On a Baited Field

Welcome Words

2011-09-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

The Marriage of Janet and David Henderson

August 20, 2011

Good Morning. Welcome to this joyous feast of love.

We make so much of love. We paint it into the clouds, just beyond our reach. We stitch it down, with golden threads of expectation, expectations no human can hope to fulfill. We dance love into hyperbolic ecstasy, and are disappointed when we need to sit down and rest. We lay the tables in our minds with platter upon platter of exotic fare, and are disappointed when, sated with a piece of bread and a sip of wine, we nap, content, while the banquet grows cold.

All this because there are not words, not art, not philosophy, not music, not religion that can fully express the simple joy of holding hands.

We cannot articulate the simple, the pure joy—of a hand cupped beneath a chin or smoothing the hair from our brow; of an embrace at the end of the day or when the news is frightening; the shared emotion when joy bursts through the door, or sorrow creeps over the window sill.

We can’t “say” it. But we can act on it. Today, Janet and David have joined us together to remind us. They have tossed back the hyperbole, and cast off the cynicism of our time, all times.

Rites

2011-03-19T19:33:00.000-07:00

Spring comes on the wings of a swallowed-tailed kite

ascetic white and black

scissoring the sky

hungry for life

gorging on the wing

whispering into the wind

secrets gleaned from darker places, deeper jungles

flying from fire

into a landscape pregnant with promise

and devastation

Circling. Circling.

Those who stop

to look

to watch

to pray

to cry

to listen

to praise

are saved.

Spring comes on the wings of a swallowed-tailed kite

ascetic white and black

scissoring the sky

hungry for life

gorging on the wing

whispering into the wind

secrets gleaned from darker places, deeper jungles

flying from fire

into a landscape pregnant with promise

and devastation

Wheeling. Wheeling.

Those who stop

to look

to watch

to pray

to cry

to listen

to mourn

cannot escape

but they are saved.

A Prayer

2010-12-30T07:06:00.001-08:00

Please

Let me catch my breath

The path behind me has been

On fire

As long as I remember

Ahead

Tangled bank

No promise of the other side

Shine a light in the dark

Please

Let me catch my breath

These tears have been

Flowing

Longer than I can remember

Bottomless

Bittersweet well

They’re drawn from

Bore a hole in the bucket

Please

Let me catch my breath

This story I’m spinning, spinning,

Spinning

That I might remember

Is nothing

Fiber pulled from the wind

Slip me some thread

Please

Prayer for Peace

2010-12-24T18:52:00.000-08:00

On this night of falling bombs and broken treaties

this night of pain and suffering

in ways and parts of the world I can hardly imagine

I believe in peace.

On this night of broken dreams and falling stars

this night of a Messiah come…and lost

to a world unwilling or unable to listen

I believe in peace.

On this night, I have heard angels singing

and watched the hush ebb and flow

‘round the face of a child

within this sanctuary, this grace of fellowship

I believe in peace.

On this night, let the sounds of our celebration

woven from the dreams of shepherds and kings,

carry our united voices,

to every darkened corner.

I believe in peace.

The Delight

2010-09-03T06:33:00.001-07:00

Back in the day when faith was just beginning to dawn in the collective unconscious, a Man and a Woman lived in a huge round house on the edge of an open prairie. Just close enough, and just far enough away from the village. On days when the sun seemed extraordinarily high, or nights when the moon was unusually full, all the members of the community would gather together in the house, stand in a circle, face one another, and let their guards down.

The Man was a master of the visual arts. If there was something so beautiful you just couldn’t imagine seeing it, he could paint, or sculpt or tile it. His work was created to celebrate the glory of the circle. When he worked, it was like offering a prayer; and when people would see what the Man created, they would fall to their knees in awe.

The Woman was a master of the musical arts. If there was something so exquisite you just couldn’t imagine hearing it, she could compose, play or choreograph it. Her work was created from beyond the circle, lifted up from the grace of the prairie. When she worked, her spirit soared; and when people heard what the Woman created, they would raise their arms in exultation.

He saw the Mountain. She saw the Journey.

Early on in their relationship, they decided not to discuss work…they just saw things too differently. But, you know how it is with such agreements. It was late, they were tired, and he really just wanted to tell her about an incredible idea.

The Man was going to capture “it,” that ineffable something, the delight of the Creator in his Creation, in a work so fine that all creatures bow in praise.

Well, it turns out the Woman was also planning to capture “it,” that ineffable something, the delight of the Creator in her creation, in a work so fine that all creatures rise up in ecstasy.

It got ugly.

At least this was also before art criticism, so there wasn’t a lot of backseat driving.

They ended up challenging one another. Each would create “it,” that ineffable something, each would express the delight…then they’d find someone to judge.

The Man painted and sculpted, collaged and printed—the inside and the outside of the house were awash in all the colors and textures of creation.

The Woman composed and choreographed and directed—sound and movement ebbed and flowed without bound.

It was good. Each was pleased. But, who to judge? They knew they shouldn’t, but they called on their Child, a master of the verbal arts. If there was something so moving, the words would escape you, the Child lured them into poems and prose and drama, extolling glory and grace. When people read or heard words the Child created, they would fall silent.

Everywhere in and around the big round house on the edge of the prairie, color and sound pulsed. People knelt in awe. People raised their arms in exultation.

Their Child smiled. “Oh I see what you’re getting at, or trying to. There’s got to be a word for that, that ineffable something the delight of the Creator in the Creation, that moves all creatures from deep within.”

“This looks like a great celebration, but I’ve really got to go find the word. You should invite some folks.”

With that…the Child wandered off, doodling words in the air. The Man and Woman, well, what could they do? They laughed. They embraced. And they invited their entire community to gather in a circle, face one another, let their guards down and celebrate the delight.

Today's Deer

2010-08-11T05:55:00.000-07:00

Beauty still catches my breath

Draws me back in.

This year’s fawns—delicate—more cautious than the does.

I should grow into a godlike shadow

Clang pots and pans

Drive you from the neighbor’s corn-laced lawn;

but, I’m no better.

I ache to sit

—silent—where you are.

Heart lifted up,

because you do not see me.

Renée Zenaida

Why Do They Leave?

2010-06-12T09:51:00.000-07:00

Why do they leave?

Gazing skyward

listening

in fall the settled beings

near warm wet prairies

celebrate the return.

Prodigal cranes

arrive in raucous gray arrows

aimed toward wetland forage

easier living.

They preen and dance

among their lesser relations,

lesser sandhill cranes,

Florida sandhills.

Those who stayed

dressing their feathers with Florida soils

until rooted.

Who each Spring

watch their robust cousins

lift and carry winter’s slate gray skies North.

Spirits returning to the beginning,

the refrain.

In the echo of their parting revelry

the promise to return.

Why do they leave?

My dead do not return

the curtain between us

is drawn down tight

Spring and Fall.

My dead do not return

but for moments--

a face, glimpsed and lost, a touch, a flash of memory, a story told.

Father’s ashes. Mother’s ashes,

churned in tides

and washed on different shores

meeting in falling castles

and cradling plover eggs.

Brother’s breath. Sister’s breath

held

exhaled into flight

a jagged gray arrow

tinged with blood

finding home.