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Posts Tagged ‘experience’

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches

 

Dear Dr. Martin Luther King,

May I speak to the Martin you were when your grandmother died?

Thanks.

I’m asking because I’m a grandmother now. My grandchildren look to me to discover who they are. They learn from the attention I give to them. By my presence. Death took your grandmother and hope left you.

You regained more than hope. You let an entire group of people know who they are.

 It’s a privilege to be a grandparent. And yet the child inside me pretends to be gone. I developed into a loving, accomplished woman who helped pay a stranger’s bill in a grocery store. Yet, I struggle sometimes to feel important enough to get past moments when I was a lost child too. The sun is not gone. The world celebrates today because you planted love, Dr. King. I can’t deny recurrent feelings but can allow them to pass and recognize the whole.

Love, may we learn to allow it to spread inside and outside of our families and neighborhoods.

 

The illustration is taken from a public domain drawing. There are many, just as Dr. King’s gifts are many.

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“It’s not how much we give but how much love we put into giving.”
Mother Teresa

The holidays magnify expectations. Suddenly, I think I need to fall into perfect alignment with the world. A perfect world. However, perfection doesn’t exist anywhere except in the dictionary. Pause. Breathe. Ask for help. Or give it. Christmas tree lights are artificial. Human light isn’t.

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An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind. 
― Mahatma Gandhi

Men willing to break their own arms
rather than race into fire and death,
war games played without winners.
The news spreads in endless loops
on screens with color but no dimension
while some watchers gasp, yet
others pass a bowl of snacks,
grateful the pain strikes in another
language, continent, time zone.

Human beings willing to reach
beyond a huff or pant. One country
touching another. One person
letting peace stretch beyond a closed
room. We will not let war
cage the world with hate. Or apathy.
Or depression. It will take time, but,
let us discover peace. Together.

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black squirrel (2)

"Rarely does one see a squirrel tremble." 
Zadie Smith.

The air in Canada carries peace—until a black 
squirrel attack begins.
“Watch out!” a fellow traveler calls as an 
acorn whizzes past me from the roof 
of the motel.

Squashed acorns appear all over 
the parking lot.

The squirrel appears and searches through 
the pieces. Humans aren’t a target now. 
It’s buffet time. 


All I know for certain is that I am not 
invited. The woman who saw the critter's
prank,smiles. 


She and I talk. We feast on the moment,
the serendipity of meeting others. 
illustration made from cut paper and colored pencil
 

					

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I already have a headache. So why do I keep messing with 
this printer?


Jay,” I call to my husband. “Looks like our printer
is
going flat line.”

It’s had technological heart failure or a fatal key 
stroke, then disconnected itself from life support.

Maybe you can call Tom Strotman. See if he can help
shop for a new one with us
.”

I dial as if my fingers were disconnected. Okay, girl, 
one thing at a time.
Finally, his phone rings.
I tell him about my crisis.

“Did you check the spooler?” he asks.

“What’s that?”

He answers in a calm retired-teacher voice, “I need 
to get up at five tomorrow to go out of town
to babysit,
but I can stop by right after dinner and help.”


The Strotman grandparents get an A-plus in nurturing.
Tom arrives about an hour later.


And he is right. He knows the solution. Restart both
the computer and printer.
Go to Start. Open Settings.
Now Devices. Now Printers and Scanners. Find printer
and Open Queue
.

Apparently, I created a disabled vehicle on the 
freeway at rush hour.
I added a no-go in the
high-speed lane
. Traffic was on hold.

This will probably be the only technically centered blog 
you will find with my name attached to it. This will not
be the only space where I will honor someone who deserves
it.

Thanks, Tom. A best and blessed friend from our twenties
to seventies. I smile whenever I think about
 you
and your family.

(Your wife is the best by the way.)
 
 
 
 
 
 

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“Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.” – Mark Twain

No Clapping Zone

Dupuytren’s Contracture in my left hand
joins with an arthritic thumb to create
its own clumsy five-digit island.

On my right hand, a long-ago 
partially healed broken middle finger
refuses to bend. And avoids vulgar messages.

None of the ten appendages chooses 
to juggle anything more challenging
than a dose of Tylenol.

On one point both hands agree.
No clapping possible.
We look like drunk spiders.

And yet, both left and right concur
in more important matters.
In everyday places.

Let’s cook a meal. Ignore the spills.
Or type this poem, or send a message
to someone who needs support.

Let the larger audience carry
the greater approval for performances.
These hands will offer gifts. Just give them time.


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Peace is

Be the peace you wish to be. (Martin Luther King)

“There’s a police car in the parking lot. With its lights on,” someone in our spiritual group calls.

No sirens. Nevertheless, I’m jolted from the sweetness of our gathering.

I see a young man with dark skin and long hair. He hides beside a parked car. He runs next to the beige walls of a church and squats down, then runs again. I don’t know what happened, or why he hides.

With no chaos, no noise, and no gunfire, the police drive away. With the young man inside the car. I hear nothing of a forced encounter. I don’t see the capture at all. The beginning or end of a story. I see part of a scene from a silent play in progress. No ticket to follow its progress.

Later, the moment replays in my mind. And heart. May peace and justice meet without bias. May no violence be a sign of a reasonable outcome.

I recall simpler situations. The lady in front of me in the checkout line at the grocery. She’s uptight over the way a young man bags. I have her pegged. Yet, this could be just a sideways reaction on a difficult day. Even if my assessment is accurate, does it need to alter who I am?

Be the peace you wish to be. Okay, Dr. King. If you can do it, anyone can.

 

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When we listen, we hear someone into existence.
Laurie Buchanan, PhD

What is Pretty? A Long-Ago Question

I rewrite a scene from my own ancient history.
Not to alter its reality or change 
what has already happened. Because
I have learned a kinder way to pass on
a response to children, fresh adults.

In my past I stand before a mirror
and criticize not-styled hair on an insecure 
head until the pain erupts into panic.
My mother replies in a razor-sharp tone,
Pretty is as pretty does.

A comb. A brush. Mundane tools.
I catch what my mother is implying.
Inside I am not worthwhile either.
Ten commandments on stone.
How do I release them into real time?

Much later I learned the gift of listening.
Touch. One set of eyes aware of another
person’s experience. You see ugly? Let me
tell you what I see. Let’s discover the beautiful inside,
said with a smile. Same message. Improved delivery.

The difference between a stagnant pool and a lake.
A lake was given space to exist and move.
Perhaps I understand because
I have tried to swim in both places.
And have learned love along the way.

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Addie and me after my fall (2)

Love, the moment and the energy of that moment, will spread beyond all boundaries. (Corita Kent)

Both the smile and the purple bruises on the side of my face, are real. I fell. Tripped over an air vent and landed on something hard enough to raise a bump the size of an extra appendage. Okay, I’m exaggerating. The bump is no larger than the average oversized walnut. The pain, however, made me think a tank had parked in my kitchen, and I’d been thrown into it.

My husband took me to the emergency room.

I was fortunate. Hematoma with no brain-bleed. I came home to heal. On St. Patrick’s Day—wearing the wrong color. Healing will take time. There are no prescriptions for patience. If there were I would ask for double-strength dosage.

In the meantime, I treasure holding my two-year-old granddaughter during a rare moment when she isn’t experimenting with perpetual motion.

“Precious child Addie, thanks for overlooking bruises and seeing me behind them. We will conquer the imaginative world again after you are rested.”

Okay, maybe I should rest a little, too.

 

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