You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
If spring arrives without rain,
would the root and leaf open?
Seed that has not rotted
or satisfied hunger,
become buried too deep
or fallen on stone,
may reply, in its own season. And so,
in your own way, rise up and walk.
Keeping your heart tender,
within reason.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full Green Repose collection, click here.
Someday I’ll learn the identities of clouds. Buy the chart, memorize their qualities and forms, and then watch the flowing sky afresh. This is, after all, yet another strand of mapping.
From childhood, I’ve absorbed maps. Mind travel. Concepts augmented by photographs and writings, which have often furnished a sense a such familiarity that when I arrive in a new place, strangers stop me to ask directions, even on my inaugural visit. Foliage, waters, buildings, and people fill in the lines of his maps as they stretch toward some new border. But this move, with its desert, has been an exception. Nothing’s been predictable or particularly comforting. Besides, I experience a vague agitation when venturing to the edge of my known universe. If possible, when visiting new locale, I push out a few miles further, to determine what’s over the next ridge or river — or at least down the road — as if to anchor myself within some context, rather than remain at its periphery. Curiously, I feel more secure when placing that border at some shoreline or rise — countryside, at the least — rather than within seemingly endless tracts of housing, factories, stores, and pavement. Even a round earth has places where monsters may lurk. Gaps exist in any map. Consider the clouds. Everything is, after all, changing. Even that rock, where Kokopelli is sitting.
For more insights from the American Far West and Kokopelli, click here.
WATCHING THE FLITTING flashes of my mind, I jot down notes. Many of them later prompt poems or a scene in fiction or a line of thought that later bears fruit.
Some fall by the wayside. Others find development decades later. Consider:
Add to these and amplify them as you wish.
~*~
Few are prepared or willing for total immersion in the Spirit. Especially when we’re feeling our lives are already full.
There is reason to fear falling into the hands of a Living God.
This is acknowledged, “Thank God for the good old Church of England. It’s our last line of defense between God and ourselves.” Substitute your own institution or practice, as needed.
Giving, with nothing in return. (So it so often seems … route for burnout.)
~*~
Moses and Aaron, confronting graven images:
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Or else simply rootless:
Here we go, warbling.
~*~
Make sense, as you can:
Yes, we want the cost-free pleasures.
The Hebrew lack of first-person personal pronouns – it’s not my house, but the house God has blessed me with or gifted unto me for safe-care.
~*~
For more Seasons of the Spirit, click here.
Just a taste of what’s popping up. In case you were looking for a prompt.
~*~
~*~
Any workplace holds confidences you can never reveal. Not that you don’t want to expose company secrets. Then, considering the office computers, fax machines, and photocopiers, you realize they’re incapable of guilt. They simply do their job — and you might find that unsettling.
Whenever I do manage to tap genuine emotions regarding this employment, no one’s more shocked than myself. Take something as simple as a pane of glass between my desk and the trees outdoors. Even on my job in Appalachian mountains, I wanted a window. One the size of a book would suffice, although a picture view would be preferred. I’ve always appreciated a panorama, a sense of precisely where I fit into the weather of a particular day. Instead, I feel trapped underground, half-buried in regulations and routine. Only a band of natural light at the far end of the fluorescent-and-steel expanse hints of sun, moon, sky, or clouds — and even that aperture is tinted. Why are my hours on the job so cut off from the rest of life? “We may as well be coal miners in carbonized veins or muscular razorbacks sweltering in midnight foundries. Is it only the sun we miss? Examine the calendar. Check on the moon’s phase.”
I could just plot my escape. I am surrounded by desert. Trek there alone. Right to the heart.
He recall the words of another friend who spoke of the paradox of Zen Buddhist freedom: the very limitations the practice imposes also lead to an extraordinary freedom. An individual who’s free in the Spirit can be placed in prison and yet not be captive — persecuted and yet unbowed — denounced and still spotless.
The Dedicated Laborious Quest, as my Teacher taught, is a truly free way.
Free, yes, with the labor.
I pick up the phone and hear Kokopelli’s whistle. He wants us to get going. Then tells me of the dance where we’ll be playing.
For more insights from the American Far West and Kokopelli, click here.
what blows
to kindle sunset and sunrise
sprouts wings on the field
is faith planting
for a harvest at the end
all these tough nuts to open
amid rest
* * *
each day
always more
bands of light
turn within
fields and currents
tempted by more as well as less, but first
those cries being born
* * *
crossing water
invites rest
answering the call to dinner
when we are vanilla
chocolate the strawberry
rhubarb and asparagus
a cake topped in cherries
sweet corn and trout
with apricots and peaches
the scallions, leeks, garlic
carrots, potatoes, yams
spiced pumpkin
whipped cream, fresh butter
applesauce with pancakes
a bowl of black walnuts
yogurt and sharp cheddar
or baby Swiss
when we are sap returning to maple
when we are …
when we are snow peas or sugar snaps
a pear or …
fordhooks or limas
I’ve had a taste of these things
Hindu Yogi
Zen Buddhist
Sufi
Amerindian
Mennonite, Dunker, Amish
Old-Style Quaker
all of them, with holy visions
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set, click here.
OF COURSE WE’RE PUZZLED to observe how many conversations begin with comments about the weather. Everybody can see it’s snowing or raining or feel the heat and humidity. What’s actually happening, of course, is the establishing of a commonality – putting ourselves in a shared space. You make a joke in reply, or a factual statement, and edge into conversation, however superficial or deep, gossipy or plaintive.
No matter how introverted or reclusive an individual is, being human requires social interaction. From birth, we require more nurture and protection than other animals do before we are able to move about on our own, much less survive. We learn from each other, and we are highly vulnerable, despite all our acquired knowledge. We are creatures of culture, not inherited instinct. We make bargains and trade. We court and seduce with words as much as our dance steps or glances.
While experiential religion demands individual practice and awareness, few of us undergo its labors and trials all alone. We find mentors and companions along the way, people who have also encountered and value these matters. Even a secluded monk has an abbot or guru; a nun, her mother superior. Confession is part of the practice. What we find of value we feel compelled to pass along.
Our affinity with these spiritual companions has its own intimacy. These friends hold a mirror to ourselves, to point to our shortcomings and prod us to reach for ever greater fidelity to our purpose. They provide harmony and, when we fail, counter self-loathing and blame with compassion and comfort. Ideally, this exists between husband and wife. Sometimes it is found between prayer partners – two people who agree to hold each other in prayer through the week. Much of the life in the monastic confines of the ashram endeavored on this plain, though the bonds broke down quickly outside of it. Whether one-on-one or within the circle of a community of faith, this companionship has the added dimension of spiritual presence and encounter. Sometimes it spans denominations, when the “invisible church” opens in conversation with another or in venturing into a small group along the way, as I have with Mennonites and Brethren. Sometimes it appears in the context of romantic relationship, in the quest for mutual aspirations.
As much as I’d like to say spiritual companionship is forever, the reality often proves otherwise. I’ve seen those who have maintained this through a lifetime, including couples who’ve become connected through the marriages of their children. More often, I’ve found intense periods where paths cross for a year or two and then part.
Typically, the interactions are words spoken together. Sometimes, as in the excerpts that follow, they arise in lengthy correspondence. Who knows what trail will be left from the emails of the Internet.
~*~
For more Seasons of the Spirit, click here.
Why wait for the dust to settle? Here are 10 bullets from my end.
~*~
~*~
Within the range of distinctives
of nasty red, the Capitol black
the ethereal albino instead
he aligns with the eastern gray
and the western gray.
Yet who would be saint of the squirrel?
Not Lord Rama, who caresses one
as a pet. Nor the cultivating Hermes.
The Blackfoot know him as Old Man.
As he was becoming.
* * *
of course squirrels have faith
of a practical sort
in running the wire, in leaping from a branch
and landing a full eight feet between trees
with such airy jurisdiction
* * *
in a flash such as music
or the tail as a sail
just leap
and grab hold somewhere
* * *
the question, at heart, what was in his blood?
as well as what was it becoming?
not the patriarch, then free from bondage
* * *
overhead, the years overlap
underfoot, the roots tangle
to be light, then lighter than pigeons
or laughter and tears
become gray pussy-willow at the end of winter
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
In her inimitable, understated, and right-on-target way, she jotted in the corner of the Meeting minutes: “I hope thee feels the Spirit of our Lord with thee in thy life, Jnana – a full covering for all thee does. Seek his care. In Christ’s love, Susan.”
Naturally, she hit me in a period in which I wasn’t feeling His presence in everything – and had come to that realization myself. What her quick notation did was kick me into getting back on my knees regularly and into Scripture, too. Now that’s divine oversight! As a result, Meeting First-day was wonderful, and turned into the entire day – wound up spending much of it with another Friend who would turn forty the week before I did, a guy who had expressed to me back in Eleventh month the difficulty he had with my messages in Meeting (an ex-Catholic, he was growing in the Spirit – and in our day, he was able to come to unity with me on crucial points). We visited a couple in Maine, and then hit My Life as a Dog, his first and my third viewing – the movie gets better every time.
~*~
For more Seasons of the Spirit, click here.
