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. :)  

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. 

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 

a 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

If The Soul Feels Unwell

Hello again, dear readers.  This may be part of my blog "spitting and gurgling awkwardly, before flowing again," per my last blog posting.

I might try poetry for awhile here.  Or or maybe I'm taking all the news headlines and processing them. And our collective reactions. 

For whatever reason I give you this poem:

IF THE SOUL FEELS UNWELL

Yellow birds high in berried dogwood,

sing contentment.

Higher still, hawks and buzzards soar -

an odd group murmuring top power and

bottom scavenging.

Buoyed by the same updraft, the

dark shapes show community. Despite differences.

Down by the creek, a thin willow sapling leans heavily

into the wind, gesturing resilience,

also communing. With orange  poppy and hyssop, 

pink phlox, dusty greens in catnip and mint;

wild asters waving violet.

Heavy dew rests on broad petals of primrose

quieting the meadow. Droplets sparkle. 

Everywhere – and carelessly!

Withered brown stalks of thistle hold drip lines of light,

like glitter grout cast cheerfully between dark tiles.

Small cedars dot the landscape, a mosaic

of happy little trees

in coves of rotting logs and diseased sycamores,

hope hiding in far corners and dark crevices.

In rotten circumstances, desperate souls. Mighty oaks

fall, earth quakes, foxes scream. Wolves howl sharing love

or despair or both.

Dear one, all is not lost if the soul feels unwell. And, don't 

we all dance between courage and stark fear, 

faith and hopelessness? 

Strength is beautiful. Humble vulnerability precious.

The deepest Reality is upside down. Humanity 

is every color, voice, feeling, experience. 

Spirituality embraces humanity.

All is well with my soul. 

Of course.
Of course not!

Yes to both. In self-awareness, in Divine embrace.

The hawks and vultures intuitively know every season belongs. 

Creative Pause

It’s OVER!! 

The big move.  Semi-retirement. “The Transition.”

Except it’s not.

After all the relocating, settling in, the blasting of social media with photos of our goodbye-ing and hello-ing, our old place then our new place, my surprisingly extroverted journey during this season of CHANGE!,  
                 
                      I'm 

                             suddenly 

                                               tired.

I so wanted to leap into the new like all the extroverted, happy transition-ers that have gone before me, re-home in record time and have everyone marvel at my ability to adjust.

Tsk. Tsk. When have I ever been like every one?

I smile now, remember the fantasy thoughts of it will be easy breezy, once ‘we got there.’ Once the goodbyes were over. Once we had a modern house.

And how glad I was leaving behind the lack of outlets, the chilly drafts, the dust, the constant repair/remodel needed in our almost 200yr old stone farmhouse of Pennsylvania! This new house is indeed lovely, but it has its idiosyncrasies: a petulant gas stove with burners that refuse to stay lit, an oven needing to be smacked, begged or coaxed to 450 degrees before it will bake or roast anything, a catty refrigerator that spits food out onto the floor no matter how carefully it’s balanced or loaded. 



Opening the frig door requires dance - stephop over a rolling cabbage, then swing your hip right to avoid a falling ketchup bottle. 

This house is so tight the garage entrance door BANGS shut whenever another door is opened. I’ve had seismic startles so epic the two full baths seem more necessity than luxury. 

The vacuum in the house gives interesting front door dynamics. I’ve greeted guests on the front porch by yanking, tugging, practically begging the front door to give, only to yell out the window, “Hold on, I have to open the back door before I can let you in!” This supports my theory that our front door, oven and fridge are all litter mates.

Oh, and add another brother- a hateful smoke detector that screams every time I cook.

No worries to those readers who knew the former owner of our new house. I adore this house, these grounds, and couldn’t be happier. There are just honeymoon periods and reality checks, ya know?

Truthfully, many parts of this move have been easy breezy. We love it here! Love seeing the wildlife, finding new farmer’s markets, theaters, music venues, gardens and parks. We enjoy meeting our neighbors. Everyone so far, is delightful. We’ve adjusted fairly quickly to a slower pace of life.   

Other things have been more painful: holidays without family, the distance from grandchildren, knowing where things are, (ha, as if I always knew before :), forty years of marvelous people connections and networks back in PA. New community doesn’t happen overnight; I struggle to be patient in finding a church, a hiking or birding club, where to train dogs, or find other farm/ranch/dog/nature enthusiasts.

I am often impatient while transitioning with my spouse too. The beauty here is incredible but beauty doesn't magically transform any unhelpful patterns of relating. The extra time and shoulder rubbing might have magnified a few! Even without the pressures of crop farming, we find the same personal and relational growing edges. 

The real reason for this rambling blog post (thanks, if you are still reading!) is to say: I'm realizing a transition of another type calling. My fatigue feels more soulful than physical. It’s time to allow my soul to catch up with the rest of me (quoting my brother, Don Clymer in The Spacious Heart) So, how will I be now?  How will I shape this new sense of freedom and space; how will I create, give to the world?

Will I give with disordered offerings, or with focus and intention?  

My soul has held a finger on a creative spot for a while. A spot that has always been restless, scattered, attracted to way too much.  It’s time to really pay attention and focus. After the grandchild care-giving, after the cleaning out, the packing up, the moving, the semi-retiring, my soul is ready to take off the pressure.  

The answer can’t be found mindlessly scanning Facebook (yes, I too procrastinate and compare myself there) or by throwing myself into projects or groups just to relieve the tension of deep listening, waiting, or discerning.

This may be a time of gestation, the quiet before the next creative storm. 

I plan to create and write more, but do so privately, not click share as quickly. I need to be less attentive to social media, more aware of what life is calling forth. Of how the Spirit woos, dances, co-creates with me. Sometimes I write for the quick fix, rather than saving myself for the hard stuff - the breath holding, panting, sweating, bleeding of hard writing, the kind that takes something from me and gives birth to something far more.   

To give myself such a creative pause, this blog will most likely go on sabbatical. Or it may spit and gurgle awkwardly, before flowing again. It may even die. I may resurface on another platform; I just don’t know.

Thank you, dear readers, for your generous reading and commenting over the years, for your support and patience as I develop as a writer.  

The only thing I can promise, for the future, is whatever arises from this pause, will be more truly me and offered wholeheartedly. 

Blessings, love and joy to you,
Sharon

Juxtaposed

My heart is pierced once again. For Orlando. For the LGBT community. For Muslims who will be demonized. For all groups who are targets of hate. 

             

I wrote this poem before Orlando. Before the shooting of Christina Grimmie. I was not planning to share it. I wrote this as a way of processing a book called "Collapsing Consciously: Transformative Truths for a Turbulent Times," by Carolyn Baker Ph.D.  The question in the following poem comes directly from Baker; I love its profound simplicity. All peoples, all things have a gift carried in the soul; let's open our eyes and hearts to help each other uncover the gifts, and raise all coming generations to restore rather than destroy.  It is with this longing, I share....

Juxtaposed

What is the gift you carry in your soul? I asked the marbled Sycamore. Her outstretched arm caressed my field of vision - an embrace of beauty.   

What is the gift you carry in your soul?  I asked the forest, and the canopy swayed in dance.

What is the gift you carry in your soul? I asked the sun, and immediately his heart shattered in dappled light.

What is the gift you carry in your soul? I asked myself. My body stilled, listened.

What is the gift you carry in your soul, said I, to the rocks who answered with silence. In the distance an owl hooted, dusky and prophetic.

What is the gift you carry in your soul? I asked the child. He took my hand and led me to wildflowers.

Meanwhile the earth shook with the sound of machines leveling mountains.  With the sound of guns leveling people.

The sky darkened. Ash fell.

A cello mourned.

Now, 

a blue jay screams, “My territory!”  As does a soldier. And a rapist standing over an unconscious form.

While the last coal glows red in twilight,

this child, this seedling of promise with darling eyes and tender heart,

         this child and I suck sweet nectar from honeysuckles,

and hold hands. 

Of Bathrooms, Fear and Social Media

Of Bathrooms, Fear and Social Media

I’ve been reading all the posts. Reading about your fears, the things you've shared on social media, reading what other writers write. I've read almost everything someone has taken time to share, whether or not I think I'll agree. 

I find the survivor stories heart breaking -

"A Rape Survivor Speaks Out About Transgender Bathrooms" by Kelly Triller   http://thefederalist.com/2015/11/23/a-rape-survivor-speaks-out-about-transgender-bathrooms/

"The Unintended Victims of Bathroom Bills and Locker Room Policies"    

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=share&v=tg-MAMvkplE&app=desktop

I'm grateful to those who've shared these stories.  

I'm also aware how fear drives people. Drives our whole country. Drives our religions and belief systems. Everyone is afraid. Everyone reacts out of fear more than from deeper reflection. Myself included. Strong reactions are my invitation to reflect and on what underlying fear might be triggering me. I ask myself if my reaction is helpful in solving the problem, in creating solutions to the problem, in understanding the issue, or if it's simply feeding fear. My fear or the collective fear.

   

Just as stories of the rape and abuse of women and children are heartbreaking, so are the stories of bullying, shaming and abuse of people in the LGBT community.  I find it odd that not many of the latter are shared. Perhaps that speaks more to my sheltered existence, my social media friend list and less to the actual statistics.

And, yet, I have loved ones in every category: straight, gay, transgendered, conservative, liberal, those who have been abused, those who have not, young, old, religious, not religious, spiritual, and people who don't readily fit any category. 

I listen deeply, and care deeply because I love each one.  

My personality, the way I’m put together helps me see many sides to an issue. Seeing for me is not always cognitive, as I dislike debating and often can’t articulate how I see. I just I feel compassion towards the humans, their experiences and emotions, on many sides of an issue. I seldom see an issue as simple or clearly black and white; rather I see, feel and sense the many complications, the webs of questions, ethics and misunderstandings within and surrounding an issue. Perhaps this helps me walk more courageously into gray areas as I sense first, think/judge later.   

Sometimes this keeps me silent, as I often agree with different sides of opposing views and opinions. I am strongly moved by stories on all sides, so I hesitate, not wanting to form a belief or opinion until I gather information and understand as much as possible. Not wanting to speak too soon. 

I like being able to empathize. I like knowing that often times better solutions arise when people seek creative, loving, all-inclusive, non-violent answers to problems. I want to be in the pool of innovative, visionary people. Yet, I often wish I could act quicker, take a stand sooner, speak up with boldness.  

So I  will give voice to this: though I can’t wipe away the fear that drives many conversations, I can hear and articulate what everyone wants. Everyone wants to feel safe, and keep their loved ones safe.  Everyone.  All of the people, in all of the categories want the same thing. 

Every living thing is vulnerable. To be alive means we must dance on the edge of accidents, disaster and trauma, live with the drama of predator and prey, all of which feeds our fears and our black and white thinking. Nothing changes this. No rule, law or fortification can prevent all danger. Only our courage, ability to love, the development of faith, strong family/community units and spiritual practices can help us deal with living well amid the knowledge of our fears, insecurities and human frailty.  

Answers to problems seldom, if ever, come from demanding perfection in our governing bodies or policies. The answers may be gleaned from sorting through the hard questions. From opening our hearts, and minds, and eyes. We must keep working at understanding our deeply rooted fears and prejudices. We must educate ourselves on statistics that prove the danger is more often in your own home, or school, or church, from a family member or a friend’s uncle or an authority figure grooming our children for abuse, than from a stranger, a transgender, or another person in a bathroom. It's no wonder we fear. And jump to conclusions, or misunderstandings. Who wants to believe the statistics? 

I've decided put a few of the social media 'shares' that touched me this month, on this blog, about the bathroom issue. You will probably intuit my leanings through what has touched me. Still, I want you to know, I wrestle with all this. With understanding what is really being said and hoped for by our government. Who needs the most protection, who is the most vulnerable? What fears are legitimate and what fears are sincere but, uninformed reactions. I hope these links, these stories and thoughts will challenge you, frustrate you, inspire you. I hope we continue to wrestle. From our honest, soul wrestling comes creative, honest soulful solutions. 

Please keep being wise and cautious. Keep thinking; keep sharing.  Live well, and don’t allow fear rule your life and heart. Stay educated. Have opinions. Use your voice. At the same time, I beg you to listen deeply to people on the other sides of your opinions. This could be your new spiritual practice. Doing so allows some time and space for reflection before deciding, before hitting the  'share' button. Reflection, rather than reaction, is better. Reflecting helps one hear their own heart, know their fears and stuck places, and thus discern what the Spirit's invitation might be in any issue. Usually that invitation involves greater loving and less fearing. 

Here’s another perspective on the subject.  "Why Keeping Bad Guys Out of Girls Bathrooms Isn't What's Going On Here"  by John Pavlovitz 

http://johnpavlovitz.com/2016/04/18/guys-girls-bathrooms-isnt-whats-going/?utm_campaign=coschedule&utm_source=facebook_page&utm_medium=John+Pavlovitz

And I’ll close with one more- "What I Want You to Know About Being a Sexual Abuse Survivor and Target Shopper."   

http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2016/05/what-i-want-you-to-know-about-being_16.html#ixzz48vz9xVJy

This is in no way an unbiased compilation. It's not even a good compilation, or a fair one giving voice to all the sides. It's just a few that have touched me. Sharing is my way offering compassion, of standing with an open heart to this very real issue. 

God help us. Christ be with us. Spirit guide us. 

With love and honor to all,

Sharon