A Rosebush is a Weed

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

A rosebush is a weed
If it grows where there is no need
for roses.

I once saw a British garden show
where the host named plants that need to go
and mentioned rhododendron.

As if the mother of the flowers
born in Appalachian showers
was innately troublesome.

I rid my plot of chamomile
because I don’t grow chamomile,
though I drink it as a tea.

I buy it at the grocery store,
a blend of chamomile and more,
but pull it like a weed.

There’s little to no evidence
advocating the existence
of dandelion in a yard.

But some find it copacetic,
Claim the leaves are diuretic
And toss them with some chard

I pulled a knee-high mimosa
from amidst my prize azaleas,
stars of my floral show.

It would have been a fine tree,
but killed the vibe most certainly,
and so it had to go.

Where there is no need for roses,
Even roses are a weed.
Don’t just bloom where you are planted.
Plant yourself where there’s a need.

Oh, To Have Been ‘Round the Moon

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

How jealous we all were of the crew of Artemis II. To leave this third rock for even an abbreviated fortnight, to see the world without borders, to be pleasantly news-less.

We think we live in unprecedented times. On one hand, we do, and on the other, these times are grossly precedented. We still fight over religion and land and power and politics, like the ancient Sumerians and Egyptians did. Like the Britons and Vikings did. Like the Muslims and Christians did. Oops . . . do.

The only path to peace I know in the midst of it all is to regularly and meaningfully transcend. Exit the gravitational pull. Step away. The Buddhist Heart Sutra gave us the perfectly concise mantra Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha. The meaning is simple: Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone completely beyond. Oh, what an enlightenment.

The most consistent question I receive as an interfaith minister is the question of how we live in this world, how we juggle politics and family, how we maintain bliss in the face of chaos. SHOULD we maintain bliss in the face of chaos. Honestly, I don’t have one go-to answer. I often respond based on how the day feels, what has been shown to me, and/or how the inquiry is couched. I do think we have to be artful with this question — what works one day may not be the next day’s answer.

I do know, however, that the way to be ready for what each day holds is to remember who we are, go into the silence, enter the inner spaciousness where Divine Presence lives in us as us. Succumb to the stillness. Sit still and listen with ears of the heart.

The German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, wrote a poem that serves as a good reminder of what is real in the beyond. Here it is translated into English by Stephen Mitchell:

BUDDHA IN GLORY

Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet—
all this universe, to the furthest stars
all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.

Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,

a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all the stars are dead.

Nickie’s Reverie

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
“His hair is mmpl.”

“His hair is what?”

“His hair is mmpl.”

I will never know
what word describes his
hair, and so I change 
my tack. “Whose hair?” 

“Edwin.”

“Edwin? Who’s Edwin?”

“My teacher.”

You take no classes. You
have no teachers.  I know
you are talking in your
sleep about someone you
won’t remember when I
ask you later. 

I love that I know,
whoever Edwin is, he is
not a lover or a secret
or a problem. 

I love knowing where
you lay your head each
night and where I 
lay mine. 

I love knowing that you
trust me so deeply even
your subconscious
tells me all.

Love’s Labors

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
I love the spring visit to the 
garden center. 
Marigolds, knock-out roses, and
ten bags of mulch in the 
bed of the truck.
Plus birdseed, potting soil, a
Japanese pencil holly. 

Labors of love feed, create, cultivate.
Like a friend listening without judgment,
a teacher explaining one more time,
a meal cooked for others,
a song written to remind us again
of love. 

Did I? 

I dig a hole and let the thought
leaf out.
Did I love enough? 

How many times I missed a chance
to forgive or ignore
a slight or let go. 
But in my heart’s drought,
did I sometimes water pain with
compassion? 
Did I seed the world with life?

Do I? 

I set the holly into the hole,
straighten it, fill in
around the sides of the
root ball with soil I
soften to crumbles in my
fingers. 

“I hope you’re happy here,” 
I say. “I hope I’ve picked a 
good spot and dug a 
good hole. I hope you get
everything you need to 
thrive."

Then I rise from my knees, 
slower than in years past, but
so much more certain of 
love and what it can grow.