Connected

Father-Mother, you did not create us to be separate and alone. We swim in the same sea of love we cannot circumscribe, we cannot own. Love—we eat it, drink it breathe it in. Believing otherwise, that is our sadness, and our isolation, and our sin. Amen

One of My Altars

One of My Altars—My grandfather built this shelf in the early 1900s

Women’s Altars

I have an old converted
lantern, brass, that lost its
luster long ago. The
chimney, though, it
shines like crystal, and the
light within is steady in its
glow. I set it on a bookshelf
in the hallway, with a
charming, ancient mirror
hung upon the wall, just so,
reflecting, almost with the
same intensity, the flame made
possible by electricity, and
ingenuity, not to mention the
imagination it required to
think of such a thing. Because
it’s lovely, this ensemble,
tattered first editions shelved
alongside Dad’s old Fireside
Tales
that carry still the scent
of him, and other books whose
covers hide all manner of
mysterious delights; and
because it helps me find my
way at night; and because of
its reliability (the light, I
mean); I tell it, “Thank you,”
(privately), and doing so, I
thank the universe….

Some of Mom's Treasures

Some of Mom's Treasures

It’s all connected, don’t
you know, the light, the
little fire that burns along a
tiny wire and makes it
glow, the ugly cord that
cleverly I hide, the prongs that
slip inside the outlet in the
wall, and by some intricate
arrangement that involves, no
doubt, a heinous waste of fossil
fuels, or else, perhaps, I’d rather
think, a waterfall. It’s all connected
to my family—my grandpa sawed
and carved and measured it (the
shelf, I mean), my mother polished
it (each time she thought of it,
untidy and delightful lady that she
was) and treasured it; her treasures
sit upon it, still: an old Musician’s
Yearbook
, and The Wisdom of
Confucius
next to David
Copperfield
; a book of synonyms;
a candle snuffer; and a wicker
basket holding books and bits of
other stuff.

Oops! This shot is inverted!

Oops! This shot is inverted!

It’s not by chance that I’ve assembled
such an altar; women do, you know,
without their knowing that they
do. It’s one of many ways that
bind us, bind us all, too numerous
to count. And it amounts to
unity, and makes you what you are
to me.

_________________

We need an integrated mind capable of directly perceiving relatedness in the world. —David S. Devor

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This Day Got Beautiful In It

Sister Alma Rose Sings Praise with the Mockingbird

Northern Mockingbird

Northern Mockingbird

Well, it’s seven-oh-four in the mornin’,
And the sun is just dim in my window.
It will soon climb its way up to glory.
So will I.
So will I.

Oh, I ain’t gonna die any minute—
Or any day soon, I don’t fear it.
No, this day, it’s got beautiful in it.
So do I.
So do I.

And I ain’t gonna hush my spirit;
And I ain’t gonna fuss or fret.
There’s a song in my heart, I can hear it,
And it ain’t singin’ fear or regret.

There’s a mockingbird out in her Eden
Singin’ praise, singin’ low, singin’ high;
And if she can be glad just for livin’,
So can I.
So can I.

Oh, I can’t help but think that Creation
Is a personal gift made for me,
And each day is a great celebration!
Let it be.
Let it be.

Don’t you feel it, down deep in your spirit—
Pure life, every life, everywhere?
There’s a song in your heart. Can you hear it?
Just listen. Just listen. It’s there.
And this day, it’s got beautiful in it,
Everywhere.
Everywhere.

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