This is so lovely, sweet and tender, Nancy. Your weaving ritual, grief and loss together is so splendid. One of our dearest friends has taken care of a partner and a mother for over 7 years, and even in their passing still finds each day full of the pull to take care, even after their passing from this team. Thank you for your empathetic and compassionate heart. ❤️
While touring a cultural center in India I delighted in discovering how Hindu women rose early before the others to light the lamps as a way to welcome the gods.
I love this, A! “along with the quiet of a bird song.” My partner has the Merlin bird app and loves using it to know which bird is singing, and delights in telling me! Sing on, friend!
This is a marvelous poem, Margaret! I love how you use the same chair and its positioning ad it relates to perspective, perception and philosophical musing!
I love this creative, engaging and fun poem. As I got to the end and saw “ fifty years of ministry” I said” ah, yes, of course.” Pastors can often have a poetic knack and vision, as you clearly do!
Such a welcoming poem—the sounds, the fragrance of ground coffee beans, the delight of birds, the coolness of your mug in hand… you’ve awakened all our senses. I like how you stirred in a bit of humor to balance the changes in your spiritual journey.
This is beautiful, Claire. You draw the beauty of the morning ritual so well, and its importance in the grounding of your day. Thank you for sharing this lively poem.
Vanessa, this is a beautiful poem, moving and tender. It is so full of remarkable lines. @Healing is ritual/whose alter is decorated/with candles of intention…”and “ drawing in crayons. Our own children/the most devout believers/in our humanity.” Your poem is sweet testimony to live and connection. What a gem!
Thank you for the phrase “sanctified sameness”, I will ponder it today — the past is behind, the future not yet, but this moment, this Now is sanctified!
This is very nice, Karen. I love the blending of the dawn with ritual in such a creative way. Your poem also invokes for me stillness, and the necessity of moving mindfully through the day.
This is truly superb. I love how you take the communion words of institution and make them real in the context of daily life, and as a ritual of gratitude.
Ritual- an act that tethers us to a place, a moment, a person; that gives meaning to a place and time. A way to set space for things that may come.
(For context, my prior work was a funeral director at a holistic funeral home.)
Unlocking the door, walking in, I set down my things at my desk.
Feeling into the quietness of the space I walk through this little 100 year old home - now funeral parlor - and gather up any flower bouquets to refresh, straighten the urns on the shelves and make sure all is ready to hold the presence of the grief, the love, the stories of those that walk through our door.
I make a cup of tea and take it back to my desk where I take out my laptop and turn it on.
I light the small candle, surrounded by stones, that is held in a dish on my desk. A small light of honoring to this work.
Lastly, before going through the night’s emails, I light a bundle of lavender and sage and walk through the house clearing the space for the day anew, smudging any passing coworkers before they to start their day.
A moment of time, a moment of breath. And now the phone begins to ring.
I had a professor whose response to deep questions was - that will take a desk and a light bulb. You have conjured that for me. The desk and the light bulb, by which he meant deep research, but here is waiting for those cousins to visit. Lovely!
This is a beautiful, rhythmic and enchanting poem, Sarah. It feels spiritual in the best of ways, and flows so easily and seamlessly. Thank you for sharing!
I love this Christian! “This is how you know/you are immaculately loved.” What a joy and a peace to read those words. Your poem s a true gift. Thank you!
This is a beautiful poem, Katie! Taking a task like starting and tending a fire and drawing a lovely portrait of not only the mechanics but the spiritual and emotional elements of doing everyday things well. I love each stanza of this remarkable poem. It reminds day in a way of some of the poems of one of my favorite poets, Gary Snyder. Beautiful work, Katie!
“A Swivel to face the rising sun/the angle changing with the seasons…” What sparkling words in this lovely poem. I like that sitting in the same chair with only a shift or directional turn is able to change perspective, function, purpose or all the above. Thank you Margaret!
Ritual Interrupted and Reformed
In the morning when I rise
to a still too quiet house,
I remember and mourn
for the ritual interrupted
by death.
A young woman in need of
routine.
No longer here for the ritual
of waking and taking her pill.
Active waiting while dressing
and starting her day.
Every day the same routine
Until it became a ritual,
an active prayer of beginning.
Bless my day,
Bless my parents.
She is no longer here.
The emptiness overwhelming,
the start of new routines.
The days of walking upstairs,
Walking to the medicine cabinet…
Remembering the need is no longer there.
Calander routine gone,
Breakfast routine imploded.
No need to make ice cubes,
Tears fall.
Gradually new routines
take the place of old…
Sadness unfolds and abates…
Stillness wraps around the soul…
The dawn breaks…
And on silent wings…
She appears to say she is happy
where she now resides.
In memory of Sheila Cailyn April 1987 – October 2023
♥️♥️♥️
Thank you for sharing with us the routine turned ritual then imploded ritual - which then leads to new routines and to appearance. Sending light.
Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate the sending of light.
such a beautiful picture of how grief works--weaving it's way into those every day moments. such an honoring poem!
Becky, I appreciate your reinforcement of how my grief process unfolded. Thank you.
Lovely Nancy. The ritual of caring for another. 🩵
Ah, yes, Jane. There is the ritual of caring for another (and that flows both ways), loss, and reassurance in the end.
Love this….. filled with truth and life and memories…. And hard changes …. And sending light 🥰
Colleen, The light you send is much appreciated, as are your other words.
"New routines take the place of old"
.
"Gradually"
.
Yup.
This is so lovely, sweet and tender, Nancy. Your weaving ritual, grief and loss together is so splendid. One of our dearest friends has taken care of a partner and a mother for over 7 years, and even in their passing still finds each day full of the pull to take care, even after their passing from this team. Thank you for your empathetic and compassionate heart. ❤️
Thank you, Larry
Waking in the still-dark or early light,
my favourite way to ease into the day is
slow, and full of quiet. I try to rise
while the rest of the house is still, a spell
I get to break myself, along with the dawn,
along with the chorus of bird song.
the spell you get to break!
“A spell I get to break myself.”
While touring a cultural center in India I delighted in discovering how Hindu women rose early before the others to light the lamps as a way to welcome the gods.
That's so lovely.
Yup! Loved that line, too!
I love this, A! “along with the quiet of a bird song.” My partner has the Merlin bird app and loves using it to know which bird is singing, and delights in telling me! Sing on, friend!
I have the app, too! I love being able to name who I'm hearing.
I turn my chair forty-five degrees
That is enough to set it apart
From the way I sit to answer my emails
To eat my oats steeped overnight
To listen to the Daily
“Here’s what you need to know today.”
A swivel to face the rising sun
The angle changing with the seasons
And I am set apart
In my same chair
Now ready to breathe the day into being
I travel up the dawning ray and down another
To where it lands on my sister in her chair
Reading of ritual
Writing of the tie that binds
Listening for the voices that come
In tones as different as the bleating sheep
And I rest in the return of sacred practice
I love the phrase: "I travel up the dawning ray and down another." ❤️
Breathing the day into being…I like how this portrays our participation in life…which is itself a privilege and gift.
Ooo “rest in the return of sacred practice” powerful!
This is a marvelous poem, Margaret! I love how you use the same chair and its positioning ad it relates to perspective, perception and philosophical musing!
Ritual
I wake to the sound of my husband grinding whole beans
in the kitchen.
He comes to the bedroom door to hand me a cup of coffee
and I taste Guatemalan mountainsides.
I hear the sound of the newspaper being thrown from a car
and hitting the sidewalk
(no longer paper boys on bikes but paper men in cars).
Wrapping my fingers around my coffee cup
(the one with the downy woodpecker pecking a tree trunk painted on it is my favorite)
I walk downstairs to slide open the door to the deck.
I stand at the door greeting the birds—
usually the cardinal flashing red, and catbirds with their black caps
splashing in the bird bath.
Carolina wrens munching on the suet cake,
tiny rusty-capped chipping sparrows choosing seeds,
and a blue jay screams on the deck railing looking for peanuts.
I turn on my Merlin app to hear who else is in my congregation—
just now perhaps spring warblers.
I watch the squirrels scampering in the trees, acrobats jumping
from one high leafy platform to another;
no one ever catches them but the branches,
and those are sure-handed.
I move to the couch and Marty crawls onto my lap,
first kneading,
then settling into a meatloaf and purring,
rubbing his silky sable head into mine.
I feed him, clean his box, give him fresh water.
My husband turns on the small lamp on the kitchen table,
the lamp that was my mother’s,
and reads the Philadelphia Inquirer—
every section in order:
news, local, entertainment, business, even sports.
(though sections have combined as the paper collapses).
He reads every section, page, word.
Sometimes he reads an item aloud to me.
The first thing I think of when I hear ritual is church,
having practiced that ritual since childhood and
through fifty years of ministry.
Every seventh sabbath day.
When to pray, when to stand, when to sing, when to be silent
(though for Presbyterians that is not often).
But the meaning of these acts is fading for me,
or more like creeping away on little cat’s feet.
Leaving great spaces and silences
for something else.
Perhaps these dear morning acts draw the outline
for the something
that waits to be colored in.
I love this creative, engaging and fun poem. As I got to the end and saw “ fifty years of ministry” I said” ah, yes, of course.” Pastors can often have a poetic knack and vision, as you clearly do!
Such a welcoming poem—the sounds, the fragrance of ground coffee beans, the delight of birds, the coolness of your mug in hand… you’ve awakened all our senses. I like how you stirred in a bit of humor to balance the changes in your spiritual journey.
You have drawn the outline so powerfully for the something that waits to be colored in - and I feel as if this poem is part of that coloring in.
Beautiful! Love that last line.
I am good
With morning rituals
Sneaking downstairs before children wake
A dip in the cold tub
Lighting a candle
Making a coffee
Writing some words
All a prayer.
But
As the day passes
The noise and busyness increase
I loose the sense of rituals
Or maybe just
The ability to notice and name it.
But I know
That in the morning
I'll rise and slip into my rituals again
My morning ritual
Step by step
That grounds me in the moment
In the day
In this life I am living.
I think that's just it - it's just the ability to notice and name it, which we can do in this beautiful space, which you are doing!
This is beautiful, Claire. You draw the beauty of the morning ritual so well, and its importance in the grounding of your day. Thank you for sharing this lively poem.
Day 3: Ritual
Healing is ritual
Whose alter is decorated
With candles of intention
Gathered shells of previous selves
Photos that capture a new possibility
Offerings to parts of self that were abandoned
Stones we agreed to no longer throw at ourselves
Drawings in crayon, our own children
The most devout believers
In our humanity.
Vanessa, this is a beautiful poem, moving and tender. It is so full of remarkable lines. @Healing is ritual/whose alter is decorated/with candles of intention…”and “ drawing in crayons. Our own children/the most devout believers/in our humanity.” Your poem is sweet testimony to live and connection. What a gem!
Summer Morning Ritual
It's all about the senses -
Watching for the dawn
Breathing in the new day
Feeling the cool, fresh air
Hearing the birds begin to sing,
And the far off sound of a plane, or a car, or a siren,
Sometimes cows, a rooster, a donkey, a flock of geese.
Sanctified sameness.
The newly mowed garden, still there.
The leaves of the trees, the flowers.
A squirrel circling up a maple.
This place.
These fellow creatures.
This air.
This life.
My life.
sanctified sameness--I'm going to be chewing on that one. I love it
Thanks, Becky
Thank you for the phrase “sanctified sameness”, I will ponder it today — the past is behind, the future not yet, but this moment, this Now is sanctified!
Yes - an awareness of all our senses engaged!
This is very nice, Karen. I love the blending of the dawn with ritual in such a creative way. Your poem also invokes for me stillness, and the necessity of moving mindfully through the day.
Thanks, Larry.
A Ritual for the Consecration of The Breakfast
On the morning of the day she was to go to work,
she took the oatmeal
and cooked it.
And when she had blessed it
and given thanks,
she said to herself
"I do this
in remembrance
of those who made this meal possible
and the families
they feed
with their labor".
And in the same manner
she took the coffee
and brewed it
and said to herself
"this is the cup of my energy,
I do this -
as often as I drink it
in remebrance
of the family I feed
with my labor".
love this!
This is truly superb. I love how you take the communion words of institution and make them real in the context of daily life, and as a ritual of gratitude.
Ritual- an act that tethers us to a place, a moment, a person; that gives meaning to a place and time. A way to set space for things that may come.
(For context, my prior work was a funeral director at a holistic funeral home.)
Unlocking the door, walking in, I set down my things at my desk.
Feeling into the quietness of the space I walk through this little 100 year old home - now funeral parlor - and gather up any flower bouquets to refresh, straighten the urns on the shelves and make sure all is ready to hold the presence of the grief, the love, the stories of those that walk through our door.
I make a cup of tea and take it back to my desk where I take out my laptop and turn it on.
I light the small candle, surrounded by stones, that is held in a dish on my desk. A small light of honoring to this work.
Lastly, before going through the night’s emails, I light a bundle of lavender and sage and walk through the house clearing the space for the day anew, smudging any passing coworkers before they to start their day.
A moment of time, a moment of breath. And now the phone begins to ring.
Lighting the candle to honor this work…I appreciate this so much.
When you were infants,
We placed you in your cribs
Back is best, we knew
To darken the room,
Leaving the soft glow
Of merry-go-round images projecting
Cows jumping over moons
With lullabies, a rainbow of languages,
Telling you it was safe to close your eyes
You were not alone.
Years later, only one of us
Tucks you in at night
Though you are nearly 11
Nearly old enough to do this yourself
Old enough to understand
The body’s need for the ritual of rest
Keeps us alive and moving
Even when you ask, five more minutes,
Maybe ten?
Nearly old enough to understand
Our world often leaves us
Tired, confused, resenting unfairness.
But the secret I will share is this:
I am not nearly old enough either—
We never are, I don’t think—
To comprehend the pain of
Abandonment, of betrayal
Of the apathy of those who leave.
Still, I will tuck you in
Continue to see you through
The winding down of the day
And into the peace of the night,
Stroking your hair, adjusting the covers
Tight like a burrito
As you always asked, still ask.
For I will always be here
Your ritual of rest, of safety
Of love everlasting.
"But the secret I will share is this: / I am not nearly old enough either" ❤️ you weave love and wonder and grief so beautifully through this poem.
Ritual
^
Quiet descends upon the house,
rooms dark except for this cluttered desk,
goose neck light trying its best
to inspire a poem.
Word puzzles, random lists,
photographs tucked away safely
in the forgotten closets
of this fragile heart.
Waiting, waiting, waiting,
for the muse
or its fickle cousin,
spirited inspiration,
to produce a poem,
a song,
a sentence
a phrase,
poetic detritus
in a land
where every word
seems definitive,
identifying,
explosive,
toxic.
This strange ritual
of writing,
of poems only
meant to be hidden.
Occasionally sneaking out
of the house of insecurity.
To breathe, to dance, to sing
Even where there is no one
left to listen.
I had a professor whose response to deep questions was - that will take a desk and a light bulb. You have conjured that for me. The desk and the light bulb, by which he meant deep research, but here is waiting for those cousins to visit. Lovely!
A wise professor, for sure! Thank you Margaret!
"Word puzzles, random lists, photographs tucked away safely in the forgotten closets of this fragile heart." I love this, Larry.
Thank you, friend!
I love how your home is held in such sacredness in your poem today Kaitlin 💜 And the line 'too often racing from the house
and forgetting ourselves
along the way' is so relatable!!
Candle lit.
Breath drawn -
Released -
Drawn in again.
Place cards
To heart -
Wombspace -
Third eye -
Wherever the
Inner Knowing
Might arise from.
And pick.
Guidance flows -
Synchronicity shows -
And something -
Hope, trust, peace -
As needed,
Is restored.
Reflection
And, eventually,
Integration follow.
Ritual complete.
This is a beautiful, rhythmic and enchanting poem, Sarah. It feels spiritual in the best of ways, and flows so easily and seamlessly. Thank you for sharing!
Ah this encouragement warms my heart Larry - especially your sense of the spirituality of the piece 💜 Thank you.
Most mornings, depending on the skies,
before first light or birdsong,
I step outside to find the silvery moon.
She is never just one thing,
nor in one place.
Not light, not dark,
not full, not empty.
She is all of it,
always changing,
always becoming.
.
Stepping into her presence,
words fall away.
She hangs in gentle stillness,
inviting me to do the same.
She does not speak,
yet I hear her…
in the breath that leaves
and returns
As coolness on my skin.
.
My heart prays,
not as petition,
but as communion.
Something primal stirs
a memory older than thought
movements of life long ago
echoing in this moment:
ancient
luminous,
wild.
"my heart prays, not as petition, but as communion". It is such a a powerful phrase... I will be thinking of my heart praying as communion.
Thank you for sharing
Day #3: Ritual
In that gentle
hush of early light
the Sun radiates
through the lush green
limbs of elder trees, and
caresses the lungs of
your star-brown skin.
Remember this illumination,
this miracle of time.
This is how you know
your are immaculately loved.
Seek this wholly moment daily in
the emerging ritual of creation
let it enter the mind of
your heart.
Your heart
is a remedy.
Often throughout my day, I remember my morning quiet time, thinking back on its peacefulness and revelation. You’ve captured that here.
I love this Christian! “This is how you know/you are immaculately loved.” What a joy and a peace to read those words. Your poem s a true gift. Thank you!
"praying love over lunchboxes" ❤️ I love this, Kaitlin! This prompt sparked a reflection on making fires:
To Make A Fire
•
First, gather supplies:
A pile of kindling – birch bark, pine cones, newspaper, torn pieces of old wax boxes
Gather a handful of slender sticks you split with the axe and
An armful of logs from the woodpile you spent days stacking
•
Clean out the ash box
for a proper draft – even
fire needs air to breathe
and ignite
•
Next, place the kindling
in the center of the firebox
build a fort of sticks around it
strike a match close
to the heart and watch as
•
the kindling sparks and
the sticks light
when you hear the crackle
gently add a few logs
it’s the logs that will carry
warmth through the night
•
Don’t walk away too soon –
you must tend the growing
warmth. Fire needs your
attention, needs you to notice
when to feed it
•
It might need more kindling,
might need you to reach in with a metal
poker to rearrange the logs
•
And as you tend, you’re warmed
As you care, you consider how
a reminder is embedded in
the word kindling:
kind, kin
•
that light and warmth
come from connection
that we belong to each other,
so may be we kind
we belong to each other,
so may we remember
•
how this fire started
long before our birth –
with a tree that sprouted and
took in rain, sent out roots
unfurled leaves in sunlight,
shaded birds and squirrels
deer and coyote
before trying on the colors
of fire: oranges, reds, golden
yellows sweeping across autumn
hillsides before letting go, dropping
leaves to the ground to become
soil and nourishment for
the next cycle
•
And now here you are,
here I am,
tending the fire
a ritual of care
that lets us say:
Yes, come in
and warm yourself.
Yes, come in and have
some tea by the fire
Here, I have a stack
of seed catalogs
let’s open
and dream of all
we’ll grow together
This is a beautiful poem, Katie! Taking a task like starting and tending a fire and drawing a lovely portrait of not only the mechanics but the spiritual and emotional elements of doing everyday things well. I love each stanza of this remarkable poem. It reminds day in a way of some of the poems of one of my favorite poets, Gary Snyder. Beautiful work, Katie!
so, so beautiful 💔 a journey through time and space
“A Swivel to face the rising sun/the angle changing with the seasons…” What sparkling words in this lovely poem. I like that sitting in the same chair with only a shift or directional turn is able to change perspective, function, purpose or all the above. Thank you Margaret!