milk and honey

Happy Birthday to this one:

Firstborn.

Happy Anniversary to these two:

Miss them.

My husband dreads the winter. Born
himself on the darkest day of the year
and disregarded, he sees nothing
but black ice, danger of pipes
bursting, other people’s cats freezing,
left outside like a name scratched
off the list.
                           But fish still swim
beneath the frozen surface of lakes,
and there are frogs that let their blood
ice over in the mud to thaw again
in the spring, green Lazarus come forth.
And even I, born on the last day of winter,
can see how the snow can cover this all up
to look cleaner than it ever was, for a moment
at least, while it is still falling in our hair,
in our up-turned, hope-filled faces.

 

The Beach Balls have completed their winter migration!

As Isaak Walton said (almost): "Surely, God could have made a better cocktail. Surely, God never did."

#arrangement in white, gray, and olive

I must admit, sometimes I find the daily lectionary to be a chore. Not today.
This, from Baruch (Baruch! - in the Apocrypha), is simply wonderful:

... the stars shone in their watches, and were glad;
he called them, and they said, ‘Here we are!’
They shone with gladness for him who made them.

Baruch 3:34

“Dad, now that you’re officially old, do you have any bits of wisdom to share?” “Yes, child. It’s always a good idea to put some lemon zest on whatever you’re eating."

Another mass shooting. This one close to home. A fetishistic fascination with guns, power, and violence permeates American society. It’s symptomatic of a deep cultural pathology, and it’ll take more than laws to address the sickness. BUT, at least gun regulations are a place to start. And, compared to treating a moral illness, they’re low-hanging fruit. So, let’s make gun regulation an “easy” first step in trying to find a cure for this disease in our national soul.

I can imagine someone who found 
these fields unbearable, who climbed 
the hillside in the heat, cursing the dust, 
cracking the brittle weeds underfoot, 
wishing a few more trees for shade.

An Easterner especially, who would scorn 
the meagerness of summer, the dry 
twisted shapes of black elm, 
scrub oak, and chaparral, a landscape 
August has already drained of green.

One who would hurry over the clinging 
thistle, foxtail, golden poppy, 
knowing everything was just a weed, 
unable to conceive that these trees 
and sparse brown bushes were alive.

And hate the bright stillness of the noon 
without wind, without motion, 
the only other living thing 
a hawk, hungry for prey, suspended 
in the blinding, sunlit blue.

And yet how gentle it seems to someone 
raised in a landscape short of rain – 
the skyline of a hill broken by no more 
trees than one can count, the grass, 
the empty sky, the wish for water.

Someone spoke to me last night,  
told me the truth. Just a few words,  
but I recognized it.  
I knew I should make myself get up,  
write it down, but it was late,  
and I was exhausted from working  
all day in the garden, moving rocks.  
Now, I remember only the flavor—  
not like food, sweet or sharp.  
More like a fine powder, like dust  
And I wasn't elated or frightened,  
but simply rapt, aware.  
That's how it is sometimes—  
God comes to your window,  
all bright light and black wings,  
and you're just too tired to open it.