The President says our election was fraudulent.
(Our 2 year old grandson calls us Baba and Boppy.)

COVID-19 is surging all across the United States.
(Our Christmas cactus has buds that may bloom for Thanksgiving.)

Too many people are out of work.
(The wind chimes in our magnolia ring softly today.)

Police still kill too many dark skinned people too quickly.
(My yoga mat is a little darker shade but almost the same texture as orange peel.)

The environment may not support life at the end of the century.
(I love the prickly feel of my husband’s short beard.)

(I only feel safe inside my parentheses.)
But then I feel selfish.

Through golden green trees
we drive the two lane highway
to the old farms
past villages
always historical in Virginia
in and out of tree dappled sunshine
reminding me of that poem by that Jesuit
but the afternoon is too lazy for me to remember
names or titles.

Those stone posts have stood at the entrance road
since the early 1800s
but the row of mailboxes just beyond
are just a few years old.

On one side is the turn-off to the recessed farm
closest to the road but recessed from the river
the colonial water highway
On the other side, the debris left
by recent loggers
the long deep wound
not yet softened by new growth.

Slower now we wind
through sunshine and trees
as men and women have for centuries
We turn at the next set of stone posts
drive through a gap in the old stone wall
the wall my husband repaired
stone by flat stone
rebuilding what other hands laid
centuries before.

We pass my favorite oak
not really special except to me
it stands at the end of the driveway
to the house that once was ours
the manager’s house.

Just beyond is the family’s house
that began as an 18th century hunting lodge
on land gifted by the king
the same family still owns the land
the house
the business
my husband helped build.

The same family
welcomes us back always
so we drive confident past the barn
that is on the national historic registry
across the train tracks
built after the colonial canal was drained
built to accommodate the newer faster rail transport
back in the 19th century

Through the farmland to the river
to the delight of our two year old grandson
abandoning the car
we slip down the muddy grassy sides
to the rocky shore
and spend the Indian summer afternoon
watching a 2 year old throw ever bigger rocks
into the river.

I take off his shoes and socks
and mine
so we can dangle our feet in the cold water
my long legs from the big rock
his short ones from the little rock

Driving home
we pass again the family’s home
300 and more years after the land grant
still owned by the same family
We pass my favorite old oak
at the turn for the manager’s house
occupied by another family now
but we are always welcome here
We pass the stone wall
rebuilt by my husband
built first by enslaved black men
We drive through the stone posts
erected by those enslaved men
We look through the trees to where
the slave chapel once stood
and beyond that we know are the few small
leaning half-buried gravestones
in what remains of the slave cemetery

How many of the black people
in these small historic villages
share blood with those
who built those walls
laid those posts
cleared that land
planted now harvested trees
lie unnamed in forgotten graves

We drive through sun and shade
tree filtered

White owners still
keep house and land
Generous people
Kind people
Proud people
Seen and heard

Black slaves disappear
Unless you squint
past the blinding white
into the dark past
Generous people
Strong people
Proud people
Unseen, unheard

with a smidgen of theology
a smattering of prayer
with concern for the environment
that preferential option for the poor
with a mother’s lap for a weaned child
and borrowed ah, bright wings
i carefully craft my god

on a fall day
Rain
softly kisses
the breasts of trees

windshield wipers
(my oldest
forty and more years ago
called them smicker smackers)
play hide and seek
with the Rain

my vision blurs
/smick/
clears
\smack\

i hear (my husband)
/smick/
talk soft
\smack\

i watch (my husband)
/smick/
listen hard
\smack\

(even we
will little heed
/smick/
nor long remember
\smack\
what we
say
/smick/
see)
\smack\

but ah, bright love
through a gray day
i hear some God
(not of my making)
chuckle

I was told I would
See the heavens open
As angels of God the Father
Descend and ascend
On the Son of Man

When I was a child
I ran through bright fields
Of imagination’s freedom
And I sang

When I went to school
I fenced those fields away
So I could stay safe
In the cathedral of faith
As I prayed

I waited for those angels
For that Father God
For that Son of Man

When I grew up
I tore down those fences
So I could run free of faith
But thorns drew blood
So I stumbled, I fell

I never found a clear path
I never found one hand to hold tight
One heart to beat with mine
Whether in open fields
Or high walled cathedrals
Whether giddy with flower perfume
Or bloody with thorn sharpness

I never heard a clear call
Only echoes of maybe
Reverberating dreams
In fading sound mist

I never saw those angels
Coming and going

I dragged chains
Heavier and heavier
Up and down
Hills and ravines
Of hopes and failures
Expectations and measures

Now that I am old
I laugh when I remember bright fields
I shiver when I remember fenced cathedrals
I wince when I remember sharp thorns
I smile when I remember perfumed blooms
I cry when I remember dragged chains

But mostly I sigh when I remember
All the nows, all the futures
I have traveled to get here
My love
Here to you

To your hand in mine
To your heart with mine
To your smile, your kiss
Your silences and your tenderness

Then I look at you
At our life
Together
And I raise my eyes
To the opening heavens
And I whisper
Thank you

We live in two worlds simultaneously
Said the psychiatrist
The internal
And the external

We see two worlds simultaneously
Said the artist
The beautiful
And the ugly

We experience two worlds simultaneously
Said the philosopher
The good
And the evil

We struggle with two worlds simultaneously
Said the author
The one we want to remember
And the one we want to forget

We know two worlds simultaneously
Said the theologian
The already
And the not yet

We will live in two worlds
Said the Rabbi
The Olam HaZeh
And the Olam HaBa

They all agree
We – I – inhabit two worlds

But
I have a problem:
I constantly confuse
The two

Is the lesson in the sermon
Or in the helping?

Is the example in the suffering
Or in the feeding?

Is the victory in the cross
Or in the manger?

Is the divinity in the miracles
Or in the humility?

Is salvation in the belief
Or in the doubting?