Tuesday, December 20, 2016

White Scarlet

 


The way scalloped leaves are always ready to cup the dawn,
        and gather sunbeams,
The juxtaposition of white flowers against scarlet petals,
        poinsettia and violet, creates sanctuary.
The contemplative beauty of soft chanting: Ave Maria,
        Dana Nobis Pacem in the early morning,  

Helps my soul hold the sorrowful news of this awakening day;
       solemn contrast to the joy and promise
of Christmas morning, of my beloveds gathered.   I mourn with
       the suffering, those who have lost, are depressed, and
dying.  May the coming year illuminate all our paths as we open,
       and walk the way of compassion and fierce Love.




Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Solstice

 


Solstice 

Peace my friend,
Peace in the darkness,
as sun shortens its bright arch
and moon rules the day,

pull in, unplug; the time of gathering
has ceased. Huddle around fires of inner
reserves. Gather ‘round solstice flame,
bonfires of wood and soul, of authenticity,

and deeper connection. Face to face,
touchable, reliable. Friends, family, soul
companions. Burn what no longer serves,       

light your touch and go forth. Be a light

carrier. There are enough of us, my
friend; Light grows stronger in the
dark. Peace, my friend. All will be okay, in
time, in space where inner fires

burn. Fellow sensitives, old souls, advocates
raise your voice as the wise owl hoots. Yes,
know the coyote shadows stalking the
edges; know candle snuffers who haunt, some
with fears of their own making. Talking heads

churn and spit. Disconnect. Trust what lies
deep, hold onto what is true in you, what rises,
sets in sweet sky rhythm. Hope is new bricks made
from war rubble and ash. No, hope is light

carriers, building from ash, worry, fear, dis-ease.
Hope is truth sniffers, rubble sifters, those holding
hands around soul fires, beating back despair
by celebrating humanity: grief, agony, loss,

nothingness, darkness until creativity rises
like the new moon, like the coming of
the Light, like restoration, justice, strength
perseverance, triumph. Peace my

friend. Peace in the darkness,
as the sun shortens its bright arch
and moon rules the day. Trust the

coming LIGHT



...and the day begins, with the coming of the light





light and shadow throughout the day




until night falls again 


"A new dawn is rising; great will be the understanding of those who know Love. The darkness of ignorance will be overcome! The nations will be united in their diversity, living in harmony and with integrity - then will fear be no more. Love will reign in every heart!  ...may you walk in a new dawn, may you dance with light hearts and spread peace throughout the earth."   Ps 68  Psalms for Praying by Nan Merrill

Monday, December 5, 2016

When the Hounds Bay

Trunks from the attic of the old homestead. Not quite sure they fit in this new place.  



I give you the challenging poem below in the midst of happy photos of my holiday decorating. 

This season my heart is especially full. I remember my mom this month - December being the month of her birth and death. I pulled a tiny suitcase from my Christmas decoration box recently, her old cassette tape holder.

This case held her most precious collection: tape recordings from grandchildren, quartet music recorded by my brother sing all four parts and recorded in his own music studio, other quartet and hymn recordings. Now, I use it to store my own outdated cassettes. I've looked at this case every Christmas for last few years, even moved it to our new house and barely noticed it, yet this year grief suddenly washes over me at the sight. 


Perhaps my heart is tenderized because so many dear people have died this year. And because so many troubling events are happening. Even as I write a friend waits beside her husband's hospice bed, holding sacred vigil. Ah, life, what can one do?  


Embrace poetry, love deeply, live justly, make your corner of the world more beautiful.... 






 


    



              .....especially as the hounds bay. 

                                              * * *



When the Hounds Bay






When dogs refuse to use the newly
installed dog door, and instead stand
dolefully on the porch looking through

the French doors, and you’re too lazy or
overwhelmed to get up again to
show them the way, that’s

when the hounds bay. When toddlers empty
every toy bin and grind modeling clay
into the carpet; when two harnessed dogs

on two long lines pull you to your knees,
whining: deer!, turkey!;  when ravens grouch,
driving off hawks and heavy mist rolls over
the mountains, that’s when the hounds bay. 

When the percolator boils over and
politicians spew, when men grope and fondle
yet fear intimacy, the hounds gather
momentum. When children are shamed, girl
commodities traded, trafficked and hidden
like colorful aces in a sumptuous deck,

that’s when the hounds bay. When hard 
emotions are squashed and screams
muzzled, and children work long hours
for my smooth, dark chocolate, that’s

when the hounds bay. When everyone
sleep walks, stifling body and soul, and
starvation of every kind goes unnoticed, the

hounds eventually get tired and go lie down. 

                                                    * * *

Arise, bay if needed; keep watch, stay awake. Shine a light into the world's darkness. Be a light carrier! 

Isaiah 9:2 - The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.
 When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy! Matthew 2:10.

                                     

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Questions Can be Beacons in the Fog





The path is shrouded in beauty, the way
mysterious, fitting for a time as this. Lean
in. Expand. How shall we be this day? What
percolates in bellies and hearts across the
globe?  The mind has had its day.  Today

belongs to dreamers, artists, poets. Tomorrow
calls forth the intuitive. Obscurity wants light
carriers, beacons in the fog. Who is trustworthy,
what kind of community do we desire? Enough
questions.  I walk to the woods. Drape my body

length-wise over fallen trunk. Moss below me;
sky above. Pull up my knees, prayer form in
reverse. Chest opened wide for breath, arms
dropped limply down sides, shoulders brushing
rough bark. Fingers trail down, finding rest on leaf-

coated earth. Heart opening pose. More real
than yoga bolster, this old log. Sunlight squints
vision. Tree tops dance with clouds. Oak roots
murmur and wind whispers secretly through
boughs. Tree roots communicate: 

Grandmother to mother to daughter to grand-daughter...

an unseen network of tendrils and
fungus. Branching as deep and wide below
as seen above.  I feel the vibrant community.
Know this is as real as trolls on facebook, the
bleeding hearts, cynics, mockers, idealists  

commenting on news feeds. All the yelling, all
the silence, both equally felt. What is real?  
What are the nerves and sinew, the communication
lines, the heartbeats of this brave, new
world?  These woods open my heart. And, across

the way in woods higher than the log on which
I muse, lives another. Over there, the woods are a
fortress. The trees guard private property. Is the
heart over there closed? Everything belongs - 
so beautiful in theory; challenging in reality.




Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Savoring Farmers, Art, and Carrion

page 9 On The Journey (artwork Sharon Kraybill)






"I thank You God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes." ~Cummings







On The Journey - Our page for pondering today, includes the above artwork and words: "It's not much that satisfies the soul, but the savoring of a little."

I reflected on the 'muchness' that doesn't satisfy. Maybe I will begin a new daily list including not only what I am savoring, but what is not satisfying.

Savoring -
1. Aroma of cedar.
2. Watching a buck with broken antler chasing a doe around.
3. Listening to carrion. Finding a dead cardinal, pondering sired summer eggs, raised young, signs of resurrection.
4. The way my grandchildren arrive at our house, diving out of car seats, grinning, leaping into my arms.
5. My husband standing up to watch tv last night to keep himself awake so he wouldn't wake me up at 3am this morning to start his day. We both slept until 6am - totally savoring!!

Unsatisfying -
1. Too much interest in news, and Facebook feeds. Scrolling when I'm bored.
2. The jealousy that arises when seeing so many vacation pics, discouragement from reading too many comments on too many posts.
3. Black Friday sales pitches
4. Not listening to carrion. (see following poem)
5. Not expecting the end of the world. (see following poem) Sometimes I get all righteous and think I (we) should overwork, become overwrought in order to prevent it. Forgetting how all things cycle through birth, life, death.


Continuing our reflections, the farmer mentioned how walking the land satisfies him, as does music. Last Saturday, we enjoyed a live concert of bluegrass music: Doyle Lawson & Quicksilver. We went with siblings and their spouses. My farmer loves bluegrass; music I don't seek out. But, I did enjoy it, and was happy to be with family.

Here is the reflection invitation from page 9, On The Journey page:
Pause where you are, for a moment, and remember all the human, animal, plant and earth energies that provide you with comfort or nourishment this day.

What a beautiful invitation for around the Thanksgiving table. Imagine all the farmers, growers, producers, gatherers, sellers, buyers, cooks, feast-ers...and give thanks for all.


In the midst of our unsettled post election world, surprising things are bringing me comfort. The following poem is one. So, I'll leave you with a photo and the poem, while tipping my hat to all fellow Mad Farmers.







Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
(second half)
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.
Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

~ Wendell Berry ~

Monday, November 14, 2016

A Second Infusion of Hope



This past Sunday, after seeing all the new memes pop up over and over on Facebook, the quick fixes, the escape routes – so many have no idea how to honor emotions, how to hold chaos and stillness,  truth in every perspective, and paradox, in themselves or in others – I simply could not bear perpetuating my own status quo.




So I went to a church service outside my ethnic group, outside my faith tradition.


Despite my discomfort at not knowing what was coming next in the service, of being white in a sea of color, of not-so-great singing, and faith language that doesn’t resonate, I experienced something deep and authentic.  My mind struggled to label, but my heart knew immediately:  love.  


The people, the pastor, the gathered body simply radiated love and welcome.  Not so much through spoken language, as in body language. The whole service was simple, the humans  were humble, fearful, faithful, hopeful, prayerful, tearful, joyful – everything thoroughly infused with love. No evidence of cliques, of who’s in and out, who’s powerful and not, just a genuine spirit of because you are here, you are one of us. 

Sheesh.

Holy ground. 

A balm to my weary soul!  

As wonderful as the full moon, the earth under my feet, the birds, the rocks and trees....








Saturday, November 12, 2016

An Infusion of Hope



This is an excerpt from the book On The Journey.  My sweet farmer agreed to go through this book with me, one page each day, during our breakfast. And attempt to share his experience with me, as I share with him.

He is not a poet. In fact, he is a simple man of few words. He works with his hands, mostly outdoors, and sleeps indoors. Nothing moves him like music and nature. For him, God - and whatever the theologians pin on that word doesn't mean a whole lot to him - only sings, and plays music, and whispers through our beautiful, mysterious world. (I actually typed word before realizing and changed it to world - I'm so human!). I get his joy of music and nature too, though half of me is gifted or cursed by intrigue of words.  While lectures, presentations, art, and sermons often ignite small fires within me; he often just falls asleep. Not because he's bored or disrespectful, just because it's warm and soft inside, perhaps like a womb where he was rocked, intuitively and primally, to sleep by Mother God.

I used to be highly insulted by his sleeping. (I'm so human!)  Granted sometimes he sleeps to escape, just as I often physically remove myself from conflict and overwhelm. We both do this whether it's mature of us or not.

That is all leading up to this: I'm deeply touched by his trust of our relationship and his willingness to sit with me in my arena of joy, the written word, and participate fully, being as present as possible.

This book is part of my own offerings to the world. I worked with an awesome team in dreaming, editing, creating to bring this book into fruition. I wrote many of the reflection questions to entries, and also have written entries in the book. I hope to soon include the link to purchasing the book on this blog. Stay tuned.

I may use this blog to post some of the farmer's and my musings as we go through this book. With his permission. Including this one.

The above photo is the page for today. We ate our delicious breakfast while reading, taking in the photo, sitting silently together opening our hearts to the reflection questions. Then we shared. I mentioned how appropriate this page was for today, for a time like this. My soul has a candle lit always in solidarity with the most vulnerable in our world. What do I need from God: reassurance, hope, Presence. Words of comfort and trust from others. For most of my ramble Jay was silent. When it was his turn to share, he remained silent. For a   L O N G   time. Just when hints of irritation began humming inside my head, (I'm just so human) he said this.

"I need to see the big buck outside. The one that has been leaving scrapes all over our trees and pawing up the dirt. That's what I need from God."

I smiled. I have seen plenty of red birds when I needed them. But, we have never seen the buck other than in our game camera. We gathered up breakfast dishes to wash later, harnessed up the dogs, and headed toward the lane to walk the half mile to our mailbox. And, there across our lane, standing in a brilliant patch of sunlight at the edge of the wood, was the Eight Point in all his glory. This magnificent buck saw us and simply stood, meeting our gaze. Then, he scraped a nearby tree with his antlers and pawed the ground. A few moments later, he lifted  his head and returned our gaze before walking calmly into the woods.

Sheesh.

Holy ground.

God with antlers and fur, gazing at us! Sending power and strength, hope, wonder and joy straight into our opened hearts.

Luke 11:9  "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you." 

May you ask, so that you too receive what you need today. May the God of hope and love touch your open, waiting heart. 



Monday, November 7, 2016

Ode To Joy!


Burren



One must have a mind of a dog,
To experience utter joy in rot! Exuberance
Rolled, with a great body thump, head first
Onto death.  A hearty sniff, a gleam of eye,
Wide grin, the ears hit decay first, followed
By furry cheek and thwack of shoulder on  
Carcass. Be it worm, rodent or dead coyote -
All is an ode to joy! Festering stink,
Maggoty ruin, skull or pelt – for every dog a
Feast and bath.  

For what does the human engage wholeheartedly?

One must have the mind of a dog
To leap and bounce at the jingle of harness
And rope, land explored as it were India or
The tropics! A cacophony of scent and color,
Pulsing heartbeats of deer and possum lain
Down in scat and track.  Exuberance magnified
by allure of musk and skunk.  Overripe berries and
browning apples equally gobbled and
swallowed.

While we, one second short of burnout, scrabble on short leashes, cagey, our own choosing. 


Turnip 

Monday, October 31, 2016

The Offering





The Offering


I walk because he can’t.

I walk as the farmer’s eyes and ears.

Rattle of snake? Leap away!

It’s only the pull of dog ropes hissing through

dried grasses. 

Buck rubs. Deer tracks. Rocks in the 

meadow. Downed

cedar bough.


I bring an offering that crinkles

his face with smiles. Pungent and sweet,

fresh chuck of cedar. 


                                                              ~written 1 week after the farmer's heart                                          surgery- October 18th


I also bring him the camera card from our game camera. :)  

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Color on the Mountain







COLOR ON THE MOUNTAIN


In this season of difficulty,
poetry saves me.  As does
color on the mountain. Everyone’s

favorite man, uncle, father, husband,
brother – has died. Why doesn’t the
whole world stop? The vacuum is
palpable!  Yet, on flows the water

in Brock Creek. And, how horrible
would it be if this world turned black
and white, or flat to honor the dying. If there
were no poetry, no laments.  Only positive

thinking and “Be strong; there is a
reason for everything,” no wrestling. 
Only sunrises. No mountains, merely

prairie, desert, and smooth lakes.  
How rough are ragged edges
and rugged steep climbs!  Yet, how dull
would this world be without Grace?  Not

the kind that is uncomfortable sitting
in messiness. Not the kind preaching:
“God only gives you what you can handle.”
Rather, Grace that dignifies pain, listens

without fixing or diminishing, without
pressure to move on. Such Graceful compassion
holds your hand while buzzards pick the bones.
While the storm rages and platitudes are handed

out like brownies. It witnesses with you, the
color on the mountain. Sits at the feet of all who 
mourn, rage, lament, laugh, or even
wrestle with angels. 



Dear Readers,

        I'm not sure what is happening!  (A poignant, lovely place to be, perhaps?)  In the pausing of my blog in August, I toyed with thoughts of writing poetry, leaned in actually and penned a few lines, but kept hesitating on the brink. Then suddenly life events catapulted me right over the edge and into the stream, causing a flow of words and lines that might be called 'raw,' unpolished poetry. This poem was written after the sudden death of my brother-in law, John David "JD" Landis, and is dedicated to his family. JD embodied God's grace.
         Back to poetry writing, I decided not to stand in the way of the flow. So, as it pours forth I hope you don't mind being invited along for the ride. May the grace of God, of love and compassion, accompany you, every season and every event. 

With love and joy in the midst,
Sharon

                         





July 2016 Landis family sibling/parents reunion at our farm. Last time all together with JD and Mary. 















Saturday, October 22, 2016

A Poem About Surgery, Santuary and Autumn

                                       



                        A Gathering of Leafy Edges

This rippling creek, my sanctuary.  I listen
to water music, body tense, though panic and pain
are moving on. He recoups back at the house, with mended heart
and dull gray hospital socks warming his feet. I remember
praying in that chilly pre-surgery room: naked, vulnerable
beneath his gown, beneath my fear.
We sent love to his skipping heart valve. Asked muscle and bone
to accept the cutting. This knife is miraculous, not savage, we
said.

How else would the body understand? Doesn’t a stabbing
or a surgical repair elicit a similar wound?

Summer crocus blooming along our walks, the day the farmer came  home from hosptial 













 On this day, as creek waters flow, I ponder blood 
pulsing through human hearts. Wild asters nod as leaves
sashay to earth. Intuitively, I know he and I have
stepped across a surprising threshold. Spring memories
have faded. Summer has drained away too, quick and cool
like well water circling the hole at the bottom of the old pump
trough. In a paradox of blowing gales and subtle hints, autumn
has truly arrived. Time measured in births, deaths, cancer,
wellness, slamming doors and loving, relocating and a
cracked open chest.

 We have grown, fruited, released many seasons.

I process that waking moment - seared
into time. Waking to a repaired heart valve, he in a haze
of pain, me watching his instinctive recoil of body.  A too
late attempt at shielding vulnerable parts,
his gasp of breath and flail of arms, fighting that gagging tube
stuck down his throat. As outside leaves fall in colors red
and gold. Life ignites in beauty and sometimes in
shock. Nurses hover over, hold down arms, murmur courage,
check beeping monitors.  And I wake too, as helpless to assist as I 
am in halting the flow of time.

Somewhere, someone awakes in the ICU. Hopefully.  Painfully. 


All we can do is stand by, clutching hearts, breathing,
praying, companions always awaking to beauty and struggle. After
trauma, I take myself down to the water.  Where gurgle of brook
and creak of swing comfort me.
Where red sticks of dogwood erupt from green banks like crimson
sentinels cheering onlookers into full, wild living!  The throaty call of 
raven cuts through sighs of breeze and sway of trees, inviting a
sweet  s l o w  slipping of tension from my
shoulders.

Our yard and heart bench, another sanctuary.


Tell me dear oak, standing so thick and silent, does autumn
tighten your middle? Does your breath catch and your sap
run anxious before calmly letting go?  Do you watch your leaves
fall in molten gold, and smile with unburdening?
I’ll tell you my story and you tell me yours. On that day, while sugar
maples held their color and clouds bounced recklessly in brilliant 
skies, a surgical team stopped my beloved’s heart. A strange 
intimacy, no? Closer to him than I’ll ever be, yet they don’t  
know how he likes his coffee. Do surgeons think of huddled 
humanity left in waiting rooms across the halls? 
If they did, could they bear it?

Wind gusts ruffle oak boughs as the tree replies: “Surgeons
are trees, strong and soundless, setting bodies and hearts on fire.”

Ah yes, submitting to the scalpel is like falling in red and gold. Fear 
is the storm that rips leaf from nurturing branch. A gathering of leafy 
edges floating softly to their other mother – earth, is trust. 
Cutting, curing, waiting, healing, falling, living blur together, the 
colors of autumn, of life. The heart beats. And loves. Broken hearts 
heal. We too, like leaves of autumn, turn gold and red, glow, fall, 
and are cradled by earth.  

Beautiful trees and hills on the other side of our driveway