Hero’s Quest

Moonlight ignites the open shore

Heroic lives are no more

Ballads sung of victories won

will mist away in morning sun

Still, the waves continue on

The sword declaring, “It is done.”

Forgetful kisses of water and sand

Corpses recovered to the land

Formidible fortress now is silent

Peace ironic after the violence.

#2699

Darkness when I close my eyes. Pinpoints of light flare and fade against the backs of my eyelids like constellations. I imagine myself walking along …

#2699

“But our past selves are a kind of ancestor too, I realize.”

I’ve packed up my old selves.

Some are in cardboard boxes

Not neatly arranged, but haphazard

Strewn about through my ages.

Some are neatly painted wooden heart-shaped chests.

There are broken pieces of sharp wood and rusty nails scattered about

If you peek inside the ones with the missing pieces;

Lids askew,

You’d see a lot of damage on the remnants of me in those

But if you put on the complimentary rose-colored heart-shaped glasses

You’ll know my intentions were true, even if theirs were not.

Some are in disco 🪩 balls sending spectrums of reflection outward

Loud, frantic movements, jutting hips and ruby painted lips 👄

But who I’ve become is more than those but still the sum

Healing Hugs

I hugged shame

I loved disgrace

I encouraged peace

To the weeping face

I heard confession

I felt mercy

I held his hand

Told him he’s worthy

Removed the prison

Of spoken word

Showed him value

By actions served

He sobbed for relief

From a god he doubted

Regret his badge

His sight; sin clouded

Visible pain

ached his soul

But his words dictated

Desperate control

Will he surrender?

Forgive his heart?

Remember his humanity,

That is tearing him apart?

I can’t fix him

Or make things better,

Just let him feel loved

Releasing the debtor

For Us All

When I say I pray,

I pray for us.

I take my knowing of your Spirit as it has met mine

Reminded that we are of one heart; one people

Faith turned inside out as a beacon of compassion;

kindness gifted a mortal coil

Our lives are bountiful with profound joy and excruciating sorrow

Both, in their own way, unspoiled sweetness like honey

Both archaic and newly birthed

My tears are as salty as yours,

my blood as red

Our grief shatters our hearts wide open

but so does the ecstasy of awareness

of abiding love; ever expanding

A welcomed blessing imprisoned in prosaic words

An offering of obedient relationship with one another;

with the interactive chaos of the world

Let us be a harbor for one another

in the turbulent, roiling depths of uncertainty

So when I say I pray,

I truly pray for us.

Who knew?

I have a client whom I’ve been with for over 8 months. I companion care he and his wife three times a week. He is extroverted, claims he hates people while socializing, laughs with his entire body, and is charmingly impish. She is quiet, speaks when spoken to, defers to her husband, but is sweet and expressive when she feels it.

I was doing a normal Thursday visit. He was in rare form. He declared himself indomitable then laughed when myself and his other visitor cheered his word choice. It was a grand celebration of friendship and excellent conversation.

The following morning I received a text that said things had taken a turn for the worse and he was in dire straits. Could I go visit? Absolutely.

Dire straits is an understatement. Although no fever, he was having a health crisis not experienced before. The secondary visitor of Thursday was informed of the situation and they also arrived. It was crushing to know that what we experienced the day before had done a 180. His stats were critically low, but being on hospice, comfort was key.

We prayed.

Okay, I confess, I thought prayer, like funerals, were for the comfort of the person attending to their love. Positive vibes and all that. I prayed to the Universe that peace would prevail, that the highest good would be met, and that his children would arrive in time to attend the final hours. He was put on several prayer chains, of which, I’ve also been skeptical.

For four days he knocked on death’s door. He wasn’t eating or drinking. He couldn’t swallow. He was doing a version of Cheyne-Stokes breathing (It’s kind of like a fish out of water. Because they can’t swallow, the mucus that normally goes down remains in the throat causing a “rattling” sound) He knocked hard, but…nobody was home?

Tuesday he was awake and aware of visitors; even speaking.

By Thursday he was sitting up in his chair, conversing, demanding, agitated that he couldn’t exercise “to stay fit.” He ate more than he had all week. He drank hot tea. He was cranky, but alert and responding to input.

Okay, so let me explain why this struck me as unusual. I honestly believed, as did the nursing staff, that he was going to die. His body showed all the signs of that coming up quickly. The children (my age and better), were told to prepare. But, what changed?

I’m sure there is a scientific reason for his sudden turn-around. I’ve seen and experienced people doing a “rally” (That’s when the dying person suddenly has a burst of energy that can make them seem competely “normal” again. They may want to eat their favorite foods, or drink, or talk with their loved ones. It happens surprisingly often.) Four days of awareness is unusual.

This particular set of events has really forced me to confront my views on prayer, on my own experience, and honestly, I feel like a bit of imposter. However, I’ll take the guidance of my fellow guest and roll with the grace that has been granted with this incredible occurance. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be wrong, yet I want so badly to understand.

The next few days, other family members will be attending to him in conjunction with his children.

I will continue to pray. I am baffled, feel awkward in my Unitarian Universalist faith, curious as all get out, and willing to laugh at myself for thinking I knew enough. Do we ever?

Whatever The Face (VIDEO)

The poem I wrote after speaking with a woman who was dealing with profound grief amidst the loss of many kinfolk, including her son.

Whatever the Face

You don’t need permission to be angry with God
You’re not less of a human or any more flawed
It’s okay to yell, to scream, and to shake
To groan under your burden while your heart aches
To feel like you’re in it, totally alone
The weariness digging down deep in your bones
You don’t need permission to question your faith
To want something different than the cards that have played
You’re perfectly normal to deny what is true
The mistakes that were made that you can’t undo
Rejecting condolences because then “IT” is real
Bargaining, begging, willing to make deals
Wherever your God is, whatever the face
Know that you’re held in comfort and grace
The shoulders you cry on, the prayers that are offered
Are all given up to the ultimate Author

Altar Building (Video)

This is how I perceive a ceremony we do at our church called Altar Building.