Saint Patrick Blessings

Not a blooming clover, but they're green.  To that end, the all time best Saint Patrick radio drama, Saint Patrick, A Heart Afire, Parts I & II:

http://www.whitsend.org/en/albums/31-days-to-remember.aspx

A must-have.

EASTERn Orthodoxy, & Sure, I Like Daffodils. . .

... popping up in all the secret spots I poked them into throughout the summer; beauties all, Christopher Robbin's daffadowndillies.

Darn. 

Accidentally DELETED all.  

Instead, iPhoto churned up a different spring 2012 yellow, and one purple:

Standalone Volunteer

Proud to make center stage,
Datura (?) seeds also sprang up 'sorta everywhere,
here, yearning to be outside in the company of dapper daffodils

What ISN'T EVERYWHERE is an entire roomful of young, hip, gypsyish college aged and post-college age families worshipping old style. I finally visited and saw:  Orthodox Celebrants in ancient garb, leading their young charges in an Ash Wednesday Ceremony of Forgiveness.

The guest of my eldest, I stood all the way in back, taking it all in as a first time observer. This child used to ask if she could be Jewish when she grew up, and spearheaded our first Passover Seder (mainly by escorting me into Ben Yehuda's to buy a very cool egg and shank platter).  I tried to reserve judgement, but, let's face it. I am sure I'm missing the need-to-be-liturgical gene.

As the pungent incense transported me back to Catholic Days, I gazed around at all the rows and rows of Eastern Orthodox icons covering the walls, and all the 60's holdover congregants sporting armfuls of tattoos, nose rings, sprouty hair, and wearing scads of babies on their backs.  This is what I thought of:

You know what I mean?
Those huge cuffs that the teens and twenty-somethings seem to think are the essence of cool, but which, when seen on a forty-something, seem slightly ridiculous?

Such were the thoughts spinning around my head at the sight of Ancient Everything: incense, garb, art, language, bowing low, signs of the cross. . . it seemed so over-the-top-counter-cultural that I couldn't possibly join in, despite my daughter's insistence. I was too proud. And too reduced by such solemn, outsized Pride.

But as the ceremony flowed, the celebrants and celebrating all exchanging vows of humility and pleas for each and every other human in the room, one at a time (!), to "forgive me, a sinner," I was impressed by this daughter's ernest Love.

Her love for the beauty of simple things, of artful worship, artful speech, artful scholarship, artful crafts and vocations, artful spending, artful soul searching, artful fasting, artful goals. . . they humble me.

Our previous hour had been spent at a birthday dinner where she sewed and sipped her hot Thai shrimp and fish sauce on rice, in the half light of Panvimarn Restuarant.

Spy The Scissors

And I knew as I watched her multi-focused stitching and chatting, that TheSaviour was prompting me to accompany her to her new church.  She hurried off before the meal was through. I hurried off after her.

[Dear M,

Now that you're moved out and moving on to your next Life ChAPter, I am grateful anew for your example of faith and patience, my Dear One. 

May the head coverings catch on. And when your church very smartly markets Orthodox bathing suits, sign me up. I'm buying!]

Hail George

Middle Child Emotes Awhile

Hailing hero GW's speech
Farewelling finals as he 'leaved;
Took a bit of time, admit,
As no address today is fit
To secure greatness.

What a curiosity
Forsaking our verbosity,
Each ciphered progeny
Conveyed awed 18th century
Via Dell magicianry.

Scary. Googled sate-ness.

Every day the battle
wages;
Every moment comes a
choice.
Either let bare thoughts run
hapless, or,
Heed a better inner
voice.

Clothe those fated thoughts in
victory,
Won already, fed by
faith; or,
Let the naked evil of them
Ruin
What Ephesians
'cased.

Every mind, a cluttered
minefield;
Every life, a treaty
stained:
Either signed in Satan's
warblood,
Or Christ's lifeblood, heaven
gained.

Observing Brevity

Rivergrade onramp

County Crimes

They dwell by brooks in bushes, the forlorn destitute.
Bent on escape from rules, demands,
From expectations and self judgement.

I've known one or two and see their intent need
To be beholden to no man; or God.

But guilt that we have what they do not
Inspires the many to house and feed and care. But downtown.
Not here.

Arms length feels right, that their spirit of dependence and want
Does not creep too close, lest we are all brought down low.

And then there are the disabled. Severely broken in body and housed
By State and County and Us.
We're glad to do our part to help. Until

The county moves them right next door.

Forced into missionary status,
Obliged by the state to redefine our bedroom community

To mean anything the state declares it to mean. No recourse,
No remands, no dialogue. Just forced.
The Americans With Disabilities Act.

The Lanterman Act. They declare that I am a bigot
If I believe the destitute must not be foisted upon my street.

They declare that state hired caretakers of
Wheelchair bound government dependents
Must be deemed Parents; this house is now a Family.

I declare. A family is not that convenient.
A government, not that powerful.

Ed Note:
I know homelessness is more complicated than that. Admit, tho, there are many who just refuse all help. We know them. They need a process with a long and patient life rope. Non profits offer this and succeed. The government? Not so much. 


In the case of the house next door? No non-profit rep sought our cooperation. They took the way of an impersonal government entity: to foist.


That is counterproductive.

Can't Keep A Pro-mis

So, I did ban presents from Christmas, but said nothing of Twelfth Night. What was I supposed to do with the stash of stuff I found hidden away?