prelude: Ash Wednesday

I have apologized more times than one
    have paid my dues to the thistle and the thorn
and many times have I thought,
    this flame is enough!

have faced my own wickedness with something akin to despair
or, 
    infinitely more cowardly, 
        refused to face it

Yet I will fathom the depths of my aggression,
    my heartbreak and longing, my entitlement and greed

        and turn, turn

Turn to You  
Turn into your face, your gaze, your solid chest

Turn to cry, 'Change me!' 
'Leave me not alone!'

O you who pulled me from the pit,
who breathed,
and your breath dispersed my darkness:
    do not forget me
        and do not pass me by!

I recognize (though I hardly understand)
I am ashes and dust

But you come, 
you invite
your warmth, 
your eyes

Lord Jesus Christ, 
    I receive you 
        
into my twisted heart.

Welcome Autumn

bring your abandoned orchard plum-picking evenings, 

your canyon runs southeast to Harris Park

show us the late and lingering blackberries before they crumple and wilt,

shriveled raisins on the vines

i love the hood of his ranger, his arms around me, our eyes on the glow to the west

as i love each stranger's invitation to pick Asian pears, 

or sitting beside him in the truck, windows down, back road wind & silence

welcome autumn, bring your long runs again,

your deep shadows on the Blues in the afternoons

Peter Bradley Adams & the rain, the rains returning

pressing coffee each morning before i bike to work

helping destem grapes at crush, for merlot, syrah, malbec

take your coming slowly, stay awhile

resurrection days

first poppies of the year, stark orange against the lilac
violet, white, and lavender, crowding all the streets you run
some bloom already fallen, other trees only beginning to bear any trace of green

spring's shed, a million leaves of norway maple (the ones that look like helicopters)
dancing in the windlight, tiny fragments tossed into your squinting eyes
other springs recalled

of daily sojourns in golden gate park, riding the #9 bus down potrero from market
the jesusita fire and east mountain sunsets (with or without you) of santa barbara
in london, borough market, the tate modern,
the british museum & its stolen rosetta stone
just blocks from your own life
monmouth coffee and fragment jasmine in a city of car exhaust and trash
the wetlands and birdsong on cedar street in the house with hardwood floors
oh, how many miles these feet have walked!

and finally, baleadas and thunderstorms, corina's desayunos deliciosos
(buen provecho),
giovanni driving us into the city para la ocifina de inmigración
singing worship songs with Nuevo in the morning,
teaching those 27 precious & adored ones the anthems of another tribe
oh the turmoil and suffering, the beauty and passion of that other land!

yes, spring hurts
as K. expressed on the miles of another tread
and yet these are Resurrection Days
and One continues to call us out of death and into life
to move from orphanhood and into daughterhood, sonship, in every stream and river

so leave that foul grave, that empty tomb
put to death your own bitter heart, hopelessness, and vanity
be made new
filled with the breath of the air of the country of heaven
which, as we know,
is colonizing earth.

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you've held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

When grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs;

when grief weights you like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, How can a body withstand this?

Then you hold life like a face

between your palms, a plain face

no charming smile, no violet eyes,

and you say, yes, I will take you

I will love you, again.

-Ellen Bass

walking after dark

Alder smoke and a lingering fear of dogs accompany my footsteps, the smell of Honduras fills my sleeping nose.

Last night I dreamed again of that haunting scene, playing out in so many faces and landscapes: the inability to stop someone from hurting you.

And you, I am sure, have forgotten the time you told her not to feel like you loved her baby sister more than you loved her, only that you could already tell you had much more in common with the baby and that you would simply probably connect more. But the girl you told was only eleven, and had never even considered those things before you spoke them.

And sometimes she wonders--could she have done anything differently to earn your liking? Why such strong disinclination, distaste, rejection from the very beginning? Was it that she took away your freedom? Became another object of love for your wife? Was it a lack in intelligence, in beauty, in maturity that pushed you away?

It is odd how much these things stick with us. Dreams, fears. The memories that tell the story of your life.

There are those we pray for without hope for change (some of my students' parents, for example, or one imprisoned for repeat molestation), and I wonder if this hurts G-d. How could a Being have seen even more than us and yet not give up, not quit hurting and speaking kindness and inviting? This is so far from my experience.

But I've been thinking of Incarnation, bodily, what it means that G-d actually became skin and bone and blood. Because if Incarnation is true and real, we are not redeemed from our bodies; we are redeemed in our bodies.

From possession and transactions of trade and brokered agreements based on meeting unmeetable needs, or at least needs we cannot meet in each other. From addiction and destructive behaviors. From self-loathing and from vanity. Who stands stranger to these things?

I believe in freedom, that to become free from even the deepest wounds is possible, and the only way to get there is through Incarnation. Through Jesus Christ, who entered into the suffering, the bleeding, the mess. Who does not turn away.

But sometimes I wish I knew of an easier way.

what is faith?

By faith Abraham... obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going.
-Hebrews 11

I was crying with K on Saturday, this incredible woman and mama and human who has lived through more than any sane, optimistic, peace-bringing North American I know--I mean suicides and rapes and prison sentences and evictions and deaths and mental illness and broken trust and broken marriages and step-children and mothering and making a family out of wounded people-- just so much--and I asked her, barely able to choke the words out, ''Do you ever wish you could go back and give yourself a hug?''

Meaning in between those lines don't you wish you could hold your younger self, oh honey, these are gnarly things you should have never seen, this is hairy stuff you should not have to live through. I am so sorry. The things that make you feel one hundred years old, and batter down your pride of having it together so much that when you feel judged by those who don't know your story, who maybe haven't even lived through sadness, you are not angry, only full of sorrow.

''Every day, Cari,'' she told me. ''Be gentle with yourself. Be patient.''

And I don't care if it is cheesy, this is a year that I love Taylor Swift, and not ironically, and her song Fifteen just nails it.

You sit in class next to a redhead named [K.J.]
And soon enough you're best friends
Laughing at the other girls who think they're so cool
We'll be outta here as soon as we can

When you're fifteen and somebody tells you they love you
You're gonna believe them
When you're fifteen and your first kiss
Makes your head spin 'round
But in your life you'll do (harder things)
But I didn't know it at fifteen

When all you wanted was to be wanted
Wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now

'Cause when you're fifteen and somebody tells you they love you
You're gonna believe them
And when you're fifteen, don't forget to look before you fall
I've found time can heal most anything
And you just might find who you're supposed to be
I didn't know who I was supposed to be at fifteen

It is so difficult to unlearn the practice of gaging your worth from men, from their attention and perceived interest and desire. One problem with that is when it is absent, you feel worthless. But you are desirable because you are a daughter, and not a bastard, even if you feel fatherless. You are desirable because of who you are, or as Elle might say, who you belong to, and not based on who or how many want you.

I was thinking last week about how I wish there was some kind of service where you could pay someone to call you every day and just tell you, with total conviction, ''You're making it. You're going to make it.''

Feeling so old this year has brought a lot of reflection. On worth and habits and patterns and love, on trust and protection and relationship and community.

So far in my life, I haven't really felt like I had to rely on God for provision. In my upper-middle class existence, things have always been provided for me, and I am sorry to say I have even acted very entitled. Extensive travel, great jobs, a high quality education, minimal debt, organic food, easy access to the outdoors and tools for recreation.

Since my departure from Central America though, things have become a challenging exercise in trust. Leaving was premature, I felt unprepared--I was unprepared. I didn't have it together. I don't have it together.

And yet here I am, living in a safe place obviously provided by the One I try to trust. With a great car I wasn't at all expecting to be able to buy. And three good job offers. And I still don't know what I will be doing at the end of two weeks from now, and all summer has been this way. And honestly, I hate it.

You can spend your life worrying and anticipating what will happen to feel more in control (''I will close my heart to this person. I will decide now how things will work out''), obsessing over finances and a scant savings account, your body, over-analyzing relationships and interactions. Or you can choose to live each day as it is, and embrace it. The weather, the food, the work and activities of the day are particular and will shape you, and I want to drink my coffee slowly and allow each tear to fall without wiping them away. I want to bless my body with every mile I hike and honor the land with each peach that I pick. I want to be slow and intentional and receive the ocean of sadness that is this year, though I feel like I am dying.

I always read the creation story of the Torah or heard its interpretations and thought, ''but I don't want to be in charge. I wouldn't want to be God, I've never wanted that. I guess I just don't relate to these two first people, metaphorical or literal or whatever they were.''

Now I see how that issue of trust marks my own life as well. That issue of wanting to feel safe and wanting to feel in control and trusting only yourself, being unable to rely on a force that you can't see or understand to care for you. Thanks G-d, but I'd rather know everything. What will happen with a certain person, where I will be living, what job I will take. I worship certainty, I reject faith. But if I have learned anything this year, it's that I can't trust myself. And it's that, like Bill Johnson says (I think I've listened to his sermon ''Living Unoffended at God'' about seven times in the past two months), ''God is more concerned with our intimacy with him than with our comfort.''

In Honduras whenever you see someone eating, whoever they are, even someone you don't know and you are just walking by, you look them in the eye and say Buen provecho. Good provision. I think of God the Provider and realize that is such a new concept for me. To say, 50 times a day if I have to, I trust you. You provide.

And I think of faith as not knowing all the steps and pieces and trail conditions on the journey (and vistas and lighthouses and dangers and disasters), but continuing to follow. Not to run ahead. Not to bushwhack your own path.

?Piensas que un persona se puede darle una otra persona paz? I asked R, more than once. Peace, what I have wanted so badly, my whole life, to have. And though he told me, Si, eres mi paz y yo seré tu paz, I see now that God is my peace. You are my refuge, and you care for me, so I will be sure of what I hope for and certain of what I do not see.

So I sing that Brooke Fraser song all the time now, tears running down my cheeks because I know that, even though I do not feel it, it is becoming true.

If to distant lands I scatter
If I sail to farthest seas
Would you find and form and gather 'til I only dwell in Thee?
If I flee from greenest pastures
Would you leave to look for me?
Forfeit glory to come after
'Til I only dwell in Thee

If my heart has one ambition
If my soul one goal to seek
This my solitary vision 'til I only dwell in Thee
That I only dwell in Thee
'Til I only dwell in Thee

well, it's 7.13. [farther along / josh garrels]

Farther along we'll know all about it
farther along we'll understand why
so cheer up my brother, live in the sunshine
we'll understand this, all by and by

Tempted and tried, I wondered why
the good man died, the bad man thrives
and Jesus cries because he loves them both
we're all castaways in need of rope
hanging on by the last threads of our hope
in a house of mirrors full of smoke
confusing illusions I've seen

Where did I go wrong? I sang along
to every chorus of the song that the devil wrote
like a piper at the gates
leading mice and men down to their fates
but some will courageously escape
the seductive voice with a heart of faith
while walking the line back home

So much more to life than we've been told
it's full of beauty that will unfold,
so shine like you struck gold my wayward son
that deadweight burden weighs a ton
go down to the river and let it run
wash away all the things you've done
forgiveness, alright.

Still I get hard-pressed on every side
between the rock and the compromise
like the truth and a pack of lies fighting for my soul
and I've got no place left to go
'cause I got changed by what I've been shown
more glory than this world has known
keeps me rambling on.

And even when I fall I'll get back up
for the joy that overflows my cup
heaven filled me with more than enough
knocked down my levies and my bluffs,
let the flood wash me.

Farther along we'll know all about it
farther along we'll understand why
so cheer up my brother, live in the sunshine
we'll understand this, all by and by.

Toyota: timing belt completely worn down, $404.66.

I feel like I can handle anything this week!

East Coker in autumn

The hollyhock is holding on, though we're reaching mid-November
the laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
I've been meaning to plant those poppies,
but only seem to be losing any tolerance for cold I might have had.

(All the best, I suppose, with the impending migration south.)

We pick up the pieces of these things, she reminds me
heartbreak, she means, and living through fire
not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
of death and birth
(we've been picking them up all our lives)

I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
which shall be the darkness of G-d

Now looking you in the hazel eye
and we know that the hills and trees... are all being rolled away
the question is not one of protection,
but humility
the only wisdom we can hope to acquire
an unending exercise in trust.

the jesusita fire

Ten days of tears, and even several instances of the f word, and now graduation really is nearly (nearly) here. Fast and soon and crazy. The Jesusita fire has burned through almost 3,000 acres, and is only 10% contained. 5 of the people coming to see me walk the dais on Saturday will not make it now. My parents drove to Ventura tonight after being evacuated from their hotel and finding every other hotel in Carp and SB booked.

But we will make it, with strong doses of laughter and an increased appreciation for the ridiculous. Because this is how we grow up.

d.l.g.

there's a woman as old and bright as the stars
whose wild hair looks different every day
a woman whose bare arms and legs dance and lengthen, toeing a rhythm,
leading the rest of us to hear her beat and melody, to hear our song

this woman rose up out of rocky mountains
she came west and dressed us in joy
and a certain boy is not quite not over her
but this woman is wise and patient, brave and hopeful
she hears a voice saying
wait,
be still,
come near

and she knows this is a season of new songs

and if i know anything,
it's that her brightness only gets brighter

and so we broke bread, pouring the crimson over it
wine falling in drops off the cliff on which we stood
the sea below, we faced the western gate
golden & famous, as it was

& we remembered You
you who came to dwell among us
to suffer and to dance and to drink with us
you who became one of us

oh, my most dear brothers, my most dear sisters
may we recognize the holy One!