As I write these three words,
I keep hearing the sounds of
the hammer driving three
nails into the flesh of an
I hang my head—my lament so raw.
Unraveling the words, my white, feminine flesh
spills black ink from a pen.
I do not know how to
frame the cry within me, choking me.
I must write, but what?
I sought the words of a Dreamer…
“…Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia. Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain Tennessee. Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, and when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when ALL of God’s children, black and white, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”
~~~Martin Luther King, Jr.
28th August 1963
I wish to sing, but my tears flood my
wind pipe…I’m choking.
Mr. Floyd, the simplicity of my words
are an attempt to BREATHE for you.
Was this your life’s purpose…to ignite a flame?
Your purpose so much more!
Across the country, from Minneapolis, to Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Illinois, Utah and—
cries are heard.
Systemic shifts are caving in
amidst a pandemic.
Lives are being lost.
The Earth is quaking.
Will we all perish in our inability
to see we’re all FREE…we are all created equal?
God Almighty, how you weep now with us.
You breathed life into the dust of this landscape, brown soils, creating humankind…
my heart is not able to reckon what we are
living in NOW
this was/is not a part of your Design.
Come to our assistance—
Come, if ONLY, to embrace our sorrows.
Let us sit for a while in these ashes.
Let us bathe in the folly of all
May the loss of George Floyd’s life simply not be a moment we look back upon and ‘recall’.
Let freedom ring
until God Almighty we are all Free at last.
I pray my ‘eyes’ behold the Dream Come True
before I take my last breath.
Forgive me while I still breathe.
I cannot keep silent.
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In a ‘way,’ we summoned someone to drive around the bend to transport us to the location we originally sought. We walked in the opposite direction~~~through forests and orchards of horse chestnuts, tobacco fields, grape vines, peach trees.
Our sole purpose~~~ to visit what I would name, ‘Oxen,’ in order to purchase the cheese made from their luscious milk.
The Red Fiat turned the bend and stopped. Our guide approached. He wore a classic straw hat, a long sleeve blue shirt, tucked in…pants held by suspenders. He responded to our request. Four women invited into this man’s small auto. He spoke Italian— Emese and Deanna understood. Wendy and I looked and listened. Each day he drives to the top of the hill where there is a small cemetery. His wife died almost 2 months ago~~~they were married 50 years. Tears fill his eyes. When he makes his way from the cemetery, he seeks ‘pilgrims’ on their way to Assisi…any WAY he can HELP, assist, offer presence. He was our Angel and he told us we were his miracle.
He drove us to the entrance doors—to the store. He wished to drive us back, but we graciously declined—yet, not before an embrace… a kiss first on one cheek, then the other.
A simple word packed with MORE feelings than one can explain…”Thank You.”
Did we meet Francis of Assisi? Yes!
Did we meet Christ? Yes!
Was this man and angel? Yes!
His name, Leonardo.
Today, I AM no longer the same having joined the path called Life~~~with him.
(Excerpt from a Journal on the Camino St Francis/Italy)
“If the only prayer you ever utter is ‘thank you’…it is enough!” Meister Eckhart
Nor did ‘rock’ hold the weight of an array of limbs and twigs.
The branches were laced, intertwined, woven together on a bed of water.
Yes, this house built upon a weightless stream running slowly —rushing effortlessly down yonder.
The builder, out in the early hours of dawn chopped trees like a pecking of a chisel until…”timberrrrrrrrr.”
Yet, no sound heard except the pounce of the wood caressing the ground and then the mighty branch being hulled by a tug boat.
But, this boat has no motor.
An enormous tail works the water like a shutter —swift movements —a thrust forward then back finally arriving at home base.
The builder tugged, pulled, lifted and sewed the wood into the foundation.
Protected from the weathers —inside, one dry elegant room.
A family gathers. Day has begun —hidden they remain, until the first star appears.
The lumberers sharpen their teeth as off to work they paddle.
Their house on the water BUILT and fashioned with care.
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Enveloping the sky,
you bathed in the light of the sun.
You wrapped yourself in
the crescent moon
and glistening stars.
your rings unfolded.
Your task in this world
if, it be termed a task—
you trust what is
needed to allow you to be.
Season upon season,
you have been bent,
reshaped, broken by storms,
healed by soaking rain.
You rested while snowflakes
gathered around you
until you burst with buds
painting the world
green beneath a sky,
blue as an ocean.
Waves of clouds
gathered to greet you—
welcoming you to
A cycle of perfect
Life, death and rising
again and again
in a fashion
unduplicated by a human hand.
There it was lying on the path— a price-tag dangling from its handle.
Who lost this treasure? A simple red sand shovel… it held the potential to go ‘deep’ into the sand. Oh, what ‘one’ could create with this ‘toy.
Reaching down, I held it by its neck… placing it in my pack so that it was visible…why?
Days passed— the red shovel stepped with me, but it began to weigh down my being. “Let me dig,” it seemed to say.
I was not about to stop, and then in front of me,
a clear path— flowers strewn on both sides… scented walls greener than green cascading with blossoms… a pond of fresh lilies to my left —they held my gaze I heard the fall!
She was five maybe six— she was on the ground. She was hurt, she wanted to cry. A little hole was in her pant leg— her tiny hands cupped her tiny knee.
As she rose, her father grasped her hand. As she rose, the little red shovel in my bag climbed out.
As I handed her the shovel, a curve in her lips turned upward… a smile revealed.
“You, took a fall~~~ now you can use this shovel to dig for treasures… share with your brother.”
I glanced at the father and then the mother— their eyes spoke words that were not echoed aloud.
Then, the little girl holding the ‘toy’ in both hands, said without prompt, “Thank you!”
I walked on. I discovered the buried treasure.
(Excerpt from a Journal in Wales/Pembrokeshire Coast Path)
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Second, they dunked their heads coming up for air before a full immersion.
A baptism of fluttering ensued and the community gathered around the ‘font.’
They welcomed everyone before taking flight
even those without wings
who dipped mere fingers into the waters for a blessing.
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“This” coat stitched in love. The garment which I refer to IS the piece ‘inside’ the fabric.
One person responsible for THIS design is my mother. (amongst a host of others) She used various ‘strands,’ pieces, designer rags to form me. At times, in moments of her own sacred stitching, she would tear ‘patches’ of me. ‘Somehow,’ in my small mind, I knew— I simply saw her brokenness.
Without SEEING— my world became FULL of colors… deep reds soft blues gatherings of yellows blankets of greens rays of orange black like an empty kettle and white stars flickering without fading.
All the shades ‘fit’ me. I have attempted through the years, to ‘invite’ others to embrace the many colors of their coats.
Oh, the tapestries we are~~~ The forms holding our shapes.
Each of us fits this Universe.
Without YOU, this coat of creation would be less than whole and that pattern never was imagined without you.
You are part of the seam threading life without end.
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There is ‘something’ about moving with the current.
Moments can push us beyond the movement of the water’s flow.
Tossed off course, we discover a resolve within to find the path.
To accept the course D-signed.
Sudden wakes guide the bow into clear waters.
Gentle waves tickle the sides of our vessel.
Lifting our head, —Sails extended.
The wind blows—
“Divine Spirit” a presence reminding us
“I’m here I’m here I’m here.”
Climbing into the mast —looking outward
No land in sight—
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