23 December 2011

Granny

“Sweet William, will you take me to store?
“Granny, you mean right now?
“I do.
“Well, all right then, let’s get goin’.”
We trundled out to car. I got her nestled into front seat, scooted round, and got in too. Just then, birds made a bombing run on windshield.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I turned on the wipers and wash; that just made it a washed white smear.
“Good Lord!
“William, they sing for some people.”

19 December 2011

Virgin

Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you . . . .”
I too ask, “How can this be, since she is a virgin?”
Do I speak of eros? No. Culture speaks of eros and biology we know. The superficial and literal reading is cultures. It’s not innocent. Mary's question knows her culture and her role.
Mary's doubt says, I'm undefiled; I can't fulfill my cultural and biological purpose. She believes her lack of fulfillment is her virginity. Gabriel tells Mary Elizabeth is doing something Mary believed couldn't be done. Mary's reply is, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord . . . .” She's starting anew. Mary and Elizabeth are doing something they didn't believe possible.
I speak of living experience happening for the first time. I speak of living a life anew. Before my children were born, even with time to live into preparation for their births, I couldn't have foreseen my life, our lives, and now their lives, 26 and 22 years later. The power of creation overshadows me.
The annunciation and the incarnation, is living an experience of being born anew. Virginity is a sense of the end of what I've left behind as I look back. Virginity is the feeling and experience I live into after I've said, “Here am I,” and I live forward.
I'm a virgin more than I've ever imagined. I say to start over is to say, “How can this be? I'm a virgin!”

12 December 2011

Grass 2

The grass is real. My customer is real. I was paid real money to sow and tend it for him.
I sliced the ground. I dethatched it, and I raked it. I planted two kinds of seed. I fertilized it all. I lay down straw. I watered; later I’d water again and again. Feeling and thinking I'd done all I could for seed to germinate, root, and grow, I turned away and let it all go.
It was early evening in a rush of feeling I'm thankful, hopeful, apprehensive, tired, and terrific, so why not, and I opened my prayer book. There standing in the street at my truck I pray. I say aloud the devotion for early evening's time and speak the words to behold the vesper light.
I prayed for the light. I like evening light when evening star is first seen. I prayed for the natural order. I spoke for knowledge of God's Creation, for conservation of natural resources, for harvest of land and water. I spoke for new growth and rain. I spoke for the future of the human race. I spoke for my customer who's ailing and alone. I prayed thanksgiving for the hushed evening quiet and space when my labor is done.

06 December 2011

Grass

This lawn is my minds' ideal of perfection. Wow. The lawn is gorgeous. Your home probably isn't an icon like this Charles Gwathmey gem. 
If you close your eyes, slowly breath in through your nose and slowly breathe out through your lips, settle your self, and imagine, I bet the grass in this image is similar to grass you see in your mind. Abundant, thick, green, and happy like the doggie.
When you cultivate your grass like a favored plant, cut and shape it, water it, and feed it, you groom it to become like this one.

05 December 2011

Acne

My acne was troublesome. For my mother too, that is, when she was young. Her back was pitted and cratered. I asked about them. She said she had acne. Imagine 1928, an adolescent girl, living a farm life, infected pustules, and no antibiotics. Her mother took hot water, lye soap, and a scrub brush to her. I imagine a palmyra scrub brush. The scars were the result. My mother was nonchalant and unembarrassed to me about her scars. It was her story, maybe partially told.
Around 11 or 12 my mother sought out blackheads on my cheeks, on and around my nose, and in my ears. She used a hairpin to clean out pores, prevent infections. She placed the hairpin's loop around the clogged pore and pressed down hard. The plug popped out. It was painful. I learned to do it myself.
I spent time in the mirror popping pimples and pustules and daubing them with alcohol. I used prescription soaps with grit to wash my face. I sunned it by lamp. I controlled my diet. All was to soak oil from my skin and dry out my acne.
Success came. I'd peel flakes off the infected mounds. I was fascinated. I'd watch my pores flame up, dry off, peel, open and drain. They drained for hours. I showed success to mother. They were a triumph.
Acne, its pimples and flaming blotchy pustules, enraged my father. Mother and her brood journeyed to distant cities to consult dermatological experts. Father’s rage was not bound by reasonable and scientific expertise and prescriptions. He'd lash out, verbally degrade us, abuse my sister and assault our mother.
Later I accepted ivory soap and alcohol swabbing as successful. I‘d dry out the top, peel off the flake, and explode the little infection into the mirror; bull’s-eye. My brother preferred leaning back in his chair, targeting the ceiling. We all thought we were hilarious.
My memories all returned as I used a refreshing apricot scrub that softly exfoliates to reveal smooth, healthy and beautiful skin. I still have oily skin and pimples.