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When my Dad's Dad died, Dad's Mom already having passed on as
well, my Dad and his three siblings chose to go to his retirement
apartment (in the Lutheran Village that Grandma and Grandpa moved to
which was 300 miles away from anyone in the family, which hurt all the
siblings) and try to make sense of the "estate". The only time they
could all do it was the same week of the funeral. Hours after the
funeral, the thirteen grandchildren, all adults, were taken to the
home, and asked to put their name on any object that they wanted, and
lots would be drawn for any object with multiple names.
It was
insane. We were all terribly grieving, and still dressed for the
funeral, and had mud on our pumps from standing in the grass at the
burial. We wandered around hopelessly, claiming some things just to
show we were playing along. My sister and I drove away together in
silence, having collected the small things we chose. Then we suddenly
both started laughing and crying. "All that", she says, "And here I am
with a bag of tupperware in my car." "I have a stupid ball of
twine!!!!!! Twine!!!!!!!!", I snorted.
All in all, I ended up,
in my haze, of really wanting nothing, but hoping for some touchstones,
or whatever: a ball of twine, a roll of tape, a pen knife, a very old
mechanical pencil from Grandpa's workbench, an old aluminum cooler that
was spattered in paint (also from the work bench), a plant, and a floor
lamp.
The process was too much and too hard. But the thing is, I
love all of these objects. They have become exactly what I'd hoped:
they are touchstones of my Grandfather. Even the twine, which I only
used up last summer.
Recently, I went to an open house/ moving
party for two of my friends, one of whom got accepted for a job in Portland last
Tuesday, which requires them to move by next Friday. For the Open House, they took all of
their food out of the pantry, as well as many objects and items of
furniture that they don't want to move, and encouraged people to take
as many "door prizes" as possible. There is nothing like being at a
party where when one guest excuses themselves to go home, suddenly they
are taking the end table that your drink was sitting on with them.
I
walked out with: Three bags of modeling clay which dries permanently
in the air, a box of chicken flavored couscous, a single puck of
Abuelita chocolate, and a box of instant flan mix.
I hated and loved the process. But I may never eat the flan. Both times, I thought that there was going to be something amazingly touching and important to find at these moments. Some great discovery of relationship between the people I love, and their things, which they no longer have use for. And that discovery was there. No treasure chests of secret cash stashes and gold chains with locket attachments unlocking generational secrets. A ball of twine. A box of flan mix. For what I discovered, of course, was how much I loved the mundane, useful objects of the people that I loved. Not at all the put away things. The ball of twine. The box of flan, put in the cupboard. The tupperware container I was sent home with by a friend after her dinner party, that I've not yet returned. Five years later. The travel guide given me from someone who's already been there, and who forgot some photos in it. A community of shared everydays. I would never hope to do better, should I be asked to make those selections a dozen times. **********
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the
daily
is what does not
trip off the tongue
the unanswered
question of 'what's new'
a filling and
emptying of baskets of time with soft dirt, so ordinary.
all summer long, i
thought i would be the one crying out and skipping
summer is a time for
loudness
and i am found quiet
and walking, mostly
grateful everytime
for the soft dirt dribbling into my sandals
and easing the blow
of my feet on the earth * ****
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About half an hour into my work day, I entered a meeting.
About eight hours later, I got out of that meeting. Well, actually - the people
kept changing, and the venue changed three times, and three of the meetings
were really one meeting which was broken into three parts.
My point is, and only is, that I am tired. Brain tired.
I gratefully walked through the door of my welcome welcome
home, and thrust my used up coffee thermos on the table, and threw the junk
mail straight into the recycling, and turned to...and then there was a knock at
the door.
I'm going to pause here a moment.
There's been a lot of knocking at my door lately. Neighbors.
People wanting to mow my lawn. People making up stories so that I will give
them money when I don't have work to give. Friends holding flowers. Kids
selling candies.
I was so brain tired. I wasn't sure I wanted, so quickly,
another "meeting".
But I opened the door.
A few days ago, I came home for my lunch break and sat on
the porch to eat. The mailman came by, for all appearances talking very very
sternly to himself, until he turned around and I could see the phone earpiece in
his ear. And then, my neighbor Lindsay jogged past. I waved, she waved. And
then, she stopped and jogged back and said, "Do you like peach pie?" (Do you think this was a trick question? I
thought this might be a trick question.)
"Yes!"
"Great! I am making peach pies this week. I will bring you one."
So back to now, a few days later, the ominous knock - and
you already know before I did who was at the door.
I open the door, and a peach pie is thrust at me.
"Peach pie!" I exclaim "You have no idea..."
"I hope you like it!" says Lindsay, "I must go and finish dinner. Just wanted
to bring it by. Bye!"
And like that - the best meeting of the day is over. Firm
agenda. Everyone except me came prepared. To the point. Obvious next steps.
And then I discovered the most excellent thing. I
discovered, that once you stop crying because someone just thrust a beautiful
peach pie at you, that when one is alone and one had been given a whole giant
gift of a pie - that no slicing need to be involved. All you need is a fork.
You probably don't need that either, but I wanted that fork. And I ate pie.
Straight from the whole pie. One small bite. And then one giant bite. And a few
more bites for good measure, and the measure was very good.
I dove into this gift. I was headed to play music at a
gathering in fifteen minutes after receiving the pie, and I did not sit, I did
not grab a plate, I did not wait for a prudent later - I found a clean fork.
And because I cannot fully describe what this is like - I
can only hope that I remember this. That I remember that this is exactly the
gift that I want to give when I am able or remember to give them. I want to
give someone the whole pie, and not to share it. I want to give it to them with
a fork, when they are tired and hungry, and not tell them how much to eat of it
or when or where or how, but to leave very quickly, and go make my own business
happen, and leave them to that pie, and that fork. And I want everyone I know to experience
this.
So much more than peaches. But I am grateful for the
peaches. And a neighbor who has no idea what an embodiment of grace this has
been for me. 
And please remind me when we meet, that you have a fondness
for pie.
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 you've
already ignored your list of wants
now
write
your honey piece
you with
your honey hair and honey eyes
and amber
dripping words
Blink those honey eyes which
It is not the sweetness but the glow warmth
And absolute life
A light source of something that feeds
Honey ears that
(swallow your words)
Honey toes dance laughingly so joyful so
Free from honey woes all
Encased in something that is utterly other
Check that honey smile knowing those honey limbs aren't all
When was I dipped?
And why did it take me so long to find out?
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This is the way it goes:
I walk to the grocery store to get something for dinner. Right around the corner, right after passing the corner house with its rickety wire fence and its two giant great dane sized dogs, I passed the white house. I passed it right as a little girl reached the end of the front walk, and two boys behind her were punching each other in the back and roughhousing, and their mother was coming out the front door and telling them to knock it off and get into the car. I look at the girl and say "Hi. How are you?". "Hi", she says.
I get to the store and grumble about the new Rent-To-Own Center that somehow in the last few weeks has been built into the front of the store. Now when you walk in, you are greeted with eight television screens. Today with some animated frog. I just want milk. The animated frogs make me angry. Rent-to-own is a big rip-off as much as I know about it. A constant foreclosure in the world of home goods.
While I stare at the brownie mixes and determine that yes, I want the one with the fudge topping, I hear behind me. "Hey, Mama? Is that dog sugar?"
"No," comes the answer, "No. It's just sugar with a dog on the package."
I look up, and there's this little girl, with two brothers, and a Mama.
"We just saw her!!!", says the little girl, pointing to me.
"Yes, we did." says her Mama.
"I just walked by your house, " I say, "I'm your neighbor."
"Our neighbor!" says the girl
"You have to walk by the giant dogs with the scary fence at the corner to get to my house from yours," I say
"Yes!"
And so we meet.
Here is one thing I am learning over and over from this neighborhood. We have a hard time meeting, sometimes. Breaking into each other's privacies - we protect each other from ourselves. And then, just as we are about to maybe smile briefly and go on with our private conversations in our heads....
Here it is again, in case you missed it: "We just saw her!!!". It takes a little one to scream out the obvious. The recognition. The "We crossed paths just, like, just in front of my house!"
"Hi"  I have gone out of my way to meet most of the people on my block on my own. However, for two years or so of living in this house, all three adjoining lots to mine were vacant. One from foreclosure. One wasn't renting. One was for sale. At one point all three were for sale. Now, they are all full. One bought on the cheap from foreclosure. One bought on the cheap and renovated and rented. One simply rented.
It was this family that I never introduced myself to. I'm not sure why. The two rottweilers? The general air of stand-offishness? That it was clear that they were a family that had moved from a "loud" street to a "quiet" street? That the previous renter's car had been set on fire the first weekend I'd moved in? Because they didn't look like me? Or act like me? All of the above?
"Whatcha doing?"
This is the clarion call of the neighborhood ambassador. The one who will rule nations. The one who will not succomb to the wills of the surrounding winds. She is my 12-year old neighbor. This is her cry.
"Whatcha doing?", she asks, as I paint parts of the sides of my house that are closest to hers. I have not spoken to anyone in her family. "What color are you painting? Is it going to be blue again? That's boring. Is it going to be blue? Why are you doing that? Why are you working so hard?"
And so we meet.
Her family and I talk often now.
The ambassadors I know - the ones building bridges over cavernous voids that they don't even notice - they walk on water that they don't even notice they are crossing. They are six years old. They are twelve. The rarest of all, is the one that is thirty-seven. Or Fifty-two.
"Hi. Whatcha doing?"
:"We just saw you."
We just saw you.
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Look to the dreaming
Tend the smallest seed
You hardly can see it, your spectrum so small
Hold out the palm of your left hand in welcome
And maybe the shy thing will catch in your sleeve
And run through the wash, watered by your neglect
Sneaking around behind you, and shaking
Out with a snap of buttons as you fling wrinkles
It plants behind your ear in the fold
And grows while you sleep
The most powerful thing I have been taught
Is the mustard seed.
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the way i see it, it might start with a gift. A delivery. An unexpected
thing, wrapped up tight, but not necessarily neatly, and it might or
might not have your name on it. It might be box-shaped, and it probably
won’t be dripping, but it will be out of the blue. So your child rushes
it into your sanctuary your home and awaits treasure even as your adult
eyes it suspiciously, watching for someone to pull the other end of the
string and snatch it away, or for it to start emitting some toxic fumes
that will turn your toenails to dust, god-be-prayed-to that it’s only
that bad. But you from the moment it was spotted knew that you’d open
it. And now you are simply honoring it, having put it on something
about waist-high so that you could get a good look. And you are just
trying to take in this moment, this moment of savoring that fleeting
sense of the gift, because it is well known that the chances of the
gift being bad news versus good are very ripe indeed. Is this it? Is
this the very thing that you’ve been…
I’d like to back up. The way I see it, it might also start with a bus
ride. Likely, it will be a normal day, partly cloudy, and you’ve got a
light jacket on with a broken zipper pull. You are going to the
library, or to run errands, or to shop at the last minute for a
mother’s day gift. Traffic might be terrible, and you’ve been kind
enough to give your seat to an older woman, or a child, or someone who
showers less than you do (and you are trying very hard to not
noticeably notice), so you are hanging on to the strap and mostly
thinking about that if there was an Olympic sport for bus-strap
surfing, navigating the stop-and-go without spilling that coffee that
you brought with you, you are in prime bus-athletic-Olympics position
to be hearing your national anthem played. But as you look at your
coffee very closely to make certain that not one drop is spilled, you
are intrigued suddenly by the…
The way I see it, it might continue with nothing at all. A string of
days when one wonders if Godot is coming after all. And if he has
already come, would you even have noticed so busy waiting as you were?
The way I see it, it might continue with a full-body laugh. The kind
that happens when utter delight meets utter surprise meets utter
approval.
(but i have been stuck dreaming, and not acting) ****
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Pain hardly ever looks like anything.
Sometimes everything looks like it.
Easter morning, with my brother at his church - full
cantata; orchestra; rock band; a thousand clean people; clean in dress, style,
and I would actually even bet - a good many of them cleanish in their desires,
mostly. Sometimes, at the least. More than Once, definitely.
My mind wandered, during the cantata singing, to the body -
to the human body - because I am ready for mine to be strengthened;
because I spent the Friday before in a Taize prayer service
staring at a very very large beautiful marble crucifix.
A marble white Christ with rippled muscles, looking to float
in front of the cross, in full strength and whole body.
I can't imagine what a crucified Christ might truly look like
- horrific.
I got to wanting to see someone in the crowd with a tattoo;
with brightly dyed hair; with too many piercings; I craved putting a tattoo on
my own body.
I drew it out in my mind, others around me singing and
listening, me imagining injecting ink into my skin.
I suddenly wanted more than anything to see some sort of
visual evidence not of our cleanness, but of our pain.
Writing this out makes me feel that perhaps these were
twisted thoughts for a day of celebration of resurrection. But I've never more
wanted to believe that there will be one for all of us. And I wanted us to have our pain worn on our sleeves
offering it to each other. A piercing and rending and marking in ink tracing
the lines that guide us - these lines, if they be clean, then they don't tell
the whole story.
I wanted some surrender of ourselves, some way that we can
acknowledge this pain in each other. Some touching and honoring of scars. Heck,
let's be honest - of wounds. We were there to celebrate victory over death;
victory over this world as we know it - and I wanted us to turn into symbols
for each other - so loved, so in pain, so potentially in tune with each other.
**
Tonight - perhaps because of last night's yard work stirring
up the old injuries - I have a terrible headache; reaching up from my neck,
across the base of my skull, full around in to my eye sockets.
I tried to relax into it after work by laying down for a bit
- when I got up, it was a bit better, but I was also a bit naseuous, and very,
very irritable.
And about an hour into this, while I was fixing dinner - it
struck me (and it ALWAYS comes as a "struck me") that I, Kathryn Ruth Schuth,
was fully capable and prepared to Use An Aspirin. *sigh*
It takes me Hours of pain most times to remember that the
health and scientific communities for millennium have figured out how to help
with such matters as aches. It's not a cure, but a help. I call it "Ibuprofin"
and it sits in my medicine cabinet. It's that hard.
How is it that I'm both fully realizing and noticing my pain
and simultaneously refusing all notions of making the situation better? What am
I waiting on?
I've been in quite a bit of pain over the last three years;
some chronic-ish issues with my neck - which explains some of it: I'm just more
used to it now. I can't always fix it.
My boss today disappeared from the office for a few hours
this morning. His wife told me that he was headed to physical therapy for his
back.
Later, our entire team got together for an impromptu
planning meeting, and after we spent our time chatting about the next few days,
he explained why he had been walking around in a sweatsuit that morning. I
asked if he's been in pain - and he said, yes - that he has a pinched nerve or
somewhat, and it shoots pain down his leg, such that he can only walk about 100
feet without it starting to feel like he won't ever want to walk back again.
"And that's no way to live" he said.
He there in his throbbing pain, my throbbing head, heaven's
knows what other ailments we could have all come up with, just the four of us. There, sitting together in a casual meeting -
all of us business-as-usual.
**
Pain, really - IS usual. And unusual. A sign of a problem;
and a sign of change. Warning signals; turn signals.
Pain hardly ever looks like anything.
Sometimes everything looks it
**
I watched a death metal video that made me regret ever
thinking that we should wear our pain on our sleeve. It made me want to scrub
everything I came in to contact with. Including, very much, myself.
Pain is, and we are in it, but we simply cannot be of
it. I am ultimately unsatisfied with the
conclusion of pain.
**
Tramping through the woods this morning, I'm not letting
these thoughts go. Somehow it seems that tragedy has built up in the world, and
shifts like the earth is shifting - violently, always awkwardly, and with
devastation.
But, I consider - pain is never the end of the story. It just isn't.
It never will be. We can't speak much to what is death and after death -
but somehow, I doubt that pain is involved.
I suppose that this is where a resurrection might come in.
Winter is never the end of the story. Neither is spring.
What do words like "beginning" and "end" mean when you are talking about a
circle?
**
Maybe we don't get to know.
We were born with a blind side after all.
**
Dinner with a friend, we discuss how that people, including
ourselves, have really gotten out of practice being neighborly.
A call comes and someone has been killed in a car accident.
Here. And then not here.
When I get home, as I get out of the car, there is the son
of a neighbor of mine with cancer, and I ask after her. A third neighbor, walking crazily from a
block away with her dog, whose head is wrapped in a giant cone, comes up
wanting to know the same. We sit there and talk, and scratch the coned dog's
ears. Brief and sweet.
**
Washing dishes tonight, I am back here. Grieving. Wanting to
save the world from sorrow as if it's my job to do.
And as I put the last bowl down. I know. Again.
That it is not my job or anyone's job to save the world. Not
from its sorrow or from anything else.
It's only my job and anyone's job to save each other from the world. My
job is just the person in front of me. "Do the thing in front of you," Mother
Theresa would say. The thing that I can
see. And it is my job to see the thing in front of me.
**
I will continue to keep watch.
**
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Recognizing my own poverty.
A friend told me tonight that a very sick very sick friend of hers that she’s been helping care for asked her to kill her tonight.
I do not know her answer.
It is an unimaginable question.
I can’t help but reflect the mirror back on myself, wondering why so constantly I seem to be removed from “real life”
If I define real life by its largest rituals: birth, marriage, death, sickness, birth…and its deepest connections
It tickles the edges of me
To think that maybe this is my truest poverty.
And am I choosing it?
Would it help to attend as close as possible to it?
Or would it only be a case of the hungry waiting on the overfed.
Am I able to form real attachments? The ones where I am put out. And uncomfortable. And that lead to “real life”? I don’t know. I simply do not. I will walk the edge and look and see. I will yes. I will try to see the shape of my no.
I will brave my way towards recognizing my own poverty . 
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sometimes it is that my heart would might break
if someone touched me gently
sometimes it is that my world would might shatter if someone gave a
kind word
sometimes it is that my hard clay would turn to quicksand if someone
looked at me with tenderness
is there any wonder left in why i would might be
careful
is there any wonder left in why i would might not be
careful
having woken up wanting to rearrange the pieces any
way
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are you
only on fire when you feel that you are on fire?
thomas
merton wrote ‘but it cannot be explained. there is no way of telling
people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.'
why are we waiting to feel what we already are?
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So here I sit with association. And reflection.
I am proud to be American. And I am embarrassed to be
American.
I am proud to be Christian. And I am embarrassed to be
Christian.
I am proud to be human. And I am embarrassed to be human.
I have ideas about the sorts of associations that I want and
seek; and a disjunct with the associations that I actually have.
The oxymoron of “Christian hate mail” brought this to mind. Someone was talking about having received
“Christian hate mail.” And I knew exactly. Exactly. What they meant.
I think you do too.
You know… the religion is such that there’s a Son of God
written about who, when asked directly about what needed to be done to enter
into heaven stated, “Love the Lord your God with all your Heart, Mind and Soul.
And Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Yup. You missed it, didn’t you? The subtext that says “and write self-righteous
religious based hate mail to anyone who you deem deserves it because they
deviate from your interpretation of the religion you’ve named Christianity. And
make sure that your hate mail includes a lot of damning to hell.”
So of course I worry. I worry about how these sorts of
things reflect on me. I want to be
Christian too. I want it without having all these other Christians out there,
using the same “name”, and that I think are behaving terribly. And
wrongly. And worse, they think that *I*
am likely behaving terribly. And wrongly.
I say “Christian”. It could be “American.” It could be
“human.” Sometimes I’m bursting proud of these associations. Sometimes the
shame runs so deep I don’t want to admit that I have any associations at all.
But here we are.
These families that we join -- they sustain us and they fail
us. These families that we are born into -- they sustain us and they fail us.
My biggest personal struggle for a good number of years, and
which began well before I recognized it as a struggle, is to make
‘relationship’ the goal of most of my interactions with others. Not only am I introverted, and I am – but
almost all of my interactions were ending up that I would listen to what others
had to say, see what came out of my head and mouth too, and check for the
earliest convenient time to end the interaction. Worse, I was so worried and self-fretting
about the things that I did not have “that I should be working on” - a spouse, children, a thin body, clever
answers, you name it – I do not have it – that I couldn’t wait to be able to
get to my own space so that “I could work on these things about me”; or more
likely – ignore them, but on my own time and in my own privacy.
I’m not sure what ‘clicked’ – but maybe it was when I realized two things: how
serious I was about community, and that every relationship in my whole reality
required my presence. I needed to not just
show up physically; which in fact, is one of the very most single important
things that I believe with my every ounce that we can all do – but I needed to
show up physically and plan to actually be there to relate to others. I can spend my time fretting about not having
children, or I can spend my time noticing the endless number of children all
around me that would love my attention.
I can spend my time wondering if I have any clue how to help someone, or
I can simply make sure I actually find that person and talk about it, and even
better, offer concrete help that I suggest myself. I can attend a neighborhood meeting and talk
about weighty things with a diplomatic tone, or I can attend a neighborhood
meeting and begin to see what it is that we offer each other as neighbors, and
that we truly, truly, teach each other. I can daydream and tune out and look for the
first out, or I can listen and tune in and be the one that gathers.
But to be the one who wants to relate; well…some of the ways
we relate is by association. And I’m learning quick that every association we
have puts us in contact with the beautiful and with the ugly – and yes, that
fully depends on one’s personal point of view.
“Christian hate mail.”
We are so petty.
The umbrellas under which we gather are so large. So large.
Family. Community. Church. Group. Association. Nation. Race.
Beliefs. Education.
We can’t see from one umbrella tip to the handle.
All we can do is see what we share with the person standing
next to us. Both of us trying to stay
dry. We’re quite allowed to be
embarrassed by the others standing under the umbrella. For some, that will be
quite enough reason to go find a different umbrella, or just head out try to
enjoy the rain – the rest of you umbrella people are crazy to stay so
sheltered… And we naturally gravitate to the people under the umbrella that
share our ideas and that we aren’t embarrassed to be with, and that’s shelter
too. Little umbrellas under big ones. That’s good. The big ones seem to always
have some leaks.
But the fact is, that no matter where under the umbrella you
choose to stand (and I mean you, humanity – try to leave THAT umbrella) and how
much effort you make to disassociate with “those” people – you’re standing
closer to the person on the other side of the umbrella than you think.
Here we are. And maybe we’re embarrassed by each other.
Maybe we are proud of each other too.
I’m sure we will jostle for position.
But I’m staying for the work. I’m not walking away.
I’m planning on being present.
And learning how to associate.
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-
you offer me
stars
you offer me
houses
you offer me
flowers
you offer me
space
you offer me
wounds
you offer me
friendships
you offer me
trials
you offer me scones
and tea you offer me lightbulbs you offer me kisses you offer me godmothers you offer me cleverness you offer me words dancing on a page
you offer me breeze you offer me difficult people you offer me french fries you offer me beaches
you watch that
i share, but i sulk
you watch that i
look up, but i stay distracted
you watch that
i thank you, but i sing a song about broken hearts you offer me understanding you watch that i notice but i hate it you offer me laughter you watch and in spite of myself i smile too .
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 At church, where on the mornings I relinquish Sunday sleep and make it to early morning choir rehearsal - I spend the service, then, sitting up in the choir loft (so churchy; itchy white robes and all); and there's a great view of the entire sanctuary.
Our church (Lutheran, for those who care) heavily involves children of different ages in roles within the liturgy - and the youngest group, those just entering the system, are the 6-7 year olds. They are the "bell ringers". The main job here is to, at the Proper Time, during the Proper Words, firmly grasp the ringing bells, and shake them firmly and briefly. Not too much show, not too little respect. Inevitably, there is an older server, usually around the age of 8-11, standing at the side of the bell ringer and coaching them, with the authority of the Liturgical necessities placed fully upon their shoulders, and their shoulders alone, at getting the bell rung. Sometimes, you can even hear the loud whisper, "NOW!" startling the Bell Ringer into a bright ringing immediacy of action. A few weeks back, the bell ringer was particularly short. And this, her second time as a ringer. Her coach was ready. She, instead of getting up, leaned sideways almost entirely over the bench she sat on, and (NOW!) rang vigorously. Successfully. And then she looked to her coach, the acolyte (I think. Don't quiz me), who beamed at her and they high fived. Should I maybe mention here, too, that the Bell Ringer was wearing her most favorite Dorothy Got Them In A Storm red sequined shoes?
And in my lofty state, fully ignoring the I'm-sure-it-was-great-but-I-missed-it sermon - I fell in love again with the breath of the liturgy. I'm not a liturgical scholar. I'm not a theologian. I show up sometimes. I'm not sure there's a full title for that. She That Loved Her Last Church So Much Before She Moved that She Will Never Be a Member Here. She That Sometimes Lets Sleep Win. She That Is Annoyed That the Leaders Aren't As Progressive As She Wishes In Her Perfect Church Fantasy. But, back to the breath of the Liturgy - as I saw it in the high five and shoes from the feet of witches: It struck me - Liturgy isn't a prescription of rules to be followed as much as a framework into which we enter,
and bring ourselves, as we are -
making it of the most intricate and infinite variety.
The words bigger than anyone reading them.
No time ever shared the same.
No words uttered exactly into the same moment.
But the repetition of so many of the actions and the words allows for the eyes to see and the brain to notice the anomalies -
the "other" that is introduced, may it be the thunderstorm, or the child's cry, or the itchy pants, or the particular reflection of the candle.
All is part and all is made new. Like the cycle of days. Each the same; each very very different.
Sure, it's a ritual. And rituals can be as dead as the participants. Or they can be as alive and changing -
as a book is never read by the same person twice. That person has changed between readings.
You can never read the same thing twice. Because it is you that changes.
Every time through the ritual a different snowflake. If, it turns out, you're still a snowflake. I know that so many are turned off, or away from Liturgy. I sort of get that. I know that scads of new rituals have been tried, formed, embraced, cherished. I love many of those too. I have found myself in so many conversations with friends who think I'm a bit odd to want this in my life. Well, I'm not full sure how conversational they are - there are some things that end up being so very hard to express. At least for now, I see that one of the reasons it may be harder and harder to embrace and even hard to converse about - is that it's subtle. The inner movements are subtle. And for right now - for me to hear the subtle rustle, it takes a framework that I can enter. And bring myself. As I am. The words bigger than anyone reading them.
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 You forgot that you were grieving
Because the ice had helped hold the inner waters from leaking Like Manoa Falls out for all to see
And now they cascade over rocks and under the lushness of Orchids over Palms over every ridiculous beauty
And you scratch your way up the mountain face
Slipping in the red mud
Knowing full well that two years ago there wouldn't have been such
A scramble. There would have been no scramble at all.
It took time to cultivate the ice.
And it all breaks in the strong light in a flashing second.
The melting so strong as to leave
Puddles in one's footprints.
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