Category: grace

Ruminations on his 83rd Birthday

Published on by geriatric pilgrim5 Comments
Picture Rocks Wash, Arizona. On the right, stairs lead to the Stations of the Cross. On the left are the petroglyphs.

~

His life these days is like walking a trail,

maybe that wash* in Arizona when 

he was on retreat, when on one side of 

him were the Stations of the Cross and on

the other side the picture rocks that give 

the wash its name: 1500-year-old 

petroglyphs by the Hohokam farming

people of the Sonoran Desert.

~

On one side, 14 etchings in metal

depict Jesus’s progression to his

death: scourging and the crown of thorns, falling 

under the cross’s weight, piercing, thirst, and 

humiliation, abandonment by 

friends, followers, even God, death. And 

he thinks of the violence and cruelty

of the empire in which he lives against

the materially poor and the sick

and the marginalized, his feeling that 

God has abandoned the country he loves,

his own pains in places he never knew

he had; indignities; lashings of fear; 

the cross he carries of his family’s

disease; the piercing loss of his daughter.

On the other side, petroglyphs show the 

the sun’s progression during the summer 

solstice: swirls and spirals and strange designs, 

images of dancing people, deer and 

antelope, alien-looking creatures

(you don’t suppose…), and something that looks like 

a picture of an atom, but which might

depict life’s interconnected circle.

He thinks of the kind and kinds of people 

he’s met in traveling from coast to coast,

this country’s mountains, deserts, and rivers, 

of the smell of the dirt in his garden,

dancing with his wife, watching grandchildren

grow up, his church men’s group, his circle of 

friends, his joy in writing a good poem.

He recalls walking between the two sides

of the wash, hearing what might have been a 

cacophony or what might have been a 

choir of quails, doves, finches, cactus wrens, 

flickers, thrashers, cardinals, fly catchers, 

pyrrhuloxia, verdins…and he hears

the sounds of his life: voices of parents 

who, despite their own horrible childhoods, 

made of themselves a living sacrifice

for their children, echoes of the friends he’s 

lost, and of the friends he still has, some of 

them going back to childhood, the teachers 

he disappointed and the teachers who

were there when he needed them, the students 

he failed, and those he inspired, the sounds 

of the tortured last breaths of his daughter, 

and the glorious voice of the woman 

he loves as she reads the Sunday Gospel. 

~

He remembers the Arizona sky

which canopied both sides of the wash,

feeling the paradox that is his life 

enfolded by Something—The Holy Spirit, 

The Tao, The Great Spirit, Jesus, Buddha,

Jehovah, Allah, Brahmin, The God of 

My Not Understanding—he doesn’t care

about names, he’s grateful to be here and

eager to see what’s around that next bend.

~~

*a wash is a dry, low, sandy riverbed that only carries water during rare rain events. It’s often called an arroyo.

Life Smells

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments
Illustration by Lisa Keppeler. Used with her kind permission.

~

It’s September, 2019 and ten weeks after my heart surgery and I’m taking my first walk in the woods since then and the first thing I notice is the fecund smell of fallen leaves and pine needles and dying trees…

and the scents of hay and cows and horses in my great-grandfather’s barn, and the waft of fried onions and potatoes in Nanny and Grampy Lufkin’s house, and the whiff of perfume and cigarettes in Nanny Cleaves’s apartment, and the aroma of Mom’s fresh baked bread on Saturday mornings…

and a few years later: the earthy odors of the market garden where I worked summers, the pungence of wet towels, dirty socks and jockstraps in the locker-room beneath the gym where I spent so much time… 

and the fragrances of my Aqua Velva, and her White Shoulders blending in the back seat of the family Ford …

and later still: the salt smack of ocean breeze thru the spruce trees around our camp in the early days of marriage when love was new and life’s possibilities seemed endless…

and because autumn is when things die, memory sniffs the acrid smoke from the Old Town Paper Company as I drift, bitter and aimless, across the university campus, no longer the high school bigshot and no idea who the hell I am or where I’m going…

 and then the dank reek of the dregs of the pipe tobacco I used to smoke during the last years of that first marriage…

and the stench of shit and disinfectant in the hospital where my daughter lay dying, when I learned how life and love can also waste away and die… 

and thoughts of shit spark smells of steaming cow flaps in Scottish pastures through which Mary Lee and I hike, and aromas of shawarma, spices, and pita bread mingled with the dust of pilgrims in the Old City of Jerusalem, and the sweet scent of apple tea in Turkey and animal musk on the Serengeti and incense wafting up from the altar into the stony steeple of Iona Abbey—reminders that I not only didn’t die, but flourished—

and the smell of Mary Lee lying beside me in the morning, and the fresh, slightly sweet scent of our newborn grandchild, and before I know it, going into the school building to pick up that grandchild where the fragrance of chalk and cleaners and young bodies take me back to my years as a public-school teacher—intimations that love is stronger than death…

and although I’m surrounded by the smells of dead and dying vegetation and the lingering sickly scent of Mupirocin with which I swabbed my nose prior to and after heart surgery, the decay upon which I walk and which I smell teems with the bouquet of resurrection.

~

Curiosity

Published on by geriatric pilgrim11 Comments
A poem about curiosity has got to have a cat in it somewhere, right?

~

… has become a joke between my sponsor and me.

“And, as always,” she says, “be curious.”

And I laugh because I’ve learned she’s right,

and she laughs because she knows I’ve learned she’s right:

that a shot of curiosity is vaccination against

all those viruses that have infected me for the past 80 years: 

resentment, shame, lack of self-worth, 

judgmentalism, co-dependency…

.~

Nothing defuses solipsism like a dose of “I wonder”—

wonder why that email from my old high school pissed me off for days,

wonder why I felt it was my responsibility to keep the meeting on topic,

wonder why I took an instant dislike to the woman ahead of me in the checkout line,

wonder why yesterday I felt that I was God’s gift to humanity and today that I’m a urinal cake—

shifting attention from self to subject,

neutralizing judgment, anticipation, awfulizing, expectation, and resentment.

~

Curiosity keeps me from remaining curled, like a caterpillar in a cocoon,

counsels me to explore the landscapes of my past, present, and future,

with no destination, only an appreciation for the journey.

Curiosity exercises senses I’d almost forgotten I had,

gives my racing mind a needed pit stop.

Curiosity exposes shapeless anxieties to light

where they evaporate, or (and be honest here)

sometimes spew pain previously lying dormant for years beneath denial,

erupting now in spasms of anguish until—son of a gun!—

melting into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Curiosity is what keeps the people I admire these days young,

what brings me awe,

and yes, what keeps me laughing.

~ ~

Broomstick Season

Published on by geriatric pilgrim12 Comments

~

The trees that can have given up their leaves—

the reds and golds you see in magazines,

(though dry and chewed and rotting with black mold)—

standing outlined against the sky: broom sticks

whose branches seem about to sweep the clouds.

~

Hard not to recall those who died this month:

a grandmother, father, mother-in-law,

Thanksgivings when their absence filled our plates.

The Ronald McDonald House Thanksgiving

of turkey, fear, anxiety, and tears,

as my wife and her sons saw my daughter

for what we all knew would be the last time.

~

Well into the November of my life,

I mourn the green and teeming dreams I had,

The gaudy colored leaves of happiness,

chewed by anger and blackened by misdeeds.

Now naked of ambition, strength, shame, guilt,

but rooted in the rocky soil of Grace,

supported by my friends and families,

I raise my bony, brittle arms to sweep

away remorse, and cry in gratitude:

Thank you, thank you, and thank you, for it all.

~ ~

In the Automobile Service Center Lounge

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

~

Along the white walls,

we lounge in black chairs

fiddling with iPhones,

flipping through magazines,

Or sit at round tables 

scattered like planets 

in a mini-solar system, 

hunched over computers 

or in my case 

a moleskin journal. 

~

Under the dealership’s framed 

five-star rating for satisfaction,

a woman whose glasses frames 

match the color of her blue book-

mark purses her lips, lost in

a paperback world of 

broad-shouldered men 

and black-haired vixens.

~

Two chairs down, a white-haired 

guy —green polo shirt, khakis— 

swaps a newspaper for 

a magazine, trades that for 

his iPhone, gets up, goes 

to the lobby door and 

stares through the window

before sitting down again 

to play with his beard.

~

At another table, a gray-haired

woman in jeans and a flannel shirt 

is scrolling through 

pictures of kids or cats 

(I can’t tell), until

Sonny, the Service Manager 

calls, “Wilson!”

She rises. 

“Talk to you for a minute?” 

She leaves with him, 

returns a few minutes later, 

sits down, sighs, says 

to no one in particular:

 “Well, I’m going to be 

here a while longer.”

~

At the other end of the room—

past a guy in a dirty 

baseball cap, his computer 

speckled with stickers

(I thought Yeti was a snowman),

And two gals in tan jackets 

sitting at the same table 

but ignoring each other—

a woman in a gray raincoat 

with large silver buttons 

paws through her leather handbag.

Tanned, with blonde hair,

probably dyed, large hands 

and arthritic fingers 

adorned with silver rings,

she looks up, sees me, smiles.

Embarrassed, I burrow 

back into my journal.

~

Sonny returns, calls, “Fiori?”

The white-haired guy jumps up. 

“All set. No hurry.”

Fiori exits into the lobby …

and for a palpable moment

The rest of us leave

our separate worlds,

finally looking at one other,

connecting through our need 

to hear that voice 

 of authority tell us,

“You’re all set!”

~ ~ ~

September Interplay

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments

◊

Through my window, a September slant of sunlight

softened by shadows cast by hemlocks in the hollow

seems a plush carpet inviting me to take off my shoes

and walk barefoot into a golden world.

◊

Summer sun glares, remorselessly highlighting

weeds I failed to pull, dents I’ve put in the car, windows that need washing.

Winter light is weak and pale, helpless against the darkness

always hovering on the horizon, a constant reminder of mortality.

◊

To someone who’s spent his life caroming 

from one extreme to another, a ping-pong ball

sent back and forth by whoever I’m trying to please today,

◊

September says, “Live in the interplay

of light and shadow, 

of cool mornings and warm afternoons, 

of tart cider and sweet corn,

of raucous crows and cooing doves,

of grief and grace.”

◊

Wading

Published on by geriatric pilgrim8 Comments

~

The setting sun lays down a carpet on the bay.

A school of clouds across the skyline floats

over humpbacked islands of pointed firs.

Closer to shore, three skiffs face out to sea,

and closer still, silhouetted

against the light, my wife wades, 

legs cut off at the knee by undulating waters,

back straight, arms out to the side for balance

(always important as we get older),

testing each step, her face turned to the sea,

while on this shore of tide pools and broken shells,

I, who find the water too cold,

the stones too sharp for my old feet, 

lean against a barnacle-encrusted rock

watching, wading in gratitude.

~

Scotty

Published on by geriatric pilgrim3 Comments
Thnx to Scotty’s daughter, Jeanie, for the photo

~

Served as Tail Twister of the Lions Club.

He liked his scotch and Camel cigarettes.

Cheered our team at high school basketball games.

Oh, and by the way, he was my pastor,

who, when he ascended to the pulpit,

his black cassock haloed by white candles,

showed me that even short men with bald spots

can be—if only for an hour—holy.

~

Sitting above me in his purple chair

he would sometimes just slightly turn his head,

look down at my family sitting in

the right front pew and give us all a wink.

God, I learned from Scotty, looks after us

with a neighborly twinkle in his eye.

~

Gazebo

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

~

“We are saved in the end by the things that ignore us.”— Andrew Harvey

~

At the Spiritual Renewal Center in Arizona

I’m not feeling renewed spiritually or otherwise.

Dusty desert wind sears my lungs as I sit in 90° heat,

stuck to a faded plastic chair in a rundown gazebo—

rotting floor…peeling paint… broken railings—

good place, I think, for an octogenarian

with COPD, a weak heart. and arthritic joints.

Just six years ago I walked the nearby desert trails 

for miles past petroglyphs and rattlesnakes,

up rocky canyons and down sandy washes.    

This morning, I reached for my inhaler after 20 minutes 

and turned back feeling old and dilapidated.

Now, I sit in this decaying gazebo awfulizing about my future:

a sudden heart attack that strikes me down

before I can say good-bye to those I’ve loved, 

or a stroke which leaves me paralyzed and drooling 

while others change their lives to look after me,

or worse, dementia, unable even to say thank you for caring.

Which leads me to wonder: Will I be missed when I’m gone?

Certainly not by the flat cumulous clouds 

floating over the hills on the horizon

 or the wind through the prickly pear, cholla, barrel,

organ pipe and ocotillo cactus,

 not to mention the saguaro standing

with arms raised to the heavens,

 and certainly not by the coyotes 

barking from the copper-colored hills behind me, 

or the doves or cardinals or flycatchers or thrashers 

or warblers or wrens or quails,

nor, come to think of it, by the yellow blossoms

from the palo verdi  blowing in the desert wind, gilding

the rotten gazebo floor and my decrepitude 

with the golden certainty of new life. 

~

Acceptance

Published on by geriatric pilgrim1 Comment
Arizona Sunrise

**

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…

*

When it comes, the clouds clear and the sun shines and you see things the way they are—

not perfect, certainly, maybe not even great, but all in all, not bad—

and you stop trying to change things and beating yourself up when you can’t.

*

The accusing voices in your head, the illusions of grandeur, the sirens’ songs of temptation

fade away and you find yourself singing an old Everly Brothers’ tune or a Christmas carol.

*

The gyre grows smaller, the falcon returns to the falconer, things come together,

the center holds, and serenity envelopes the world.

*

Don’t get me wrong, the clouds will return, more storms will come—

mistakes, injuries you’ll inflict (most of them upon yourself),

unrealistic expectations, failures, disappointments, defeats, deaths—

but maybe, next time, you’ll see rain, not Noah’s flood.

**