Sacraments of the Morning

Sacraments of the Morning

Isn’t it enough
to feel a chill as you rise from a warm
bed, stumble to the bath and with
nimble fingers attend to your body’s
needs, button your shirt, to balance
as you put pants on one leg at a time?

Isn’t it enough
to hear the morning news, the coffee
maker gurgling as you eat your
Wheaties with skim milk, to listen in
the comfort and illuminated safety of
your kitchen as rain rattles the roof?

Isn’t it enough
to inhale the earth’s perfume of wet
dirt, worms, roses and jasmine blooms,
to smell even the faint fumes of the
world’s morning commute as you join
with humanity for the day’s business?

Isn’t it enough
to taste the fresh tender day and
savor the strong bitter brew from
your steaming paper chalice as
you await the train under the shelter 

with others huddled like pigeons?

Isn’t it enough
to observe the blur of cinderblock
fortresses adorned with graffiti, the
lonely artifacts of life strewn across
anonymous backyards, to notice the
window cat watching the morning?

-- Kathryn Harper

“Cold Rain, Warm Colours” by Fred Rune Rahm, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 

Pandemic Prayer

Pandemic Prayer

We are not all left standing when the war has ended.
It feels like the end times.
For many, it is.
Inhalation is our first act of embodiment.
Exhalation, our last.
One lifetime, millions of breaths
a conversation with all existence.
Where does the spirit go when we die?
Hail Mary, my gentle Momma,
You left; you gave up your breath
before the virus could steal it.
You waged a long campaign to stave off
cancer, old age, and death.
Emancipating your breath
you added the gift of your spirit to all.
Holy Mary, you released your body,
returned to Earth, our suffocated Mother,
in respiratory distress for decades.
Humanity is a virus choking
and drowning our source of life.
When the host dies,
the virus dies too.
Momma, you returned to our Mother
so you could garden with Her,
to try to heal us all.

–Kathryn Harper

On this day six years ago my mother, Mary Catherine Nicklas Petro, died. She was 86 and had two types of cancer. In 2017 she was diagnosed with stage IV melanoma -- her third experience with melanoma. She began Opdivo, an immunotherapy. It was her good fortune that she fell into the 30% for whom the treatment worked. It shrank her tumors to almost nothing. About a year ago, her breast cancer returned. She had a lot of arthritis, mobility issues, and pain. Yet she kept going as long as she could with the Opdivo, because she wanted to contribute to the research on the treatment for the sake of others. The breast cancer returned, though, and she knew she didn’t want aggressive treatment for it. Her body was struggling enough with side effects and ailments.

Mom was getting close to entering hospice. We had imagined more time, a gradual decline, a process where we could see her again and say good-bye. Something happened inside her that day that led to a swift end. She is no longer suffering. I had talked to her three days prior, and I am so glad I did. We lived 3,000 miles apart. I lived in an epicenter of Covid-19, was sheltering-in-place, and am in a vulnerable group. I didn’t want to get it, and I didn’t want to carry it to my siblings or my elderly father. I spent a lot of time saying good-bye to my mother over the years, connecting with her, resolving things between us. I grieved some. Yet nothing prepared me for how that felt. The finality. May we all be peace; may we all be free from suffering. 

The Ogre and the Girl Who Nevertheless Persisted

From an exercise in Your Life As Story, Chapter 3: My Fairytale and Letter

The Ogre and the Girl Who Nevertheless Persisted

Once upon a time there was a girl who was born to an old-fashioned father in an era of feminism. Growing up she displayed aptitude for language and writing and did well academically. However, there were problems: she was raised in the Catholic church, in which females did not have a prominent role. She was drawn to religion even as a young child, but as she grew up her perception of God was shaped by her view of her father. Another problem was her parents’ perception of her ability, especially her father’s. She expressed interest in becoming a teacher; he negated it, saying there was a glut of teachers. She said she wanted to be a writer, a journalist, but was told she wasn't competitive enough to succeed. She revealed a desire to be a psychologist but was told she was too emotional. Because she could not declare without hesitation exactly what she wanted to do with her life that fell outside these three interests, because he was conservative and would not support her in pursuit of a liberal arts education, and because he had the money, she adjusted her educational goals to suit him.

In high school she became involved in a teen Catholic prayer group. She became a vocal, “born again” Christian, a role which defined her life for four years. She lived in dread of making mistakes. Her parents were experiencing relationship problems, notably her father launching into rages at her mother. The girl felt it was all because of her not being good enough, so she tried even harder to be good and perfect. Because of her eldest sister’s departure from college after one year, he would not allow her to go away to school. She received supportive feedback from teachers about her intellect, but felt there was no point because since age 12 her father told her he wouldn’t let her go away to school. Because of her second-eldest sister’s reneging on a parental loan for a car, he would not allow her to get her driver’s license while she lived under his roof. Her life was bound in negatives. In 1981 she applied to the community college under one major, human services; her father repeatedly told her she would only end up working in a welfare office, which sounded depressing. So before school started she switched to food service management, thinking it would at least provide a creative outlet. She quickly learned that cooking was not her passion and changed to business administration. She was miserable. She felt underused, dissatisfied, not academically challenged in any way. She had to take the bus two hours each way daily, or scrabble rides from classmates. After one year, she recognized the waste of time and money involved, and she told her father she would withdraw and seek work.

One week after informing him of her decision, he asked her if she’d gotten a job yet. She replied she had not, and he assumed she hadn’t been looking. He flew into a tirade about how he would not permit her to leech off of him. He stated she would have to start paying rent at $100 a month plus her own groceries. Shortly after, she found a job as a dental assistant that paid a low wage; she could not afford to move out of her parents’ house. After eight months the dentist decided to take a seven week vacation and laid her off. She quit (she needed income) and searched for another job. In 1983, desperate to become competitive in the job market, she entered a business school to pursue a degree in secretarial studies. She didn’t want to, but again, financial aid depended on her father, who only supported practical, clerical subjects for her; the government required he report his income to assess aid, and he resisted. She pushed and he relented, and she ended up borrowing $5,000 to fund this. The school was a diploma mill, not totally legitimate, and again, she loathed the classes. After six months she quit and, using the money from the loan, moved out on her own. She then got a job as a secretary at Syracuse University in 1984. It was an awful job, where the Dean of Students required females to wear skirts and dresses only, where she was given menial tasks and was rebuked for wanting to take on more work. She spent many hours looking busy, which exhausted her. 

Still unsure of what she wanted to study, and struggling with her sense of self and place in life, she meandered through the days. She had remitted tuition benefits, but she started courses and dropped them. After a year, she transferred to a job at the university library, where she immersed herself in reading and books. Her job bored her, and she barely made ends meet. However, she at least could wear jeans and casual clothes and spend many hours getting paid to read and research, which she did love. Gradually she became more serious about her education, and she grew stronger in her sense of ownership over her own life. She took courses she enjoyed and recognized the spark of intelligence within her. She decided in her mid-20s to study psychology, despite what her father would think. She knew it wouldn’t guarantee a job, but she also knew she had skills to at least feed herself. She wanted to study what she loved, a subject that engaged her and made her think. And despite the fact she’d lived on her own for over five years, she felt compelled to explain her decision in a letter to her father. She also wanted to go away to college and have the typical college experience.

In 1989, she applied to a couple of state colleges and was accepted. However, she had no savings. She would have to borrow student loans, but she didn’t know if that would be enough. Her father offered to provide some funding, a loan of $8,000, to be paid upon graduation. The conditions of the loan stated she could not marry, get pregnant, buy a vehicle, or take a vacation while in school, and that she would work temp jobs on her breaks. The arrangement of the loan filled her with foreboding, which she expressed to her mother. Her mother’s response was that if she really wanted the education, to swallow her pride and sign the contract. She did, with reluctance. Off she went, and she did well her first semester. In her second semester, concerned about the amount she borrowed and her father’s implied timeframe for repayment (within five years of graduation), she attempted to adjust her course load so she could graduate sooner. She and her brother were both home for spring break. Her proposal violated her father’s sense of the contract she had signed and was met with his rage and refusal; he grilled her about her expenditures. He behaved as in the past, like a despot. During this encounter, she had an epiphany. At age 26, he was still treating her as if she were 8, and he acted as though he owned her. He said ugly things to her about being a failure, a quitter, and not being his daughter, and he lunged toward her. His emotions were so apoplectic that her brother had to physically intervene to keep their father from reaching her. She decided that her dignity and autonomy were more valuable to her than an education, and she left his house. She finished out the semester (spring 1990) by living with a friend and commuting to the college (100 miles round trip in a borrowed vehicle) and returned to her library job with one year of credits left to earn.

Shortly after leaving, she received a memo from her father through her mother. In this she learned that her father had intended to forgive the entire debt upon her graduation (a decision he declined to share because he thought knowing would make her squander the opportunity), that he wanted the house-key returned, and that he did not want to see or have any contact with her until he decided he wanted it. This was cold, but typical of him. The woman just decided to let go of the desire for a college degree for awhile. She was very, very depressed, more so than she had ever been. Too much was in flux in her life; she didn’t even have a place to live. So she focused on acquiring the basics, on regaining stability, so she could rest and reassess the situation. She sorely needed a means of reliable transportation, and she needed money to pay for classes that the college required she take on campus.

In spring of 1991, she managed to find a deal on a new little car and arranged the loan. This was freedom! Her world opened. With this exhilarating change she felt renewed. She spoke to her boss about changing her work schedule to accommodate the classes she would need to take during the day. Her boss supported this; the endeavor would demand much of her, in that she would work in the morning, commute 100 miles in the afternoon for class, and finish her job in the evening. But it was possible, and she embraced this. In the summer of 1991 she took classes at Oswego, and coursework in the fall at both campuses. In spring of 1992 she took more courses at the university where she worked to transfer to the Oswego. Exhausted but nearly finished, she plowed through more summer and fall courses, and finished her studies in December 1992. Her goal had been to get her B.A. by the day she turned 30. Her birthday was June 24, 1993; she garnered her achievement six months ahead of that deadline. After ten years of hard work and struggle to overcome emotional, financial, and academic obstacles, our heroine prevailed. With the degree that society claimed was necessary to find advanced work, she could move ahead.
-----------------
My dear child,
I know I started parenthood quite late in life, and it is my hope that I gained some wisdom to share by waiting. My life was not problem-free growing up; nor was my early adulthood easy. I had to fight for my opportunities. Lacking money and moral support, I spent many years confusedly searching for my path. Sometimes I am wistful, wondering what else I might have accomplished had my life been different, but this is a waste of time. Besides, there is a central message here, in my life: persevere. No matter that your dream is scoffed at, or that you fear you lack the ability. If your heart whispers to you about what you love, if you harbor a dream, believe in it. And then do all you can to manifest this dream, keeping it in sight as life takes you hither and yon. As long as you hold this dream and nurture it, it will grow. It may not flourish all the time, but it will grow. As I look back on my life, this is one clear lesson it taught me.

How God Remembers That Which is Least

This was originally written in January 2016.

Yesterday I walked home from dropping my daughter at school, and I passed by a wounded mourning dove on the sidewalk. It was camouflaged and nearly undetectable. In a matter of seconds my eye saw it, my heart said, Oh! Poor creature, and my legs kept walking. I thought -- actually, I felt a physical pressure in my torso -- the prompt of compassion to move it off the sidewalk, and this was immediately chased away by the thought, Remember, avian flu, don't want to get something like that.

I kept walking, but a debate occurred between my mind and that felt part of me. I hesitate to call it my heart, because it filled my torso. It was an interesting experience, since another part of me was detached enough to witness the event. This is what unfolded:

Feet are walking.

Head: Keep going. It could have disease.

Heart: You can wash your hands as soon as you get home. It's vulnerable. At least move it off the sidewalk.

Head: It's probably going to die.

Feet keep walking.

Heart: Just move it! Even if it dies, let it be somewhere safer.

Head: No, it's silly. It's just a bird. Not a big deal. Besides, I'm several houses past it.

Heart: Go back. Go back, pick it up, and put it under a bush. 

Feet move more slowly.

Head: You're kidding, right? Feet, keep walking. It's no big deal.

Feet continue to move, even more slowly.

Heart: You must go back. Turn around, walk back, and move the bird. It's a living creature.

Feet stop.

Head: Really?

Heart: Really.

My body turned around, my feet walked half a block back to the bird. I leaned down and gently cupped my hands around it. I lifted the bird and saw that it was dead. Its eyes remained open, but there was not even the slightest movement of a feather. I tucked it under a bush. I wasn't thinking. The act itself felt like a prayer. I took out my phone and snapped a picture. It was just a bird, but it had been living and now it wasn't. It seemed right to memorialize it in a photo. Then I stood up and began walking home.

Peace coursed through my body. It was an act of compassion, however small.

Heart: Thank you.

Head: Okay, just be sure to wash your hands really well when you get home.

Today, a scripture from my childhood came to mind, Luke 12:6: "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God."

We are God's eyes. We are called to remember. That is how God moves in the world.

Sitting With Anxiety

Sitting With Anxiety

Up until recently I actively avoided Anxiety whenever I saw her coming my way. Unfortunately, she would always see me trying to dodge her, and she would pursue me, shouting, "Hey, wait, I need to talk to you!" I've never liked her. The whole of her personality irritates me. She could be considered high strung. Anxiety is a chain-smoker. She looks like a famine survivor from hardly eating, and her hands tremble. Her skin is blotchy from lack of sleep, and the worry lines around her face seem engraved into her skin, even though she is my age.

Moreover, an encounter with Anxiety always leaves me perturbed, restless, and edgy. Sometimes I feel extremely irritated with her. Anxiety has an ability to pop up in many places I don't expect her. I'm amazed to see her at so many social functions, because I know her presence has a similar effect on other people. Anxiety is always bemoaning some imagined future catastrophe. She worries and reads danger into the slightest mishaps. She has a habit of showing up almost constantly when my life is chaotic. I've spent many years listening to her stories and reacting in alarm to them. I've tried to get rid of her politely, but when she won't leave, I seethe with resentment. I've even ordered her out a few times, yet she always returns. And as long as I engage in this judgmental avoidant way, she feeds off this and won't leave.

Well, I had an epiphany the other day. Anxiety caught up with me, and rather than dismiss her, or listen politely while swallowing my annoyance, I decided to withhold judgment a moment. I asked myself, "What is Anxiety trying to communicate? What does she want?" As I pondered life from her perspective, I realized that Anxiety sees herself as my friend. And, because she is naturally tense and worried, her perceptions of the world are tainted by this. As my friend, she is simply looking out for me, in the best way she knows how. Even if it means warning me of imagined dangers. I have the power to choose how I listen to her. I can believe her and react in alarm, allowing her tension to inflame me. Or I can receive her kind intent while detaching myself from the content of her words.

So now, when Anxiety finds me, I make myself available for a few moments. Often what she seeks is reassurance. I hold her trembling hands and acknowledge her worries. Once she knows I have heard her, she is satisfied for a while and flits off to someone else. Anxiety does have her place in this world. I am learning, though, how to keep this relationship in perspective.

-- Kathryn Harper

Photo:“1BabnnxO1xPYXBziw4xB--0--knth4” by Amanda Girard, CC BY-SA 4.0

I wrote this reflection in the style of Ruth Gendler and her lovely work, The Book of Qualities.

A Glimmer For Today

Hello! I'd like to introduce you to Sydney. They are in the lower left corner of this photo.

Many years ago I was quite phobic about spiders. I'm talking about not being able to sleep if I saw a spider in my bedroom, visceral physical reactions of disgust at seeing one, and intense terror. I loved reading Charlotte's Web and understood intellectually how helpful they were. But this couldn't get past my lizard brain response.

In my 20s I began to work on shifting this. I made myself look at them more closely if I saw them outdoors. I worked on talking myself down to a calmer state. Rather than killing them when I found them at home, I began to rescue and release them. I still had the heebie jeebies with some of the bigger ones. If I found one in the car I'd probably melt down. But for the most part I've gotten over the phobia.

I'm not a passionate or dedicated housekeeper. Dusting feels pointless. The house is neat but a bit cobwebby around the corners. Last September a spider established a small home base on the kitchen sink window. We had a problem with fruit flies in October, and Sydney was quite helpful resolving it. They began to weave a more elaborate home, and I decided as long as it remained confined to the windowsill I would leave it be.

And here we are, six months later. Sydney remains, and the sill is strewn with little carcasses of prior meals. I'm not sure how long spiders live but am impressed how much time has elapsed with Sydney at the sill. I would never have envisioned me allowing this years ago. 

Every Day Like a Vitamin

I'm 62. My child is 18 and will head off to college this fall. I did the heavy lifting of mothering for 18 years, and while I will always be part of my child's life, they will launch into their own. I have more time, energy, and mental capacity free to use in different ways. Working as a therapist is one project, and I love doing the work. I missed it so much before returning in 2021. 

Another project of mine has been to renovate my life in such a way that I become physically healthier and more fit. Losing weight and regular intense exercise has improved my life so much, particularly my mental health. And goodness knows with the state of U.S. politics, I need to take care of this.

Lately, though, I've noticed I am prioritizing creating daily. It brings such joy and equanimity. It feels as important as eating and sleeping. It puts me in a flow state that enables me to be a decent human being and do good things in the world. But most of all, as I'm getting older, I'm acutely aware that my remaining time is finite and precious. I am going to die. Every day I wake up and put that awareness front and center in my attention, because I want to spend some time every day doing this activity that makes my life rich. When I'm on my deathbed, I want to have no regrets. I want the satisfaction of knowing that I gave myself to life and really engaged.

So every day since January I've been collaging (posted here). And lately I've been making small abstract paintings with watercolor, and converting other painted paper into notecards. It makes me grateful to be alive. And I am grateful to myself that I've made this practice a daily priority.

Wailin' Jennies - Storm Comin'

When that storm comes
Don’t run for cover
When that storm comes
Don’t run for cover
When that storm comes
Don’t run for cover
Don’t run from the comin’ storm cause there ain’t no use in runnin’

When that rain falls
Let it wash away
When that rain falls
Let it wash away
When that rain falls
Let it wash away
Let it wash away, that falling rain, the tears and the trouble

When those lights flash
Then you’ll hear that thunder roar
When those lights flash
You’ll hear that thunder roar
When those lights flash
You’ll hear that thunder roar
Will you listen to that thunder roar and let your spirit soar

When that love calls
Will you open up your door
When that love calls
Will you open up your door
When that love calls
Will you open up your door
You gotta stand on up and let it in, you gotta let love through your door

When that storm comes
Don’t run for cover
When that storm comes
Don’t run for cover
When that storm comes
Don’t run for cover
Don’t run from the comin’ storm
Cause you cant keep a storm from comin’

Max McNown - A Lot More Free (Official Music Video)

Leaves start falling my cold wind blows
And soon get covered by the winter snow
Birds start singin' when the spring rolls 'round
Flowers blooming through the thawing ground

When you love somebody and the love grows cold
The sun starts shining when you let it all go
There's a certain kinda hurting only time can heal
That's a pretty good picture of the way I feel

I'm a little bit hurt but a lot more free
I ain't saying that you never took a toll on me
For what it's worth, I can finally see
That I'm a little bit hurt but a lot more free
Yeah, I'm a little bit hurt but a lot more free

From this mountain I can see so far
Rivers running like deep deep scars
Carrying the lifeblood through my veins
Is it crazy that I'm grateful for all the pain?

'Cause I'm a little bit hurt but a lot more free
I ain't saying that you never took a toll on me
For what it's worth, I can finally see
That I'm a little bit hurt but a lot more free
Yeah, I'm a little bit hurt but a lot more free

Dance With Me

                     

Dance With Me

There I stood, waiting for the express
While pondering ways to renew
my flagging spirit, which struggled to climb
life's mounting challenges, when I saw you, serene,
your hands moving in the air, a kind of dance --
the glorious joy on your face making you rich.

Gazing around, I noticed the world's colors were rich.
In each person I sensed the soul's desire to express, 
to enter into the dance.
I felt that I could summon the energy to renew
and make myself serene
like an arbor trellis with those roses that climb.

To reach far, to stretch toward goals that require I climb --
this makes life worthwhile, and I feel rich.
In these moments, my heart beats serene.
I vibrate with life and tremble to express,
to evolve, to embrace impermanence and thus renew
life's eternal dance.

So, which steps will we choose to dance?
Will it be the hustle, the two-step, the fandango climb?
Or maybe a slow waltz, to allow our breathing to renew
while rhythmically moving to the beat, slow and rich.
Perhaps we will lean in to share a kiss, to express
what tantalizes us as we attempt to appear serene.

We might do this under the silver light of the moon, serene
in the movement of the dance
and the people watching -- their murmurs will express
how desire steeps, distills, intensifies, like the climb
of mercury trapped in a glass tube, the red rich
as blood, like the lungs give oxygen to renew.

And after we untwine ourselves, we turn within to renew
the relationship with the One who never leaves, the serene
companion who understands money does not make one rich;
nor does having it guarantee an invitation to the dance
and that life is often one painful, slogging climb
to an illusory summit that cannot contain all we express.

Form and emptiness express all that is, a serene

invitation to renew your energy and dance with life.

Free from need to delve or climb, rich beyond measure.

-Kathryn Harper  

Sara Bareilles, Salt Then Sour Then Sweet (Lyrics)

Give me the light years
But I want the dark ones, too
Grief is the singer in my band
She's a passenger van
And a shortcut straight to the truth

Learn from the nightshades
They grow in the darkest places
Had we not been stung so many times
Would we ever have arrived
At this heaven on Earth that I don't wanna waste

Pick a lucky penny up
And I'll marry you for your money, love

So keep the Novocain out of my wisdom teeth
Want to feel it all
Salt then sour then sweet
Want to kiss you and write love's name on my crumbling walls
Lay them at your feet with the rest of me
Salt then sour then sweet

Come to the porch, love
Look up at the perfect sky
Holding the sun and the moon and the thundering June
While she teaches the birds and the rain how to fly

I don't need perfect
I just want to touch what's true
I want to cherish the trying
And the living and dying
Make big mistakes the way kind people do

Pick a lucky penny up
And I'll marry you for your money, love

So keep the Novocain out of my wisdom teeth
Want to feel it all
Salt then sour then sweet
Want to kiss you and write love's name on my crumbling walls
Lay them at your feet with the rest of me
Nothing more I need
Nothing more I need
Life is lovably
Salt then sour then sweet

So sweet
So sweet
So sweet
Life is lovably
So sweet, so sweet
So sweet

Appreciating Glimmers

I've been known to pack away my favorite Ben & Jerry's flavor, Chunky Monkey, every once in awhile. I can pretty much get that any time. However, every year in February I await the return of one of my favorite treats, the Baskin Robbins flavor of the month: Love Potion #31. It's a decadent white chocolate and raspberry ice cream, infused with raspberry swirl, chocolate chips, and little chocolate hearts filled with raspberry. I try to enjoy is several times throughout the month. This is a small joy, a glimmer, that I appreciate returning every year. 

I Have a Sad

This is Misty, our rabbit, from younger days. She is doing what she does best: chilling. We adopted her at one year of age in March 2019, and she has been a silly, feisty, sweet presence in our family. 

Until this month, she has been in stellar health. We took her for a routine annual exam a couple weeks ago, and a mass on her left arm was discovered. The biopsy confirmed it is cancer. As prey animals, rabbits are rather fragile. Sometimes they even die under anesthesia. A domestic rabbit lifespan is about 8-12 years, and she is just shy of eight.

So our family decided it would not be kind to put Misty through a major surgery and chemotherapy. The x-rays show the mass embedded in the arm in such a way that surgery would not get the entire tumor. For the time being, Misty is as energetic as ever. She eats with gusto, her GI system works well, and she is her cuddly self. Her movement isn't hindered much at this point. We've opted for palliative care and all the rabbit treats she wants, and we'll watch her closely to know when her life quality has decreased. 

I've loved this little bun. And I feel heavy, knowing what is coming.

How Am I?

• Outside my window... I notice branches swaying in a slight wind, signaling an incoming weather change that will deliver rain.
• I am thinking... about taking a walk.
• I am thankful for... my local Buy Nothing group -- neighbors who help me cull belongings that are still useful that I no longer want or need.
• I am wearing... my standard outfit of leggings, and an oversized sweater decorated with cats sleeping in a yin-yang position.
• I am creating... daily collage quilts, which is a deeply peaceful and intuitive practice: see them here.
• I am hearing... the dishwasher murmur just beneath the trip-hop music playing on my computer.
• I am remembering... how wrecked and displaced I felt on this day in 2020, when I was grieving my mother and extremely worried about Covid.
• I am going... to the post office to mail five packages to my Open Studio sisters.
• I am reading... a novel, Sacre Bleu, by Christopher Moore, and for nonfiction I'm reading A Walk in the Park: The True Story of a Spectacular Misadventure in the Grand Canyon, by Kevin Fedarko.
• I am hoping... that my sweet rabbit Misty is calm; she's undergoing x-rays today to determine the extent of cancer in her little body.
• On my mind... the many adulting tasks to attend to, such as taxes, finalizing my trust and will, doctor appointments.
• Noticing that... the clock on the wall is stopped at 2:10, and I find this confusing every time I glance at it.
• Pondering these words... that yesterday, Bad Bunny said "God bless America," and then listed all the countries in all the Americas, which I appreciated.
• One of my favorite things... is a cup of strong black coffee.
• From the kitchen... there isn't much happening. At least it's clean!
• Around the house... I can see it could use a good dusting (adding it to the list of tasks).
• A few plans for the rest of the week... seeing clients, attending new volunteer orientation for Action for Happiness, and taking my child to the DMV to get a REAL ID.
• Here is picture I am sharing... of a recent acquisition, my screaming goat pillow!

Eva Cassidy - Over The Rainbow

Our Life's Prayer

Our Life’s Prayer

Carnal syrup which flows within,
why not make it art?
It has been spilled
enough to fill
the gloomy pit of Tartarus.
Ferry to us the draught of life.
Preserve us from dissolution,
for our gene codes fight dauntlessly,
against this.
Be not used to segregate others,
for humanity is one tribe.
Thou are the mystery, the
sinew, and the richness
that makes our lives worth living. Yes.

-Kathryn Harper 

This poem was written using a style called ekphrasis. The photograph is of a piece by René de Guzman and is titled Blood Color Theory. His artworks allude to current issues such as the HIV/AIDS crisis in the early 1990s. In this piece, de Guzman sandwiched his own blood, mixed with preservatives, between two Plexiglass sheets. The work's impact lies partly in the shock value to convey the message, and the work takes on the formal qualities of a minimalist painting. What I find intriguing are the images reflected. This poem, which echoes The Lord's Prayer, is the result. 

When I Go Into the Woods

  

When I Go Into the Woods

When I go to the woods
I bring no books along
preferring instead to read
the primary sources:

the opinion columns of pines
persuasive essays by incense cedars
an array of novels from oak trees.
Quaking aspens are poetry of light
and movement.

There is philosophy in fallen logs.
I study the hieroglyphs of former
wildfires to glean memories
of the Before time.

Even dead trees have purpose
as nurseries for animals and plants;
the rhymes arising from them
are kissed by the wind,
then float away.

-Kathryn Harper

Surreal

Surreal 

At the turn of the century
it is a long way down
to the mind's I. A treehouse
chronicles my journey to this
lost continent, which requires
the amber spyglass to navigate.
When I arrive I am barely a
shadow of a man. There is
snow falling on cedars; through
the woods I hear the single hound
wailing for her hometown. After
twenty years at Hull House, she
mourns for that bastard out of
Carolina who left her tender
at the bone. I wander through
trees toward her cries and find
her. My journey ends across the
river, past the canal town. Before
crossing over, I ask her for
directions. "I don't know," she
replies. "I'm a stranger here myself."

-Kathryn Harper

Another Cento poem. The titles:

• Turn of the Century (Kurt Andersen)
• A Long Way Down
• The Mind's I: Fantasies and Reflections on Self and Soul
• Treehouse Chronicles: One Man's Dream of a Life Aloft (S. Peter Lewis)
• The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America
• The Amber Spyglass
• Shadow of a Man
• Snow Falling on Cedars
• Through the Woods (H.E. Bates)
• The Single Hound (May Sarton)
• Bastard Out of Carolina
• Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table
• Canal Town
• Crossing Over (Ruben Martinez)
• I'm a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America After 20 Years Away

There’s Always Looking After

There’s Always Looking After

A tree is a guardian angel.

Trees talk to us, they
whisper stories and secrets,
slip us clues to universal mysteries.
Do you see the forest, or the trees?
Sap murmurs up the trunk in spring. Listen.
The apple falls (not far from the tree), its
crisp honey tang for the taking. Notice
how the air changes when you approach
a woods; the fresh, spicy scent of leaves
and needles performing their gift of tonglen.
Handle limbs gently. Despite their
coarseness, trees are benign as babies.

Autumn. My favorite elegy. Red orange yellow
each color a note, a symphony of glorious
death. Gaia’s last hurrah before hibernation.

Glorious death. The nativity of Jesus in
Bethlehem was honored by his parents, wise
shepherds, angels — even animals. But not
one tree except for the remnant serving
as his crib. Look what happened to him.
Whereas Buddha, under a Bodhi tree,
received the gift of enlightenment.

Beware. Trees are destroyers. When touched
by lightning (not an angel), in a rhumba
with the wind, trees release limbs as
geckos lose their tails. They surrender
responsibility, abandon stability,
crush what lies beneath. A shard
of wood thrown by a tornado can kill you.

How many angels are there? They number
more than all the leaves on all the trees
since Big Time began. Earth — head
of a pin on which all trees dance.
Those trees, they krunk in a hot minute.
We just don’t see them. They move so fast.

A baby is born. A sapling takes root.
As roots grow, her neurons multiply.
They amputated the tree in our yard
the other day. Am I going to die now?

A tree is a livin’ thin’, wif it’s own
varmintality, expressed by it’s shape,
texture, locashun, seasonal variashuns,
shade/sun alterashun, th’ emoshuns it
invokes in th’ obsarver, th’ memo’ies
it stimulates in th’ obsarver. A tree
lives as long as a hoomin, o’ longer,
an’ faces th’ elements day-in an’
day-out. To sacrifice a tree is a kind
of euthanasia. A tree thet yo’ plant
today will outlive yo’, an’ affeck other
hoomins in th’ future junerashuns… but
will only be thar IF yo’ an’ yer projuny
own th’ lan’ on which th’ tree thrives.
Own SOME lan’, somewhar, an’ put trees
on it, an’ viset an’ watch them grow.

The ancient forests of knowledge
hidden in dusky, musty library stacks
have become my land. My mind, my tree
of knowledge, thrives. It is all I have.
On this moonless night everything
telescopes, clarifies. Brightness erupts
from inky black. The dark night of the soul
is really a form of enlightenment.

I fall on my knees, praying to No God.
The god of no. I sway in the wind, yearning
to be struck, to plummet, to become the abyss
that annihilates, that looks into me. Oh,
the ecstasy of descent! I cry for it.

Mindful One, she thinks too much. She dwells
inside her head, sips the ink of books too
often. For all her lofty talk about meaning
and nature, she lives indoors, estranged.
Reconciliation is possible. The priest
intones, you are dust and to dust you shall
return. So it shall be. A reunion.

Yes! A gorgeous reunion. A gorgeous death.
It shall be as it is, unless it is as it shall
be. Remember, nascentes morimur. The voice is
relentless, paralyzing. Death, inevitable from
the beginning of my existence. My destiny, our
destiny, is to become nothing.

Not so, whisper the trees. Willow weeps over my
rigid despair. A pine tree caresses my hair.
You do not become nothing. You become everything.

The body becomes a corpse. The corpse rots, feeds
maggots and beetles, enriches the soil. A squirrel
foraging embeds a nut, forgets it. The nut germinates.
A sapling grows, slowly. Outside of time. Watching over.
Witnessing the Mystery. There’s always looking after.

-Kathryn Harper

I wrote this poem 20 years ago, following this exercise from The Practice of Poetry:

This exercise comes from page 119 of The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises From Poets Who Teach, edited by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell. The goal of the exercise is to write a poem that includes these twenty suggesetions:

1. Begin the poem with a metaphor.
2. Say something specific but utterly preposterous.
3. Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.
4. Use one example of synesthesia.
5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.
6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.
7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.
8. Use a word (slang?) you've never seen in a poem.
9. Use an example of false cause-effect logic.
10. Use a piece of "talk" you've actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don't understand).
11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: "The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . . ."
12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.
13. Make the persona in the poem do something he/she would not do in "real life."
14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.
15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.
16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.
17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.
18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.
19. Make a nonhuman object say or do something human (personification).
20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that "echoes" an image from earlier in the poem. 

No Place Too Small

No Place Too Small

It is easy to know how to meld with so much grief.
With joy there is blindness, rose-colored ignorance,
No body to tend, to anchor one to the earth.
When the world remains intact, you move nimbly,
Caressing the surface of things, noticing little.

But grief burrows in.
It needs only the exposed, wounded soul
To dig in as a tick under skin.
Grief bangs around the cellar, shrieking,
behaves unpredictably, hijacking your eyes
When the store clerk asks how you are. Clutching your
throat when you call the dentist’s office for a cleaning.

You walk now among oblivious humans,
an emotional leper
With lesions rotting your heart.
All of existence has its own death,
It too could slip into a tumor-ridden coma
Adorned with catheter tubes,
And gasp last breaths to the sterile beat
Of a monitor, attended by loved ones.

Since there is no place too small
For grief to infiltrate,
You lie down, surrender, pull it
to every cell of your being.
You take orders, as a dog obeys commands
From an owner; you honor and bear it,
And in this way, endure.

–Kathryn Harper

This poem was another exercise in scaffolding. I worked with Naomi Shihab Ney's Kindness.

“Grief” by jan buchholtz, CC BY-NC-ND 2.0