Category Archives: a time for telling

we belong ~

14 Sunday Apr 2013

Posted by in a time for telling, Storytelling, verse

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Today, a break from poetry to tell a story – a reminder
of the ways we belong to one another.

Yesterday afternoon, I was pulling into the parking lot
at a shopping center, when I caught a flash of movement
at the back end of a Goodwill Trailer (you know the kind – a drop off).
I steered in that direction and as I got closer, noticed
the movement was a small rabbit. I’m not sure what he
was doing in that particular (un-nature) place, but he was
definitely a kid. He froze when I stopped the car and for moments,
we watched each other.

When another car entered the lot, he took off – a bullet
across the blacktop.   I wasn’t sure where he would go.
I mean, he was in the middle of town,  and somewhere between a
gas station and a burger joint. I saw him stop when he reached a
patch of grass and I assumed he was nearing home
(or home as he knew it).

I drove probably another 100 feet before stopping to get out
of the car. I glanced back in his direction and saw two large black
crows were chasing something.   I don’t know that it was him, and
suspect it wasn’t since whatever they were chasing seemed smaller
(or at least smaller now that I’ve had time to reflect)….

– but the thought of him being caught was unbearable. I popped
my trunk, dropped in my purse and grabbed the tire iron, before taking
off across the parking lot. It’s been years since I ran so hard
and screamed so loud.

The birds seemed to have cornered whatever
they were chasing, but just as I let out my last scream (yep……..with
all I could muster, ‘nevermore’), the thing they were
pursuing darted between them and under a dumpster. That seemed
to be a sign for them and they took off (or took off to the roof,
where I assumed they would watch and wait for the
re-emergence of their prey).

I cursed them a bit before walking back to my car. I was proud of myself,
but on the other hand, I pondered. First, it must be tough being God and
keeping an eye on everything all the time. Second, I’m not God; as He
would have allowed nature to take care of itself (which is exactly
what was happening even as I came charging with the tire iron).
And yet, (third) I was there, and if there’s One who knows me, it is
God, and He knew I could never turn away from that bunny (good thing I
didn’t have a slingshot in my trunk).

Not sure of the bunny’s name, but I now call him Will (Goodwill)…..
and I am confident that the next time we see each other, it will be a
joyous occassion.

Always, we belong to each other.
Let us never (even for a moment) forget.

Love….

of all I am
you are a part
a fisher in the grain
a ribbon tied –
of spring brocade
of light within the stain

of you
I know –
though none would say
the ways we came to be
knowing not
the day or time –
you’re path would cross
to me

minetokeep

family ~

27 Wednesday Jun 2012

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

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Almost three years ago, I decided it was warm enough to cook outside on the grill. When I opened the lid, however, I found that birds had started a nest beneath the lower grate.

No problem. I got my gloves from the garage and carefully removed the top grate and then the nest, relocating it to the lower branches of a nearby Evergreen.

Two days later, I went to use the grill again and discovered that the eager couple had been at it again, although they hadn’t gotten very far in two days. I was able to just clean what bit of straw and paper they had out without much trouble. That was Wednesday.

The following Sunday, I tried again and surprised the happy couple in the midst of putting the finishing touches on their nest. They froze in mid-activity when I opened the lid. I quickly shut it, and stood for several moments with my hand on top – listening for signs of distress.

That was three years ago. I haven’t used the grill since, and instead, each Spring I sit in my kitchen and watch the growing family of wrens making multiple trips to and from the fields, the trees, and the yard. They have quite successfully traded in their simple nest for a two story townhouse with loft.

When I am lounging on the patio in the summer, they are continuously in and out, and I occasionally catch them peeking out from one of the side air holes. While lying in the sun, there always a wonderful chatter coming from inside the grill. I convince myself that I am the topic of many a discussion – “she’s the one.”

Last Sunday after a stressful morning, I carried lemonade to the back patio and watched as the parents made trip after trip to the yard, the trees, the field (anywhere there were treats to be found) – listening to the eager chatter each time they returned, to go again. In no time at all, I’d forgotten the reason for my distress.

I love them and hardly miss the grill at all!

who are you
with feathers proud
come spread your home
to mine
as brothers
sisters
all the same –
within this one
divine

inheritance

07 Saturday Apr 2012

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

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This story started as one about members of my family – branches long since fallen away. But in thinking it through, I decided that the reason for the story shouldn’t overshadow the reason for the story.

Wink

At a point in my past (actually, I was just out of college), I discovered something that I wasn’t meant to find. I suspect no one was meant to, for surely it would no longer have existed.

If you believe in the divine wisdom of the universe, then perhaps it was there for me to find all along.

It was a piece of information that I knew would prove hurtful to a lot of people – people I loved (and still love) dearly.

At the time, I hurt for the person who had kept the item – for it was associated with a person (and times) long since passed. I felt sorrow that they had carried this grief past its due, but even worse that of all the memories they could have chosen, this was the one they saved.

Even now, I weep for a choice that took years from a wounded soul, and wonder if there were nights when they lay awake remembering that time, only to stumble through the darkness, digging through old boxes to find it – a reminder of pain – sorting through treasure to find the knife, ignoring the best for the sake of the worst.

I know a lot of people who are like this. They cling to the things that poison, holding grudges for wrongs committed a lifetime ago, often by persons dead and gone. They rise each day and pull their bitterness to them, holding to their grief and their anger as if it would save them – as if it could change. Seldom do they realize that the only thing we can change is the thing we own. “If every problem in my life can be traced back to my mother, then I am in a unfortunate position – for until my mother changes, I’m stuck.”

In case you wonder, I have yet to share that secret bit of knowledge (this as close as I will come). But on that day, surrounded by boxes (less the one item I carried with me), I wept for both of them and forgave them both as well.

While the purpose of these ‘tellings’ is to impress the need for storytellers, there are some stories that need not be remembered again. I guess this post turned out to be about two things – the things we keep and the things we don’t.

Saw you there
and weeping for a pain
refused to heal –
though seasons passed
and still your vigil held.
Never thought beyond the hurt –
to resurrection –
beyond the veil
forgiveness to reveal –
the truth of life
the hope for love –
grace beyond compassion.
Dry your tears –
the day approaches new.

Guilty

29 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in a time for telling, Soapbox, Storytelling

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“My mornings typically start with a period of devotion. Since I had already ‘jumped ahead’ and read today’s devotion (on Monday), I flipped to the center of book…confident in finding the right place!

Anyway, the article was written by Mary Lou Ritten and related to four leaf clovers – the analogy that you have to train your eyes to see the four leaf variety among all the rest – just as you have to train your heart to see the good in others instinctively (over the bad). Far too often, we never see beyond ourselves. We’re so involved in getting to the next place that we forget to live in this one (in a place and time we will never be again).

Yeah, I know – perhaps a little weebie-weebie! Anyway! I thought of those drawings that were popular years ago….the ones where you had to ‘train’ your eyes to see the hidden picture. But once you “saw” it, you couldn’t look at the picture again without seeing what you had missed initially.

I like to think that I always look for the good, but sometimes it’s more difficult than others. Do you remember the gratitude journals that were popular several years ago? Each evening, you would list five things you were grateful for. I have a miracle journal (some days – the miracle is that I didn’t kill anyone). The ideas are much the same – to help us to ‘refocus’ our attention.”

I wrote that almost two years ago, as part of a challenge to those within my circle to retrain our eyesight to see the best.

I’ve been accused of many things – a dreamer, a hopeless romantic, one who just won’t let go. I suppose I’m guilty but until yesterday, I didn’t quite understand how the two fit together. During the course of a job fair, it was noticed that there were substantially more people in my line even though the other lines might have resulted in a shorter wait. Some joke was made about it, and I commented that it was probably because I could type faster.

But at the end of the day, a guy who worked alongside me brought up again. He wouldn’t let me ‘laugh it off’ this time, commenting that people were attracted to me because in my eyes, they saw hope. They didn’t see pity or judgment – they saw themselves – the best of themselves. At that moment, I realized a lot of things about the path I’ve taken to ‘here’ and the ‘home’ I’ve found in the now. It is my reward to work with the broken, to see something more – to help them see something more than circumstance and consequence. Maybe if they see that I haven’t given up, they’ll choose not to.

Am I guilty? I certainly am. I’ll spend half a day looking for a four-leaf clover in a patch of weeds or a week involved in work that someone else might see as a total waste of time. I’ve held on to milk, eggs, and relationships (at times) way past their expiration dates, believing in a ‘good’ that no one else could see. When the tough get going, I get comfortable. I’m not giving up, especially when it comes to people. If that makes me a fool, then I’m a fool. A hopeless romantic? Could be. I’ve decided to make no more excuses for holding on, even if it means being accused of being blind. It’s what I do, and I believe it’s what I’m meant to do.

I’ve known darkness. I’ve lived it and I’ve looked into eyes where there was nothing more, convincing myself of a flame. I will always believe that good trumps evil (every single time), and that tinfoil, in the right light, is surely a diamond.

Breathless

25 Sunday Mar 2012

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

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When I was young, I marveled at how my dad could hear anything – me whispering in the bed as he came down the hall, a possum moving in the stack of firewood outside, the first baby Robin fallen from a nest into the weeds.

It seemed an amazing trait to have and I dreamed of walking the woods at night, responding to a call no one else could hear.

I should know to be careful what you wish for. In the last year, I’ve realized that I’ve inherited my father’s hearing and, while it is a lovely trait in some respects, in others it is a curse. While trying to fall asleep at night, I am disturbed by the sound of my husband’s dry fingers brushing against his flannel pajamas, or the sound of his tongue moving in his mouth. No kidding! I often wake to the unmistakable sound of a cricket in the wall, or a field mouse playing in the attic. The night moves, and I hear.

Now before you start thinking I should have my own reality show, let me say that this talent is only present in my right ear. That’s actually a blessing because it means a simple shift in the way I am sleeping can pretty much drown out the cricket. But other sounds can’t even be muffled by three inches of down – the sound of a bobcat crossing the lawn, a leaf stuck in the gutter, a branch bent too close to another.

My father has always known things about the world, about the night and the shape of leaves. He hears the message of a waning moon and the first spring rain, and can tell the difference between a dove and a hawk just by the whisper of wings against the wind.

It may cost me more than a little sleep, but I am definitely listening.

of those to know
and those to feel –
who am I to differ
would swear the song
plays still in ancient pines
was wrestled there some moons ago
when light forgot to glisten –
the stars to tell the dark
I love you so