Sabbath # 23

This morning I’m reading the difference between devotion and practice in Thich Nhat Hanh’s Living Budda, Living Christ. This week I began again the practice of Haiku, three a day. Copy them from one notebook to another. Ten years ago my friend, Lila and I sent each other a weekly postcard with a new haiku for one year. Our devotion and practice. The Holy Spirit. Buddha. Mindfulness. Prayer. Taking refuge in a moment: stillness of Autumn air, smell of apples baking with cinnamon, stem rising from a cup of tea, bells ringing from the steeple of the Presbyterian Church next door, my granddaughter’s voice three thousand miles away, saying when are you coming over here? Practice and devotion. Knowing when to take my pen in hand and write. Trusting the silence of the blank page. Trusting the blue-black ink that forms the letters: yellow rose booming / the last of the season / firewood stacked.

Sabbath #22

My father placed his hand on mine. The conversation no longer mattered. Words spoken could be any words. His body leaned into me.  My breathing, easy, his less. I arrived not needing anything. That was the difference. Now, he needed something from me: Comfort, forgiveness. I gave both freely without hesitation. It mattered that I had just come from the funeral of a friend’s mother, spoken to his ninety-one year old father, left alone on the farm. Her butter beans, corn and peaches fresh in the freezer. Summer passed quickly. We have entered fall and approach the time when the veil is the thinnest between living and dead. My father, alive today; hopefully, finding peace and not afraid.

Sabbath #21

We woke rather tired from all the preparations for guests. Skipped our reading at the table, skipped conversation. Hard boiled eggs, toast, lightly buttered. Today, early morning fog. Mist. Earlier, before sunrise, I stood at the bedroom window, opened. Looked into the backyard. Marveled at the quiet, not a sound. No wind. No traffic. Not even birdsong. Slipped back under the covers. New sheets sounds. Breathe sounds. Deep sleep sounds. Now, a sigh. Love sounds.

Sabbath #20

This morning Burnt Norton at breakfast. One peach, sliced. Glancing out the window, two yellow roses. Yesterday at Assateague we walked three miles: one bald eagle, four small white-tailed deer, egrets, sand fiddlers, a wild pony.  Solace in the salt marsh. So that today before sunrise while I slept, you sat at the dining table with your notes, renewed. Rest, important. Quiet, vital. My second copy of Four Quartets. Your first reading. Time present and time past... At the still point of the turning world… we gathered ourselves. We vowed to return. A place so near and timeless.  In silence we inhabit this world, our world.  Only seven miles between sea and sound.