakers and Oxfords
Sandals and boots
Old and new

And on the voices of people
Lifted in song and prayer

Voices
Of all timbres
Soft and loud
Strong and quavering
American and foreign
Melodic and grating

And God finds me.

We left our reality
one July Sunday
at dusk
in the van,
our new reality.

Behind the rear door,
our new kitchen
with ice chest, propane stove,
plastic drawers
for food, cooking utensils,
eating and cleaning necessities.

In the middle,
the spare tire, the toolkit,
a plastic container —
our new reality’s bathroom cabinet —
and above those, the clothes rack
with all of this reality’s hanging clothes.

Behind the front seats,
one suitcase each,
and in-between, a bag of snacks,
a small box of books and maps:
this reality’s storage room.

In this
our new reality,
the front seats are our living room,
with electronic cords, spare change,
a pocket knife and tissues
on the console between us
and the windshield, our picture window.

We ride through the space
of other people’s realities:
fields of wheat and corn,
ranges of cows and sheep,
oil wells and windmills,
great lakes and miles of marsh grass.

We ride through the time
of other ages’ realities:
ice age glaciers,
dinosaur bones,
river canyons,
sand blast hoodoos.

We ride through the earth
of other species’ realities:
lumbering bear,
floating otter,
mountain climbing sheep,
improbable puffins,
lonely bison.

We return, but not really.
Really, we realize,
our once comfortable reality
receded as we traveled.

Now, gods unto ourselves,
we unpack and begin
to recreate our own reality.

The whistle of the wind through trees
like your father’s bedtime whisper
shshshshshshshshshshshshsh

The crackle of dry leaves under your feet
like your cracker crumbling in your fist
cripcrikcripcrikcripcrikcripcrik

The grumble of cars on the street
like the dog when you pull her ears
grgrgrgrggrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgr

The plop of my shoes on the pavement
like the drop of your teddy on the floor
clobclobclobclobclobclobclobclob

The smack of the stone on the water
like the splash of your hand in the bath
plickplickplickplickplickplickplick

The tickle of the grass on your stomach
like the whisper of your granddad’s beard
jiskjiskjiskjiskjiskjiskjiskjisjiskjisk

The light of the sun in your eyes
like the bright of your mother’s love
yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes

Today is September twelfth
so now we can forget
for the next 364 days

Apparently
we are content
to remember only yesterday

Read the names
Toll the bells
Dig the pictures out of the archives
Promise terrible revenge next time

Then midnight arrives
and we tun back
back into plump pumpkins
with no memory
growing complacent
in our garden of goodies

What if every day
we remembered

Remembered
the causes
Remembered
how easily we were led into two wars
Remembered
that no Iraqis, no Afghans hijacked those planes
Remembered
that there were no weapons of mass destruction
Remembered
the names, the stories, the loves
of the men and women who died
in those wars
Remembered
the names of the children
missing a parent
because of those wars
Remembered
the ones struggling
with their unwelcome mementos
of those wars

Remembered to pray
for peace
for wisdom
for remembering every day

You don’t have to be young
to chew on a pencil, or a finger
to laugh at a dog, or squirm in your seat
to cry over what you can’t do, or over spilt milk
to stare transfixed at a blade of grass, or an ant
to wave goodbye, or blow a kiss

You don’t have to be young
but it helps

You don’t have to be old
to savor a new taste, or a new poem
to laugh at an old movie, or a politician
to cry over what can’t be fixed, or over injustices
to stare transfixed at a grandchild, or a liver spot
to say goodbye to another friend, or kiss a closed coffin

You don’t have to be old
but it can’t be helped