Category: grace

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.

**

Nevertheless

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments
Watercolor by Laurie L. Wile

~ ~

I’ve always known I’d never get

whatever it is I wanted.

No way, I’ve felt, do I deserve 

my desires—I’m just not worthy.

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

~

(Of course, I’ve never known just what

I’ve wanted until somebody

told me just what I ought to want,

good co-dependent that I am.

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.)

~

There’s so much that I’ve never done,

and much that I’ve done I failed at;

places I never went to, and

places I never really saw.

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

~

Often, I’ve been a hollow man,

trying to stuff his emptiness

with all manner of addictions

(the list’s banal, embarrassing).

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

~

The faces of the people that

I’ve ignored, hurt, disappointed,

abandoned, disdained, or abused

haunt me in the wee small hours. 

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

~

Now diminished by old age to

a funhouse mirror of myself,

I sense Death looking at his watch,

impatient, counting down the time.

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

Through all of it, I have been loved.

~ ~

Somehow

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…

Somehow, my parents from broken homes gave me a whole one.

Somehow, I met the right teachers at the right time.

Somehow, I fell into a vocation I loved instead of a job I endured.

Somehow, I survived my child’s death. 

Somehow, I stopped trying to drown my problems in cheap scotch.

Somehow, I learned to listen.

Somehow, I discovered joy.

Somehow, I no longer feel ashamed of being human.

Somehow, I’ve kept going even when I feel I’m walking in a circular trench.

Somehow, I’m still alive.

Somehow, I’ve not only survived, but grown.

Somehow, I remain hopeful.

Somehow, I believe, is another name for Grace.

…

Sanctuary

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments
First Parish Church of Yarmouth, Maine 70 years later

~          

Now is the time to sit, be still, recall

those Saturdays at the First Parish Church,

where through stained glass, sun shines on empty pews,

and dust mots dance a silent jitterbug,

while I, at twelve years old, help out my dad, 

who moonlights as the sexton of our church. 

                                    ~

The great green doors shut out the noisy world—

my school with bells, droning voices, “Pipe Down!”

playground bullies’ intimidating threats;

my house with TV cowboys, Lawrence Welk,

and anxious voices trying to decide

what bills to pay and which to set aside—

as I collect last Sunday’s bulletins

from red pews tagged with names from long ago.

                                    ~

My corduroy trousers whistle as I walk.

I add my voice, which echoes off high walls

 just like Elvis singing, “Heartbreak Hotel”:

“Since my baby left me (whistle, whistle), …” 

Generations of church parishioners

like those in the old photos down the hall

silently applaud, and I feel at peace—

safe from strident voices, embraced, strengthened, 

supported by a Something I can’t name.

                                    ~

Now is the time, when storms of every kind

assault my brittle bones with screaming winds,

that I will sit, be still, watch those dancing

rainbows, sense kindly clouds of witnesses 

enfolding me as I lift soul in song

 in the sanctuary of memory. 

                                    ~

Joy

Published on by geriatric pilgrim10 Comments

#

Oh, there were early inklings: 

the feel of my bat sending the ball over the left-field fence, 

speeding in a convertible over the one-lane wooden bridge at 60 m.p.h. 

watching the sun set behind Wyoming’s Grand Tetons—

strange times when I somehow escaped the carefully cultivated confines of my mind. 

But with no idea what those moments meant, I forgot them. 

Only after the Great Loss, 

And years of slogging 

through missing keys and sleepless nights, 

of being terrified strife would strike again, 

of sarcasm, swearing, pounding the walls, 

of regrets for what I had and hadn’t done, 

of downcast eyes and hunched shoulders, 

of tears during saccharine movies

and sobbing on anniversaries,

came the song: 

Buddy Holly on the car radio after a really bad day.

First humming along, then softly singing, 

then louder, louder, until at the top of my lungs: 

“It’s so easy to fall in love!”

Broken open,

releasing embarrassment, lethargy, fear, anger, guilt, shame, and sorrow.

Later, I realized how foolish I must have looked to other motorists. 

But I didn’t care. There was no going back.

No retreat. No surrender. 

No forgetting such a gift.

##