“Who the Meek Are Not,” by Mary Karr

A thought provoking poem featured on the Writer’s Almanac for today:

Who the Meek Are Not
by Mary Karr

Not the bristle-bearded Igors bent
under burlap sacks, not peasants knee-deep
in the rice paddy muck,
nor the serfs whose quarter-moon sickles
make the wheat fall in waves
they don’t get to eat. My friend the Franciscan
nun says we misread
that word meek in the Bible verse that blesses them.
To understand the meek
(she says) picture a great stallion at full gallop
in a meadow, who—
at his master’s voice—seizes up to a stunned
but instant halt.
So with the strain of holding that great power
in check, the muscles
along the arched neck keep eddying,
and only the velvet ears
prick forward, awaiting the next order.

“Who the Meek Are Not” by Mary Karr, from Sinners Welcome. © Harper Collins, 2006.

Healing Space: Prompted by RevGalBlogPals Friday Five

RevGalBlogPals, a webring that I belong to, is “a supportive community for clergywomen and their friends since 2005.” For me they have been a great resource to ask advice on ministry ideas and to share inspiration in each of our respective ministries.
Throughout each week they have prompts of different things to which the webring members can respond. I haven’t been good about actually following the prompts yet, but today’s felt necessary for my own healing, and I hope will help in yours.

Here is the prompt from Deb: “I am an enthusiastic newspaper reader. Lately, however, world events have made it hard to read and process the pain in the world around me. Perhaps you have struggled with this, too.
So, with the events of the violence and tragedy from the Boston Marathon fresh in our memories, I thought it would be good for us to focus on where as RevGalBlogPals, we find healing, peace and strengthening. As a chaplain, there are days where I never seem to catch my breath, and invariably, those are the days that I need it the most! So with all this in mind, share with us these healing things.”

1. A piece of music

A beautiful setting of this Sunday’s lectionary text, Psalm 23:

This song is my happy place and I just love James Taylor:

2. A place

North Adams, MA: A place of deep family roots, beautiful mountains, and a dynamic arts community. For me it has always been enough of a home to be a comfortable and enough of a vacation destination for it to be a break from the usual.

19-DSCN4272

3. A favorite food

Pad Thai

4. A recreational pastime

Bicycling, especially on beautiful trails like this one I love in Massachusetts, the Ashtuwilticook Rail Trail

5. A poem, Scripture passage or other literature that speaks to comfort you.

“You Begin,” by Margret Atwood

You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
this is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.

Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
you are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.

The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.
It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.

“Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7

BONUS: People, animals, friends, family – share a picture of one or many of these who warm your heart.

SLIDE 19 - Family

Bailey

Bonus-bonus, this is the silly song that pops into my head with Bailey:

“String Quartet,” by Carl Dennis

This was in today’s Writer’s Almanac and I just had to pass it along:

“String Quartet,”
by Carl Dennis

Art and life, I wouldn’t want to confuse them.
But it’s hard to hear this quartet
Without comparing it to a conversation
Of the quiet kind, where no one tries to outtalk
The other participants, where each is eager instead
To share in the task of moving the theme along
From the opening statement to the final bar.

A conversation that isn’t likely to flourish
When sales technicians come trolling for customers,
Office-holders for votes, preachers for converts.
Many good people among such talkers,
But none engaged like the voices of the quartet
In resisting the plots time hatches to make them unequal,
To set them at odds, to pull them asunder.

I love the movement where the cello is occupied
With repeating a single phrase while the others
Strike out on their own, three separate journeys
That seem to suggest each prefers, after all,
The pain and pleasure of playing solo. But no.
Each near the end swerves back to the path
Their friend has been plodding, and he receives them
As if he never once suspected their loyalty.

Would I be moved if I thought the music
Belonged to a world remote from this one,
If it didn’t seem instead to be making the point
That conversation like this is available
At moments sufficiently free and self-forgetful?

And at other moments, maybe there’s still a chance
To participate in the silence of listeners
Who are glad for what they manage to bring to the music
And for what they manage to take away.

“String Quartet” by Carl Dennis, from Unknown Friends. © Penguin, 2007.

“The Journey,” by Mary Oliver

“The Journey”

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life you could save.