Borderline

We concentrate
on words;
thin reflective
blankets to contain
cold nights that keep
hot and weary days
separated.

Camped out
on the borders ennumerated by our declaration,
we speak into the void to bring forth laws
and give them teeth.
For our own children, this command:
 brush before bed.

"How many more children have to die before we care enough to do anything about it?"

But people do care. Deeply care. And that's what makes it so complicated. Some of us want to protect our children with gun control, and some of us want to protect our children with guns. Either way, we cannot bear the thought of standing by and doing nothing while children die.

The other day, I read a passionate plea by a vaccine advocate. "If you knew what it was like to lose a child, you'd understand."

Her words echoed those of the most passionate vaccine critics. "If you knew what it was like to watch your child die..."

"If you knew..."

"If only you knew..."

"I wish you knew..."

And just like that, dialogue gives way to death wishes, even threats.

"I hope your child dies..."

As a society, we have important decisions to make about guns, vaccines, and a host of other issues. What we do matters, because if we choose wrongly, innocent children will die, regardless of our intentions.

We have to care. Deeply care.

But can we learn to care without violence?

Put

her

away

quietly.

Slowly back into

her tent. Do not look. Pull the wool

gently over her senseless body, then tip-toe

out. Damp ground strewn with purity's

debris spreads beneath

the rainbow.

Promise:

no

more.

“We must love each other, respect each other and cherish our history and our future together.” 
          --Donald J. Trump, August 12, 2017


These histories we cannot cherish--don't
forget. You have to hoist Anchises and
his statues onto your aching shoulders. You won't
exactly leave the flames; this burning land
churns inside your flesh. You will ignite
it everywhere you go, with torches raised
to carry on and on, with faces white
and trembling--unless
you break the rhythm
like old estate sale china,
sweep up the pieces before the neighbor
kids get hurt, and maybe dare
to write something new.

We've

left

Egypt:

pungent roots

and goads. We still sweat,

And the salt now tastes like freedom,

streaming down our sunburned backs in gleaming stripes, but thirst

keeps our eyes on the pyramids.

We've learned denial

is more than

a state

of

mind.

Unravel in the quiet underneath
the earth's plush blanket, nestled in the soil.
Let go. Unclench your fingers and your teeth,
and let the rain unwind this mortal coil.
Peel away the husk, unleash the germ,
in silence sweet as dying, dark as sleep,
waiting through the full unspoken term;
you must entrust to spring what you would keep.

You

are

at war.

Remember

that the battle lines

are within you: shifting, pulsing,

churning through your veins. You cannot do this on your own.

Allies are everywhere, thank God,

and you must find them.

This is all

the hope

there

is.

Recipe

Garlic is magical, and its pungent odor is wafting through our home like fairy dust.

Stinky fairy dust.

Cloves are also magical, but I caught the little dust-fairy before he got that package open.

There is so much magic all around us, and we spend most of our life trying to figure out what on earth do with it all.

He tosses the bag of peppercorns. I catch it like a beanbag before it breaks open, and tell his big brother to move his dancing before a fight breaks out.

I tuck the spices back into the cupboard, and gather everyone around to read the stories that will show us how to combine the wild unruly ingredients of life.

We are watching the Cosby show, right now.

It is so, SO good.

I watch soberly now, and we talk about it. We talk about the good, and we talk about how everything isn't always as it seems. But we keep watching, because as a family it's so important to learn how to drive each other crazy, love each other anyway, and laugh about it all.

We watch the ads, too, because it's important to learn how to think well about them. We laugh at the audacity of the accelerating heart beat in the background of the refinancing ad. The manipulation isn't really funny, but laughter helps us stay steady in our own bio-rhythms. Polyrhythms are fun, but you have to pay attention.

Ad-watching has become more interesting since I've started selling Young Living. The air freshener ads are downright terrifying when you spend all day talking and writing about the effects of fragrances. 

Cancer in a jar, 50% off. Your guests will be so impressed.

(And here I go with the fear. It's unavoidable: there be dragons. Breathe slow and deep, lean into the poly-rhythms. Laughter helps so much.)

Just now there was an ad for a very scientific skin-care product, and mercifully, this one was trying to be funny. The skin cream promised to solve some teen problems, but not others, because, hahahaha, that would be ridiculous. We are all on guard, and we know better than to expect too much.

I used that stuff back in the day. It didn't do much except dry out my skin. I'm sure it's helped some people, but good nutrition does a better job for me.  And good nutrition also happens to address all those other issues too, helping with mood and and focus and friendships as well.

The gifts of God are too good to be true. What is there for us to do but to join with Sarah in her gladness, and laugh?

And

when

you wake

up, tucked in

between the pages

of some dark novel, know that these

are the stories that glitter with courage and glory,

are the stories that you read through

and through, over and

again, and

you are

their

light.

Be

side

the still

waters, swept

enraging currents,

newly ever-cycling eddies:

I cannot walk through this valley, and I fear to swim.

Ground unearthed into this churning,

the water's surface

the only

place left

to

stand.

One

word

forward,

two words back:

Our stories untell

themselves. Words slip off our tongues, back

into our throats. They stick there while we try to make up

the story of our unmaking.

By the time we are

through, I'm not

sure who

we'll

be.

Love

is

feathered,

shapes the air, 

expands to cradle

the space we share. There's room enough

for you and the soaring wind, pressing against your lungs.

Grow into the weight of light, fill

all you can, only

with welcome.

Fill all

with

love.

It

is

We'n'sday,

when forgotten

words hold forgotten

letters. Still, we carry them all:

Aeneas, Anchises, the statues of their statues.

The tower wobbles above us

as we flee the flames.

We always

forget

some

one.

One

grain

at a

time, slowly

they lay their loads down,

return again into the ground

to gather more. The tunnels deepen. The ant nest grows.

These boulders they hoist, numberless

as stars, are too small

to count. God

still sees

them

all.

Leaving

The oaks have been good mentors over the past year. I will miss them.

They tell me not to worry about it. I am trying to listen.

They also tell me that no matter how well I listen, I won't ever be a tree. We're migratory creatures, some of us more than others. Few of us flit around quite as much as the blue jays and the cardinals, but we all spend our lives skimming along earth's surface. This, too, is okay. The trees reassure me that humans are fine and lovely creatures with their own kind of wisdom.

I get the idea that they aren't entirely clear on the concept, but they take it on faith that we exist with a life as rich and vibrant as their own. That is enough.

Their ignorance has taught me as much as their knowledge. Out of all that there is to know, we will always be ignorant of most of it. I had better learn how how to become good at being ignorant. I had better learn how to reach into the dark with fearless love.

Trees are not afraid of the dark. Half of their life is hidden in the underworld, where earthworms nest in their branches.

I am not a tree. The dark of the earth is for me a place of death, and I am not strong enough to feast on unfiltered light.

The oak trees spread above me, mediating glory, and beneath me, recieving burdens to great for me to carry. For them, it is no burden. It is the stuff with which they gather light.

And now they urge me on to go do likewise, but in the human way, spreading my roots into migration's deep rich heritage.

The

pure

in heart,

beautiful

earth between their toes,

shall surely see God reaching down

to wash their feet with tears and purest oil (you are clean), 

shall surely surely see God through wild hair

streaming down to wipe

away all

tears, find

them

clean.

The

right

feelings

are always

reasonable; sound

logic always sings. Head and heart

may err unaware, but each notices the other's

flaws. The slow exasperating

way of good fights fought

in the end

prevents

much

woe.

You

do

not have

to gather

the light all alone.

It's too strong for you anyway.

Deep-rooted trees and flickering grasses will filter

glory. So will others. And light

itself will reach down

become small

enough

for

you.

Did

she

like it?

He didn't

think to ask. Did she

want it then, at all, or that way?

Did she like it from an armed stranger? Will she enjoy

it again, now that it means fear?

Shared pleasures call for

consent: yes

even

ice

cream.