In passing judgment
lies the fatal forgetting
that a saint, you ain’t
Sanctimonious haiku
forgiveness
East of Eden
Old movie reminds
that redemption is the theme
I love most of all
Still from a screentest for ‘East of Eden’ – Richard Davalos (L) and James Dean. Movie-Fan. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
Heart healing
“Heart” is the Spiritual Journey prompt for this first Thursday in February.
Thanks to Linda Mitchell for hosting our group of writers.
On a Sunday afternoon at the end of July, 2019, my husband had a massive heart attack and cardiac arrest. He was resuscitated by EMTs and went straight into surgery after arriving at the hospital. He got four stents and spent several days in induced hypothermia to reduce trauma to his brain, which can happen when blood flow has ceased and is suddenly restored. He recuperated slowly, painfully; his sternum had been broken by the CPR which saved his life. He came home. One morning in September he woke to jolts in his chest and tingling down his arm. I took him back to the hospital. More heart attacks. This time he had four bypasses. The surgeon mended his sternum with a little metal plate.
He is doing well now. In fact, up until winter settled in, he was doing eight-mile hikes in the park a couple of times a week and feeling as good as he ever has.
As this first Thursday in February drew near with Valentine’s Day and “heart” as the Spiritual Journey prompt for the month, I thought of a couple of things I might like to explore. I had chosen one, in fact, when I saw the heart-shaped hospital pillow that remains in our bedroom. This pillow was given to my husband after the bypass surgery. His attending nurse wrote on it with a Sharpie: “Keep hugging your heart!”
I thought, this is it. This is what I need to write about.
These pillows are given to all patients recuperating from open-heart surgery. The patients hug them when they have to cough or sneeze, lessening the severity of the jolt. The pillow protects the incision site whenever the patients move and when they practice the necessary deep-breathing exercises for their lungs.
It just so happens that the hospital where my husband’s surgery and recuperation has the lowest mortality rate in the country for heart bypass patients (according to reports from 2017-2019). It also just so happens that the county’s resuscitation rate is the highest in the nation. So, if you’re going to have cardiac arrest and need cardiac surgery, it’s the best place to be.
My husband is evidence of this.
I think about the surgeon who held my husband’s heart in his hands, who grafted those bypasses. He told us that as soon as the first graft was done, my husband’s heart immediately began beating stronger; it was hungry for the blood. It wanted to live.
Now. Where’s the spiritual element in all this, you ask?
Beyond the miracle that one human can cut open another and repair his heart, and that this repaired person can heal and live life awhile longer, is the Great Physician who is able to transform hearts and lives. When I was young, I attended a Bible study group in which a couple of guys could play guitars and we’d often sing this version of Psalm 51:10-12:
Create in me a clean heart, O God
and renew a right spirit in me
Create in me a clean heart, O God
and renew a right spirit in me
And cast me not away from thy presence, O Lord,
take not thy Holy Spirit from me.
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation
and renew a right spirit in me.
Godly heart-grafting, I would say. Cleansing, taking away the bad parts, restoring. The heart must be transformed before the spirit can be renewed. Sometimes a great deal of work must be done…but the Lord is able. If we let Him work. If we are hungry for it. We often think of letting Him into our hearts but it’s really more a matter of offering our hearts—battered, damaged, tangled, sick as they may be—to Him. He knows exactly what is needed. Psalm 51 is the cry of David’s heart after Nathan the prophet confronted him with his adultery and murder. It can be the cry of any of our hearts as we place them in the healing hands of Almighty God, craving His mercy.
I rejoice that my husband lives, that he was made well, that the hospital and the EMTs are the best around.
I rejoice more that the Lord forgives and heals hearts and spirits. He works on my own, daily. He is the physician and the pillow, the healer and the comforter. The ultimate heart-hugger. He is the best place to be.
Not to mention that His own mortality record is unsurpassable.
Try
inspired by Ruth Ayres on Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog.
Ruth quotes Elon Musk:
“If something is important enough, you should try. Even if the probable outcome is failure.“
Begs the question: What is ‘failure’? Who gets the final say? Surely not the inner critic…
I shall try…
to believe, during the darkest night
to seek the infinite ribbons of light
to love more, to judge less
to concentrate on words that bless
to remember my job is a livelihood, not my life
to free myself of unnecessary strife
to not crumble under self-defined defeat
to keep trying, and trying, again to complete
daily acts of grace, others and self forgiving,
thereby seizing the joy of living
trusting the sense of second sight
urging me always to write, to write.
Living traits poem
with thanks to Gayle and Annie in today’s #VerseLove at Ethical ELA, at this invitation: “The goal is to select a character trait or an emotion and give it a back story. How did they get to be who they are now? Fill in the details–what they wear, where they travel, who they hang out with. Have fun with the creature you meet and get to know them a little better. Take it past the formal definition of personification into something bigger (or smaller…) than that. Make them into a living, breathing, quirky individual.”
It just so happens that my “one little word” for the year is awe. How can I resist the chance to personify her? She is leaning in even now, to see what I will write…and waiting to be revealed.
At the beginning of the year I wrote a little poem that remains one of my favorites: Awe (The Blue Hour). If you click on that link you can scroll past the intro to find the poem. Today I attempt to rework it for Awe personified. With her help, of course.
For Day Seventeen of National Poetry Month
Awe
She slips into the world quietly
born on the blue hour
at the falling away of day
and the coming of the night
unexpected but longed-for child
of Reverend Reverence and his indigenous wife
Waking Beauty
she takes their breath away
at first sight
they weep as they embrace
their tiny perfect child
Awe grows up studying the stars
under Waking Beauty’s tutelage
At her father’s knee, she listens
to stories of dreams and their interpretations
loving the sound of his rich, resonant voice
and the rustling of his fingers turning fragile pages
She thinks, When I grow up, I want to weave blankets
of stars and dreams and give them away
free for the taking
She thinks it, but Awe doesn’t speak it aloud
in fact, her parents grow worried
that she may never speak
until she startles them one gray, misty morning
by bursting forth in song at the breakfast table
her voice so high and pure
that Waking Beauty spills the juice
and Reverend Reverence nearly falls of his chair
instead he kneels in thanksgiving
while her mother dabs her eyes with a napkin
Awe sings for a moment
crystal notes hanging in the air
before dissolving into giggles
just as a shaft of sunlight
spills through the window
She decides she’ll be an artist
In smock and beret, palette poised
she considers the blank canvas
envisioning
at last determining
that there is no blue
without yellow and orange
and dips her brush
It is not enough for her to recreate nature
however
Awe must live and breathe it
and through it
So she walks in every season
through the countryside
through city streets
often wearing her cloak
of invisibility
undetected until
someone brushes against her
and realizes she’s there
she picks her moments
for revealing her presence
a peek at a time
of herself behind the cloak
smiling at transfigured faces
yes, full revelation
would be entirely too much
Awe is tireless in her weaving
of experiences
swimming the oceans
undaunted by depths and mysteries
scaling the mountains
unperturbed by heights and ice
she goes on through the storms
in the lightning, in the havoc
even in the horror
she is there
especially in
the aftermath
when people band together
to begin healing
one another
She stops by the house of worship
and lingers in the stillness
just waiting
the bird on the rooftop
understands
and sings
for all he is worth
Awe walks on
through shadowed back alleys
warming her hands
over the crackling fires
in our souls
at her whisper, we
beckon one another
to stop, come and be warm
instead of passing by
in blue wisps of smoke
curling upward and outward
in tendrils of wrongs
yes, even in the deepest darkness
Awe slips in quietly
carrying her candle
illuminating faces
and nodding at her reflection
in the eyes of those who see
silently offering her free blanket woven
of stars and dreams
and the color of forgiveness
in the blue hour
My drawing- the landscape spells AWE. Enhanced with Cartoona.
*******
also shared with with the Poetry Friday community, with gratitude to all and especially to Jama today for hosting
Awe: The blue hour
In continuation of a series of posts on my guiding word for 2021, awe, I am celebrating the power of poetry.
For who among us was not filled with awe, listening to Amanda Gorman reading her inaugural poem?
Once again, we experience what words can do to inspire, unite, and heal.
Poems also paint a vision. Of things remembered, things hoped for things, things imagined…
Much as artists do on canvas.
Last year Vincent van Gogh’s “The Starry Night” took on a special significance for me. I wrote about it in The portal. For me, “The Starry Night” has become a symbol of looking beyond.
Van Gogh painted it while in the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole. He didn’t paint what he saw from his windows, but what he imagined, maybe what he dreamed for, hoped for, in the innermost part of his suffering heart. Perhaps it was an act of faith.
All those blues and the night remind me of “the blue hour,” loosely defined as the time when blue wavelengths of the subhorizon sun paint the landscape at dawn or dusk.
Perhaps this had a hand in my recent spontaneous sketch of my word for 2021, awe. I depicted it as a sunrise, or maybe a sunset.
So now I ask myself: How is it that I imagine a rising or setting sun as “awe” in a metaphorical way? I think of van Gogh’s starry night, the blue hour, and the imaginings, the hopes, of my heart…which have turned into a prayer for the repairing of relationships. Does love not conquer all? What inspires more awe than that?
And so I wrote a poem.
I wove some of van Gogh’s quotes into it:
A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke
There is no blue without yellow and without orange, and if you put in the blue, then you must put in the yellow and orange too, mustn’t you?
Awe (The Blue Hour)
awe
on the blue hour
at the falling away of day
and the coming of the night
with hope of stars
givers of dreams
singers of songs
awe
that there is no blue
without yellow and orange
like the crackling fire
in our souls
beckoning one another
to stop, come and be warm
instead of passing by
in wisps of smoke
tendrils of wrongs
awe
in electric-blue currents of memory
love survives
by anchoring itself
to the last blade
of living grass
awe
the color of forgiveness
in the blue hour
-F. Haley, 1/18/2021
-Walk in wellness, friends. Live and love deeply. Forgive. Keep your heart open for awe.
One of my masks
My original sketch of “Awe,” where the landscape spells it. Look for awe, and it will reveal itself.
The Starry Night version. The blue hour. How it all connects.
*******
-shared in the Poetry Friday Roundup. Thank you, dear Laura Shovan, for hosting.
–and with the Two Writing Teachers’ weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge. Thank you all for continually illustrating the power of words, ideas, and shared stories.
Grace
The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these. – Matthew 19:14
For Spiritual Journey Thursday. A double etheree.
Now
I wake,
now I rise,
wiping the sleep
from my sleepy eyes.
Time to eat, time to pray.
Thank you, Lord, for this new day
to live, to learn, to love, to play.
In Your kingdom, where I have a place,
remember Your little child saying grace.
Remember all Your children, needing grace
when we’ve forgotten to seek Your face.
Draw us back to that holy place
in a child’s believing heart.
O Lord, in the morning
cast us not away—
help us, we pray—
You are great,
You are
good.
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation… Psalm 51: 10-12
Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my meditation. Hearken unto the voice of my cry, my King, and my God: for unto thee will I pray. My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.
-Psalm 5:1-3
*******
For more Spiritual Journey offerings, visit Reflections on the Teche – with gratitude to Margaret Simon for hosting.
Life is what you bake it
“All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”
-Henry Havelock Ellis
Today I share my golden shovel poem inspired by the Ellis quote, posted this week on Two Writing Teachers‘ Slice of Life Story Challenge along with these questions: What are the moments you’re holding onto? What are you letting go of today?
Here’s to the art of living, to holding on while letting go, to savoring moments spent with children, making every one count.
I hold to all
moments spent with children in the
holy art
of seeing the world with fresh eyes, of
spontaneous embracing, of living
each day in newness. I hold to freedom that lies
in forgiving, that paradoxical self-rising power in
letting go. I hold to a
continuous, necessary cobbling of fine
crystal moments, their pure sanguinity mingling
with, dulcifying, the blood-tart of
a sliced heart. Letting
go of despair, of my shortcomings, letting go
of yesterday, yet believing in tomorrow, letting go and
savoring today in a bluesy canton of confidence, holding
onto the children, always the children, just holding on.
My granddaughter loves to bake. I love symbolism. Here’s our flag cobbler. “Canton” in the poem is the term for the flag’s blue square. Strawberries, heart-shaped, represent love; blueberries, youthfulness and confidence in the future. Bake it well.
The future is calling. I’m listening.
*******
Thanks also to Margaret Simon for hosting Poetry Friday. Visit her blog, Reflections on the Teche, for more poems and magnificent quotes in response to “What is poetry?”
Broken
broken moments
broken things
broken heart
yet it sings
broken flight
broken wings
broken fall
still it stings
feathers here
feathers there
feathers falling
everywhere
who’s at fault
I can’t say
we’re all broken
in some way
fallen is forever
broken is for now
people aren’t angels
anyhow
glue for mending
desire to start
wells within
the broken heart
in breaking through
not breaking worse
from broken pieces
comes broken curse.
Photo: Forgive Me. eddie dangerous. CC BY
The gift
I remember what you wrote but I came to find the book anyway, to read the inscription again.
I hold it in my hands and think about you for a long, long time.
You were the baby who was always smiling, the cheeriest toddler, until I had to launder your blanket. Then you leaned your head against the washer and cried.
You were the little boy in preschool who sat beside classmates on the playground when others overlooked them, excluded them. From the start you noticed the outcast, offered comfort, pulled for the underdog.
You were:
The winner of the Principal’s Leadership Award at the end of your senior year.
The college student who started teaching the men’s Sunday School class at church.
The young man who returned to high school, where your Leadership Award still hangs in the front office, to teach Social Studies. Remember how, when you were setting up your classroom, you cleaned out a cabinet and found your old history exams in that stack of papers?
The teacher who taught your students to dance the Charleston—and who taught your own brother in AP U.S. History (your Dad and I weren’t kidding when we said, “Don’t even THINK about calling us in for parent-teacher conferences”).
The soccer coach who built the program and took the team to the State playoffs for the first and only time.
An inspiration to so many kids. Their parents still tell your father and me.
I remember it all.
Teachers don’t make a lot of money; you took an extra job at night.
I remember the call. You’d been taken to the hospital. You’d been assaulted. Emergency surgery, jaw wired shut, liquid diet for six weeks. Having to carry wire cutters if you should vomit, or you’d suffocate.
How you chose to visit that young man in prison, forgave him, became his friend.
How you adopted a rescue dog, reached a crossroads in your life, came back home, quit teaching, enrolled in seminary.
Almost immediately followed by your meeting the loveliest young woman and her little girl.
I think about all these things as setting sunlight spills through the blinds onto this book in my hands, illuminating the words you wrote to me that Christmas, years ago:
It is the first book I read that made me want to change the world.
You may not think so, but you’ve been changing the world since the day you first entered it, baby boy. One word, one breath, one heartbeat at time.
I’m quite sure you always will.
Maybe we should have named you Atticus.
No matter, for things have a way of working out as they’re meant to. I watch you with your new loved ones. I marvel at the gift of it all, the sheer poetry of life writing itself a day at a time, in the most curious of rhythms—like how pages of a book that stirred your heart long ago should come to us, living and breathing, a young mom who loves the same book, and in a little girl named Scout, crawling into your lap for a story.
lit bits and pieces 