Weeping

Are you crying?
I am.

Weeping.

For the seven- and eight-year-olds
Whose lives have been snuffed out.
Like flickering candles
Their lives cut short too soon,
Young ones who believed in magic
And still loved balloons.

Weeping.

For the parents who sent their kids
To school, lunch bags full of love,
Who gave them a gentle shove
As they kissed their tumble-haired
Boys and girls goodbye.
Never in a million years
Did they think this would be
the day their little one would die.

Weeping.

For the classmates who survived,
trauma etched in tender grooves
Of their malleable minds,
Now caught in a bind,
Innocence surgically sliced out
And removed.

Weeping.

For our nation.
Who are we?
Who have we become?
And why are we so numb?

Hate crimes fill the headlines,

Fear lurks at our doors.
How can we pick ourselves
Up off the floor and be the change
As Gandhi said, before so many more
Are dead?

Still, I weep for those in Buffalo,
Just ten days ago. Ten dead then,
So many more today.

Hate crimes fill our times.

We must investigate our own hate,
The way we get irate, hesitate, don’t step
In and up to the plate.

These are not times to sit back and relax
Look the other way. It’s time to advocate,
Legislate, have a say.

It’s time we ask ourselves who we
Want to be.
What Kind of world am I creating?
What kind of world do I want to see?

The one I imagine is still one full of love,
Where I offer you the right of way,
Or perhaps a sorbet, or an invitation
To come and play, all day.

Join in and create the world you
Want to see, right here, right now,
Become who you want to be.

(Tribute to Uvalde, May 25th, 2022)
written by Diane Sherman
Listen to it here:

https://youtu.be/SyOG0oh5jKc

Benji the Bullet

He walks up the 3 stairs to my bed with pause, not sure if his back legs will cooperate, each step carefully considered one paw at a time. His front leg moves up to the step above, he hesitates as his back leg dangles for a split second before he finds the muscle control to pull the leg up high enough to place the foot on the next step.

Once he arrives on the soft red blanket, surrounded by pillows, he slowly turns in a circle and lays himself down. I can almost hear the creak of his vertebrae as he does this.

He is twelve, this dog we used to call Benji the Bullet, so fast as he whizzed through the park single-mindedly focused on the yellow tennis ball in flight, legs scrambling underneath him, every ounce of his will engaged in each muscle to get the target as fast as possible. When he reached the ball, he’d thrust himself, full force, to catch it and I’d see his body twist and contort. I couldn’t help but worry how his full force speed would impact him over time.

He loved to jump, to shoot himself in the air like a gush of water, do a little pirouette and land with the frisbee, the ball, whatever.

The four of us played keep-away together with the floppy frisbee on a regular basis – one dog in a “sit and stay” on the side, the other dog running fiercely between us to catch the pink flying disc, hoping for us to fumble. And with Benji between us, if he and I came in close for the catch, I always snatched my hand away to save my fingers. He just couldn’t help his intensity. Those frisbee games always ended with happy panting dogs who’d then need a nap.

We’d swim him at the river in summer, throw huge branches out as far as we could so he could paddle back with his prize. He wouldn’t even make the effort for a skinny, wimpy stick. No, he’d tell us, this one… the big one. His effort and focus just the same as when he ran, one pointed, determined, like a good soldier.

The first year he lived with us, sometimes he’d go rogue in the woods after the scent of a deer or a moose. A few times we thought we’d lost him.

Brave and fierce as he was, he would occasionally shake like a leaf at home, unable to move between rooms as though something from another dimension was blocking his way. Eventually, we called in an energy worker to get help and she said our house was haunted and that the spirit was picking on Benji. It seemed far-fetched, but we couldn’t deny his strange behavior and how his freedom to move about returned after she’d cleared the house.

Now, he spends his days lounging on my cozy bed looking out over the street – my room, now dubbed “the watch-tower.” He walks like a hunched old man and on occasion trips down the stairs. I cringe every time.

His vertebrae discs are compressed. 
He takes daily pain meds in a variety of forms.

He’s one of three elders in my life and I’m bracing for their inevitable departure. I suppose this is what we sign up for when we get dogs, that they will leave us first with a gaping hole in our hearts, their loyal friendship gone.

And then there’s my mother. Ninety-three and counting, still playing piano. She’s making a CD this year. But just last week she told me her knees hurt more and she’s sleeping a lot and the cold she got hasn’t gone away.

Bracing. Or perhaps softening into what is coming.
What is inevitable.

Boomerang

Getting rid of your ego is like
trying to throw away a garbage can,
and what would you do
with no garbage can?
There would be no place to throw out
the dried-up glue bottle,
the shreds of paper, the meat wrappers,
the empty cans.

Oh, no, of course the cans go into
the recycle bins,
along with most of the mail, old cards,
newspapers.

If getting rid of the ego
is like trying to throw away
a garbage can,
then getting rid of the recycling bin
is akin to stopping life-long habits –
those habits that stick
like flies to honey,
wings beating fast for freedom.

But you know the habits
you want to throw away – the ones
that boomerang back to you:
blame, resentment, jealousy.

Envy creeps her way back to your door
every now and again. You hear her say,
“Oh, I wish I had that.”
And you try to shush and hush her,
feeble little waif she is.

All of them just want to be held,
loved for who they are and know
they have a warm place to rest.

Trading Post

Do you ever think about your mailbox?
What it looks like? What it feels like?
What it brings in?

Is your mailbox mainly a bill collector?
An ad dumpster?

And what goes out of your mailbox?
Do you send letters?
Cards? 

Is your heart a-flutter when you go the mailbox?
Or is it numb without anticipation?

I had contempt for mine.

My bland, white tin box with tiny scratches
On the top flap. It felt like a bored, bald
Doughy middle aged white man who still eats
Wonder bread.

It seemed to announce only dull news: bills, ads, coupons.

And then something rattled my insides,
shouted for change:
DO something about that box!

Without hesitation,
I pulled the white tin from the wall, 
Washed it off and began.

My inner voice directed:
What do you want to invite into your life?
What do you want to send out from your home?
What magic are you opening to?

Right! 
I felt myself re-membering.
My-Self.

That box can be magical.
And I got it…I make the magic
Along with my life’s co-creators,
Those who show up to play.

My mailbox shape shifted into
A free-spirited gypsy-artist-
Love-child.  Her clothes were
stitched with prayers
love and gratitude. She
opened the flow to give
and receive. Give and receive.

Now, I go to the mailbox multiple
Times a day. Just to visit.
Just to feel the love.
Feel the gratitude.

Rest in life’s magical
Flow at the trading post,
And to remember
To Trust and have faith. 

All is well.
Just as it is.
Right Now.