At 100 years old…

If you are in kindergarten or first grade, the 100th day of school is a big deal.

You get to count a hundred beads or macaroni or sundry items.

You get to dress up as an old person.

You get to imagine what you would do at 100 years old.

Such as my kindergarten granddaughter did:

Check out the old-lady perm

“Always fun going through this kid’s backpack,” says her mom.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Writing Challenge.
At 100 years old, I will still be writing.
And not perming my hair.

Sunday is a stillness

Sunday is a stillness
in my week
not restful
for a pastor’s family
but restorative
and right
the church standing tall
like a father
doors like open arms
welcoming the penitent child
wrapping me
in belonging

Sunday is a stillness
in my spirit
ever how fierce or frayed
ever how dismayed
like a calming infusion
like a healing balm
the stillness seeps
so deep, so deep
for in all the unholiness
the holy remains

Sunday is a stillness
in my life
for the living
for the forgiving
for the remembering
for the mattering
for my walking in the footsteps
of those who walked before me
in the rhythms of grace
singing old songs of belief
through all our yesterdays
until our eternal Sunday
comes at last.

A game played long ago

This morning I woke to the sounds of wind gusts and snowflakes striking the window…brought back the memory of my oldest boy and a game we played long ago. A pantoum:

A game played long ago:
Little boy crawling into bed, whispering
“The North Wind will blow,
we will have snow!”

Little boy crawling into bed, whispering
“It’s so cold—I can’t get warm.
We will have snow!
Let me sleep here in your arms.”

“It’s so cold—I can’t get warm.
Until I am grown and gone,
let me sleep here in your arms”
—the memory of these moments!

Until I am dead and gone
the North Wind will blow
the memory of these moments,
a game played long ago.

The learning fire

cold cold classroom
how can anyone learn
teacher, wrapped in a blanket
kids wearing their coats

the teacher lights a fire
as good teachers always do
in some way or another
even if this one gives no warmth

it calms them, she says,
just the sound of it
popping and sparking—
like magic, the children get to work

the fire blazes, there on the screen
bright and merry, not consuming
—if not brought by Prometheus himself,
certainly sent through his Board

Lulling the learning: A Promethean Board casts its calming spell
in a cold classroom while the heat is repaired.

Dog bowl story

I had to get Dennis the dachshund new food and water bowls.

He had been using the bowls left behind by our previous dachshund, Nikolaus.

Nik would have been twenty years old this week, if he were still here. He made it to sixteen.

I can see his little grave from my kitchen window. Two days ago the spot was covered in snow. Three tiny sparrows were feeding there or maybe just pecking at the snow for a drink of water. In spring a big rabbit feeds there.

Nik would not mind. He was always an easy old soul.

So, I have been using his bowls for Dennis, who is two.

One of the bowls was cracking (the food bowl; one cannot keep water in a bowl that is cracking).

When I set it it down for Dennis’s supper a couple of days ago, I must have done it a bit too hard: the bowl broke into half a dozen pieces.

So.

New bowls for Dennis.

I knew this was the right one as soon as I saw the wording on it.

It is the truth for Dennis, pampered little autocrat that he is.

It is the truth for me.

Because I have loved and been loved by dogs.

In return for their sustenance, they sustain. They give their whole selves.

Even hardheaded dachshunds.

My six-year-old granddaughter refers to him as “rascally Dennis”

A bit of whimsy

Who wouldn’t love a seahorse pen?
Hippocampus reigns in hand and brains!
Iridescent eyes awaiting
My planner for updating
See the daily reminder here…
You are made of magic.

This really is my seahorse pen and planner. Just sayin’.

Dedicated to my blogger-friends at SOS—Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog
in light of the challenge to capture a bit of whimsy

Burns night

If you’re aware of National Today, you know there’s a list of celebrations for every day on the calendar. Yesterday happened to be, among other things, National Macintosh Computer Day and National Compliment Day. Tomorrow is National Spouses Day—make it special!

I didn’t know, however, that tonight is Burns Night.

It honors the Scottish poet Robert Burns, born on January 25, 1759 (happy 263rd birthday, Rabbie). I have learned that Scots hold suppers on this evening, often with traditional dishes and bagpipes.

I’m not of Scottish descent but as I have loved Burns’ work since I was a teenager, I thought, in honor of Burns Night, I would at least share my favorite lines from his poetry. His best-known piece: the New Year’s song “Auld Lang Syne.”

My favorite Burns poem, however: “To A Louse.”

That’s right. The parasite. As in the tiny bug that infests your scalp. The horror of every school. Burns saw one crawling on a lady’s fancy bonnet at church and composed the rollicking verse, a particular delight to read or hear in the Scots dialect.

The lines that I have loved for most of my life come near the end of “To a Louse.” I find in them invaluable perspective:

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

More easily understood as Oh, would some Power give us the gift of seeing ourselves as others see us…to “free us from blunders and foolish notions,” the poem goes on to specify.

Most often, though, the lines come to mind when I encounter people who just don’t seem to realize their incredible worth…and not just adults. Young people and children who struggle tremendously with self-image and self-esteem. I see them every day.

So on Burns Night especially, a prayer for them to see the beauty, power, and potential within. To see themselves as others see them. To know how much they are loved.

And a toast to the uplifting power of words.

Engraving of Robert BurnsDumfries Museum. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Winter evening

A winter’s drive
as night falls
colors band the sky-
indigo
turquoise
rose gold-
framed by trees
in black silhouette

stars appear
one by one

fairylights glow
from all the houses
scattered along
the rolling countryside

barns and haybales
swallowed by shadow

the road twists
through woods
past a pond
smooth as glass
reflecting the banded sky
in reverse-
rose gold
turquoise
indigo-
rimmed with silver

patches of snow
along the roadside
sparkle like glitter in
the headlight beams

deer are not out tonight
nor is the big rabbit
that feeds in my front yard

but I am home at last
full of winter enchantment
deep stillness in my soul

ready for a little bowl
of snow cream.

Magnetic metaphorica

Writing leads me
on so many journeys

today it was
to the center of the Earth

it all started with
using “compass”
as a metaphor
which led me to wonder
what really makes a compass work
why the needle points
to magnetic north

which led me to
the magnetic field

and crystals in the Earth’s core

and to the discovery
that these crystals
are a type of snow

(iron snow,
but still)

snowing there
in the molten middle
of our planet

and now I’m swimming
in metaphor
the compass nearly forgotten

because in my mind
I see it snowing in Earth’s core
and I know
it doesn’t look
anything like what scientists
are guessing at

and that’s okay
because I started
with only a compass
not even a tangible one

and I found myself
pulled into fiery living snow
hidden from human eyes
and I felt the flapping
of a majestic blanket
as it rippled far
into the heavens

making the auroras dance
to its rhythms
trailing their long veils of light

-where was I?

Oh, right, the compass.

The journey, the journey.
It’s why I write.

NASA’s THEMIS Sees Auroras Move to the Rhythm of Earth’s Magnetic Field.
NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center. CC BY-NC 2.0