Great Grandpa Charles Berry & Great Grandma Lavonne Berry

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"Mary."

"Mary."

 

No explanation.

No sermon.

 

Miriam.

 

Only the one word

by which she is recognized.

The string of sounds

begun with both lips pressed together

the quick cascade down a mountainslide

(he is almost here,

after all)

into the rolling turn,

the palacial palatal glide

the skid to stop

both lips pressed together again.

 

MIR-yam.

 

Then it clicks:

This man knows.

All it took was a name.

He knew

that all it would take

is a name

to show her he knew

her.

 

Sales people know this, too,

Customer service people know this,

Good doctors use your name,

Your friends call you what your friends call you,

Your parents gave you what they wanted you to be known by.

 

Your God

knows you.

 

Will it not be just as

brief

when we see you?

Won't we be just as disoriented,

not having fully grasped the Scripture,

not quite used to the idea

that we don't end when we die,

that you truly did resolve

the core threat to our lives?

 

"Mary."

 

Won't we be just

as surprised?

Church, not at church

My people:

seeds scattered across scapes

some raised in ready crowds

some grown alone

edged out among the distance.

You are quiet now:

Fellow laborers

letting the weight of the rake

drop itself back into the ground -

every bit helps,

every natural inclination you can leverage,

you do:

 

It is so hard to feel the purpose of the work.

It is so hard to look over your shoulder

and find only empty field.

 

In doing the work of God,

it is so hard to labor alone.

 

You can’t pretend this isn’t what is happening.

Any one of us would have finished

the effort of belief

if it didn’t involve Sunday morning meetings

with pews or cheap chairs

with wine or grape juice

with small plastic cups and small paper pamphlets

with a cultural inheritance we would rather forfeit.

 

I want to follow him

just not in droves.

 

So many of us have been cornered

by the logic of the deep and personal unknown

but cut off from the implication of him

in other humans.

 

In this eerie season of homeboundaries

in the callous quiet of the streets

in anticipated grief of coming disease

can’t we now know the need

to be together?

 

And if together in general

then together in purpose,

together in place,

together in pleading

together in praise.

So much of life is garden

Every chance that I get during this pandemic,

I have been gardening.

It only makes sense.

 

Clip the leaves,

deadhead bulbs,

pull the weeds.

Is this soil or is it soul?

 

Arlene,

So much of life is garden.

The damp that wraps your palms,

the ground that burrows under your fingernails,

like no one ever wants to get their hands dirty.

The long, long wait

for bloom.

 

So much of life is planting.

Till, soften, dig, set

Refill, (often) fix

the stem and wet

the earth -

wait:

hope:

let some other force

take its course

with your work.

 

Rest

is the one chore

you should never shirk.

Saturday Morning Together

We chef together. It’s wonderful. You’re a happier chef than me. But at least I always wear pants under my apron.

Know not hunger,

you will know not full.

I turn to the forest

and ask

Raise your hand 

if you need water.

In reply

Over the course of many seasons

They all without exception

vaulted to the sky.

I turn to the earth

and ask

Consume your own clothes

if you hunger.

In response

All the world decayed

Day after day

Dusks to dusks

Dawns to dawns.

I turn to you

Mirror of myself

And ask

Lower your defenses

If you need love

Open your shoulders 

To embraces

If you need friends.

Come to the river

Rest under the branches

Lay your head down

Acknowledge your fatigue

Accept your defeat

I will honor your surrender.

You

As if to say

No

Said nothing on the subject.

Thought nothing of it.

Were nothing.

Tomorrow I will bleed red 

your periphery

until you turn to me.

The day after I will break

myself

until we reunite.

How many ways

must I metaphor:

I am food,

You are hunger.

I am water,

You are thirst entire.

How many times 

at your door

must I inquire:

Be mine.

Relent 

all stubborn,

give up 

the cement

lodged in

your spine.

Be mine.

Break

as I have

and know the whole.

Hunger

and know

Full.

Love

like heat

or light

is a matter 

of energy 

expended.

Dusts

of turned

eyes away

collects only when

unattended.

Raise

or droop

of houseplants

is a question 

of routine.

Love

like gardens

or health

or good music 

is an issue

of frequency.

Baking Fun

Been making some muffins and bread lately. Here are the muffins:

And here is the bread:

Whole 30 Dairy Free* Grain Free Gluten Free Sugar Free Vegan Blueberry Lavender Banana Bread Recipe

1/2 cup Rx vanilla almond butter (sub. normal peanut butter, but then you’ll want to soak 4 Medjool dates in hot water till soft (5 mins), blend, and add to peanut butter before adding to wet mixture)

4 bananas, mashed

4 eggs, whipped

1/2 stick butter, melted

1/2 cup Paleo mix

1 tsp Baking soda

1 tbsp cream of tartar

1 tsp vanilla (I use vanilla powder but I’m sure vanilla extract works just as well)

2 tbsp dried lavender flowers

1/2 tsp salt

1 cup blueberries

*I still consider it dairy free even though it’s got butter because Ghee is too expensive for anything and I’m only mildly lactose intolerant.

Instructions

  1. Preheat oven to 350

  2. Mix wet ingredients in a big bowl (butter last, or it’ll solidify somewhat again)

  3. Mix dry ingredients in a separate smaller bowl (or a big bowl because it doesn’t matter), except for blueberries

  4. Combine dry bowl ingredients into wet bowl, folding in gently

  5. Stir a ton or use a hand mixer to really get this thing mixed together

  6. Gently fold in the blueberries

  7. After lining a bread pan with parchment paper (or greasing really well with butter), pour into the bread pan and put it in the oven and close the oven

  8. Bake 30-35 minutes until a fork comes out clean

"There are many ways to say I love you"

"There are many ways 

to say I love you."

There's the way

of "beautiful also

is the rain."

"Here are distant trees

and the endless lake of gray

sprawled like lifeless plains."

"Here are vaulted clouds

an unbroken but textured array."

"Here is your bride, happy,

encouraged, fulfilled,

full of play."

He has many ways

to say

"I love you."

//

Father of Winter,

You are the black ice threat to my momentum.

As gentle in appearance as the powder of the snow.

But you dictate by your presence how much I may hear

And how far I may go.

snow-1.jpg

For Buddy: When My Cynicism Meets Your Optimism

We are both right, you know:

These sandcastles could be our homes.

I would be among the ones to tell you: no,

They will erode - 

These dreams you build, the people you help,

the audacity of hope.

Join us on the jaded side of history,

the one that few acknowledge 

and most simply ignore.

Why else does science mock uncertainty,

And insist we not explore?

Have you not bled the same color as the rest of us?

But what makes you humbling to me:

you keep building dreams in your sandbox,

As if the world were your playground,

As if vacationing at the beach.

Maybe sometimes it isn’t easy for you,

To keep the momentum around,

To sustain the young-at-heart reach.

You’re better at it than I am, though,

And the goal is much more profound

and people much colder, each:

See the spite of selfish spirit,

Face their fury, even fear it,

Feel the ubiquity of pain;

Yet insist on imagined play.

Waves may wash away your towers,

Other kids deny your power,

Most lose childhood to the fray,

Insist again on healing play.

What else will occupy our days

After all sorrow is erased?

When our awkward hate is snatched away;

We will know how god is God of Play.

After all our disenchanted disbelief,

after every jaded bitter grief,

when death alone remains for us to meet,

isn’t it only children

He will greet?

The Poetry of Your Birth, Girl

It should be as simple as

you will be a girl.

The poetry of your birth 

should be nothing more 

than your biology.

Anything more than that -

and there is much more than that -

is mystery or tragedy.

What theology we know

of the distinction between us

daughter

is derived from the dregs of translated legend,

is the juiced fruit of stories

even those nearest them could hardly fathom.

You may have sinned first

but we both know who sinned worst.

That you are a girl

IMG_0017.jpg

Little one,

How long may I call you that?


Will you ever outgrow this viewpoint,

The one that comes from 

Trying to feel your tiny movements,

The kicks,

The formidable gathering of strength?

I wonder when it will matter

That you are a girl.

I wonder when the world

Will try to convince you

That is a limitation.



Haven’t they met your mother?

December Seven Two Thousand Nineteen

You landed with the falling of the snow.

You arrived on the drifting winter clouds.

You awoke the broken notion of family.

You are synonymous 

with the mystery 

of Christmas.

You enchanted me 

with the way your eyes lit up at lights.

You favored the blinking ones,

daily pointed them out.

You were both welcome and strange,

the way I always hoped my life

would be rearranged.

When I think of that day,

twenty years ago,

there is nothing I would change.

There was no better way 

to celebrate this holiday,

the one about two people who adopt a baby,

the one about the God who promises to adopt

all who admit they need it, and then some,

the one about how everything is about family,

the one about the beginning of the end 

of orphanages.

You are both icon and brother,

symbol and friend.

You always remind me that the lights 

are not just for show.

So illuminate the night;

peel the dusk off of 

the earth.

Watch each corner of our green trees glow.

Demand the evening find its morning mirth,

ask the dark "How long do you expect to slow

the soul's cascading knowledge of its worth?"

How steadily grows

hope every heart finds hearth.

You landed with the falling of the snow.

You of all people know

family

is invitation 

to rebirth.

Pepper Visit December 2019

Cousin Peps came to visit for her birthday. We got stuck on the other side of the pass so we got a hotel in Ellensburg and watched the snow. Surprisingly great sleep for two little ones in a tiny room! The week was filled with lots of adventures and Christmas lights. Happy Birthday Pepper!