Author Archives: Jennifer

Christmas 2014

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Christmas, 2014
By
Joseph Anthony

Christmas, 2014

I.

On this eve of Herod’s wrath
Surround yourself with animals
And shepherds, stars, and fragrant gifts
From the earth; find the lowly places
And give birth to death.

II.

Let the memories of trauma
Sink and sift through root and bone,
Hidden wells and sleeping seeds,
Let them die in silent peace,
And in the holy silence of bearing witness
And affirmation, transformation
And regeneration. Let them die
In the roar of trees trampling through valleys
Of sorrow to lift up the child and adopt the child,
and keep it safe as long as it wants, as long as it needs.

III.

On this eve of Joseph’s dreams
And trudging over roadless sand,
Find the star, any star, and go, Egypt awaits,
Land of Ra and Isis, and sacred geometry
Of hieroglyphs and feather scales.
Go, and hold innocence
As never before—bring a sword and pocketfuls
Of stones, do whatever it takes to say:
Tonight innocence will be
Kept safe and cherished above all things,
And all life will be honored, and all beings
And faiths, all people and creatures,
All elements and angels, devils
And waterfalls, ponds, and lilies,
all stumblings and dancings,
All things seen and unseen,
Will be bathed in starlight and wrapped
In swaddling clothes.

IV.

On this eve of the saddest story ever told
Of a parent sacrificing his only child
To cover up for his own mistakes,
And letting scores of other children die
In its place,
On this eve of nevermore,
The child is king and queen alone
By virtue of its innocence—holy, exalted,
Full of wonder and grace,
Magnified and full of laughter.
The child born tonight shall never know
The pain of being separated from itself
Or the being abandoned to die while living.
It will be whole.
Saving only itself.
And the unity of all things
That echoes as a result
Will ring throughout the inner landscape of the soul
Setting fire to the imagination
And stream out of Egypt like a lion,
not forgetting its heritage and upbringing,
But to embrace the place that kept it safe
And call itself privileged to have been hidden
Those years in the land of pyramids and sphinxes.
And on this silent night, this holy night,
This raging night divine,
The child will be safe and sound,
and sleep in the tree of life,
like a baby owl, waiting to fly.


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In Praise of Trees

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trees friends

In Praise of Trees
By
Joseph Anthony

In Praise of Trees

God is in the trees,
wind-infused, sifting through branches,
whispering eternal solutions to everyday problems,
wholly unafraid, spreading infinite roots,
holding the sun on the tips of his fingers,
cracking new skin making new rings appear rippling forth
and so on and so on unto eternity.
Goddess is in the trees,
elegant and wise,
moon-shawled shoulders,
stars in hair, branches spreading shelter and touches,
and invitations to holy silence:
Come, sit down against me, she says, and rest,
feel what real solidity is, and the strength
I bear in my boughs for you and birds
And climbing children, tree houses,
And nests of eagles and hawks.

God is the trees, shadow-maker verdant green,
Goddess is in the trees, shadow-dappled fire-crowned,
God is in the trees, leaning down to lift the little ones up–squirrels
baby raccoons, cicada nymphs, and wayward snakes and cats,

Goddess is in the trees, lifting the sky, setting out stars,
God is in the trees, stirring the clouds,
weaving constellations of planets and stars,
Goddess is in the trees, mingling roots with earth and singing
Incantations of nourishing wonder,
God is in the trees offering space for ravens to assemble, like
Monks and ministers, where owls can perch, like
Joan of Arc and Sister Odilia after her sight is returned,
Goddess is in the trees, tossing leaves, like
Little ships, each catching a glimpse of the light
As they sail away in streams and rivers,
Carrying holds of gold and hope for tomorrow
And now, there and here, everywhere
Moments are opening to space and time,
That Goddess gives and gives some more,
God is in the trees, seed-sailing, breath-giving
Wanting only the best for you and me
And the giraffe nibbling leaves,
Goddess is in the trees, seed-spiraling, seed-blessing,
Seed sending, each with a message
That says:
Abudance is real
And available
in each and every beat of the heart.
God and Goddess are in the trees,
Intertwined and interwoven, like lyric and song,
And night and day, Lover, Beloved,
Mountain and sky.
God and Goddess are in the trees,
Blanket of leaves and branches of intricate wishes.
Stop a moment,
give yourself over to them,
kneel at their roots,
Sleep in their arms,
Pray to their slow, patient consciousness
Pervading the ground of being with filigrees of earth-touching,
Water-drawing, heart-holding roots,
Pervading the sky with air-climbing tendrils of praise
And praise and praise,
And palms that open in gratitude sweet with tears,
Hear them as they sing:
You have been born
And you have been seen
And you have been carried here
Through our passageways
and intentions and through our conscious
Benevolence and kindly mischievousness,
Through each ring and root and leaf,
Through each swaying in summer storm,
through each autumn when we dress in our finest clothes,
through each standing still in winter, arms outstretched, gathering snow,
and through each spring when we surprise you again and again
with green, sweet green, and blossoms that rain delicate
and heavenly, and fruit, more fruit than you can ever imagine,
it is all for you, breathe it in—breathe it in.
This sky is for you, breathe it in-
We are for you,
Breathe us in—
This earth is for you—
Breathe it in—
This moment in time and space–
Is for you—
Breathe it in—
This song, this fragrance of unity and restfulness—
They are for you—
Breathe them in,
And pray to one another
Compassionate prayers
Let your love spiral through us like
ribboning wind, and know that we hear you
and know that we are you
and know that you’re never alone.
Let every tree, every branch, every root, every leaf, every seed,
And every least bit of kindling and firewood,
Every table and chair, pencil and bookcase,
Let them all be reminders
Of our presence and what we allow
And ache for you to make with us, create with us—
Breathe it all in.
And know that we,
God and Goddess,
Are here
In love
With you.


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You and Our and the Magical Arithmetic of Hope

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You and Our
And the Magical Arithmetic
Of Hope
By
Joseph Anthony

You and Our

And the Magical Arithmetic

of Hope

 

In the shared space pain takes up,
Camaraderie prevails.
And it isn’t so much
That the pain doesn’t matter,
Those partaking of this bitter bread
Give thanks for the nourishment it brings.
And even as they accept me
Into this holy fraternity,
This circle of understanding,
This affiliation of grace,
I stand myself apart and say: Your
Rooms, your fellowship,
My pain, your pain.
One of them brought this
To my attention and I am grateful.
So much depends upon unity,
Upon the shared understanding
That weaves through and through
Each agent of mercy, each emissary that carries
The gifts of sadness and transcendence.
And so I stand and take fledging steps
To the edge and then into
The Community of Our:
Our pain. Our rooms. Our healing.
And as I take my place amidst and among,
I sit neither below nor above,
I am simply one of the many,
One of a band that grows, like
Ripples in a pond,
Like the fragrance of honeysuckle in spring,
Like the good thoughts of forgiveness
And humility, like a song sung by the One
Who is the Ultimate Our and You and I
And We and Every Living Thing,
And on we go,
One tapestry of hope,
One table of plenty shared,
One perpetual thanksgiving
Of you becoming our
And our becoming more
Than the sum of its parts,
And the sum of its parts
Becoming the magical arithmetic
Of hope: things subtracted
Become the variables that give way
To the addition of constants
Like love, understanding, acceptance, humor,
And miracles, yes, miracles
Are a constant,
That when combined
Multiply a thousand fold, pressed down, shaken together,
And running over into a joy that equals
The priceless gift
Of serenity.


 


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12 / 13 / 14

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12 / 13 / 14
by
Joseph Anthony

12 / 13 / 14

The tissue paper wing of the dead cicada,
The dry, decomposing leaf that reveals the hair-thin frame,
The tailspinning snowflake landing on my coat,
The seedling finally threading through the ruckusy goings on of the thick forest floor,
The hatchling robins shaking, blind, void of feathers, hungry,
The surface of the pond as I just lay my hand, like so, upon its face,
My hand as the cool water enfolds it with the darkness of sensation,
The small Christmas present, all crinkles and tape, loosely and lovingly wrapped by a child,
The quavering moon held in the fingertips of the winter branches,
The trembling hand adding the last, tiniest detail to the drawing,
The onion skin paper between the pages of the prayer book from the 1800’s,
This heart, this mind, this fluttering soul,
How does one allow for such vulnerable tenderness?
How does one be in the presence of such beautiful, holy fragility
Without feeling the impulse to crush?
How, dear Lord of sparrows and lilies,
Does one protect such delicate things?





 

Truer Than True, A Poem For the Earth

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Truer Than True
A Poem for the Earth
By
Joseph Anthony

Truer Than True

Roots are upside down trees
Spreading into vast, dark sky.
A sky thick with loam
That loves to give way to shovels and tillers,
A sky packed with clumps
Of cumulous clay,
A sky studded with the constellations
Of rocks and bone,
A sky woven with hidden rivers
And jubilant, Gordian worms,
A sky populated by sleeping cicada nymphs,
Burrowing rabbits, and moles
That tunnel blindly with dirt in their whiskers,
A sky punctuated with light-hearted seeds
And heavy, densely packed bulbs and tubers.
Yet, in the end, what is
This terra firma sky?
What is this rich, moist soil
That smells so heavenly?
What is it the roots grasp and let go of
Simultaneously?
Stories.
The earth, the soil, this stuff the rocks and bones,
Rivers and creatures all subsist in stories. It’s all stories
Building up over scrolls of millennia,
Libraries of centuries, composing,
Revisioning, edited by graves
And buried treasures, frackers,
And coal mines, wells and chasms
Of underground mountains yet to be born,
Only to dissolve again into
Infinitesimal grains, like
So many syllables dropped
From the whispered lips
Of bards, minstrels, and children,
And those who die face down
In the mud. Stories.
That’s what roots are surrounded by
And nibble on and assimilate.
And all of them truer than true.
Like flakes of mica, snowflake obsidian,
Fossils and caskets, tears and keys, arrowheads
And shards of pottery. True like rivers
That astonish us for finding ways
To flow underground and soak roots
With slathering kisses. True, like
Underground lakes surrounded
By rainbow-tinted cathedrals.
True like blood slowly seeping
Into cool, autumn leaves.
Stories are the soul of the earth,
The soul of sod and the ground of being,
Stories are the stuff of earth,
The very ground that lifts us through
Our every step and sorrow, our every
Joy and blunder, our every wandering
And seeking, our every discovery
And revelation. And they nourish
And compose us, form and speak us,
Sing and cry us, lament and celebrate us.
And each one of us, each and every
One of us, born from the soil,
Born from the ground,
This endlessly mothering earth,
Is a walking story, a living, breathing,
Story, stumbling, dancing, rising
And falling, and each one of us,
Each and every one,
Is truer than true.


 

It All Started With a Box of Darkness

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It All Started With a Box of Darkness

by

Joseph Anthony

Last night my dear friend Mindy sent me a quote by Mary Oliver (the best poet in America of the last 100 years, maybe even ever):

 

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”

 

I read that and as so often happens, words and images started flowing. Sometimes they come like a flood, right away, rushing and gushing–exploding all over the page; other times it’s a more gradual build, images and words finding their way into me slowly, like the dawn. Last night it was the former. It all came out in one brief, satisfying, healing torrent of images, words, and insights.

 
I went with the current on Twitter. Sometimes the constraints of the 140 spaces is a perfect discipline to channel the flow. Other times it’s silly to even try. Last night, the Twitter format worked fine.

 
So thank you Mindy for the initial share; thank you Mary Oliver for writing your wildly luminous poetry; thank you Muse for coming to me in the form of Mindy and Mary; and thank you also, Dear Darkness, of whom I am learning so much from, thank you for being full of light. So many times the depression feels only like utter and complete blackness. I am learning, little by little, the more I simply keep walking, that as soon as the darkness begins to feel overwhelmingly isolative (isolate=from the Latin: to become an island), that exact moment—if I tell someone, find a way to share the hidden pain, the secret suffering, then the darkness blooms into light, into lessons, into invaluable help for myself and others, and I can breathe again. For deep depression is nothing more than the suffocation of the soul.

 
Last night, I didn’t drown in the darkness. I was able to swim. Thank you everyone who helps me to do this. The trinity of diseases: addiction, depression, and isolation, often go hand in hand and can lead to the final darkness. I needn’t go through anything alone again, ever. You don’t either. May my journey through the heart of darkness bear witness to this truth: bring others with you—not dragging them into the chaos, no, bring them with you into your heart, invite them—the safe ones into where the secret hurts live, and the burdens, whatever they are, will become light, the yoke becomes easy (easier). For wherever two or more are gathered–there, in the midst of them, is salvation from the fears of being vulnerable, of showing one’s weaknesses, of being so-called-perfect. There, in this place, this holy space of breath and of embracing–the common experiences, the threads of compassion, identification, love, and eventually ultimately wonder, creativity, and dancing, weave us together into the shared fabric of humanity.

 
Thank you all.

 
The Poems in order of their appearance:

 
Wherever I go, I carry a box of darkness handed down by generations. Inside are echoes of sorrows; and light, beautiful, hidden light.

 
***

 
I speak, the box of darkness closes; I am silent, the box opens. I weep, the box closes, I sleep, the box opens; I sing the box disappears.

 
***

 
I reach inside the box of darkness and find a key. A door appears. I stand, set the box down, and go, go to fall into the shimmering light.

 
***

 
Three words: “Box of darkness,” open secret passageways to the soul. I’m going, take my hand, let’s go find the way back to now.

 
***

 
Where are you? I cry. Here, says the Beloved. Where? I demand. Here, says the Beloved, Where you left me, inside this box of darkness.

 
***

 
One day, I slipped the box of darkness under my bed, not wanting to see it again. When I got home that night, my room had become the box.

 
***

 
I never know when it’s going to come, this rush of images. I only know to slip into it and allow it to river through me to wherever it goes.

 
***

 
Goodnight. I open the box of darkness, slip inside with a blanket. I close the lid. And when I open my eyes to the darkness, I see light.

 

 


 

 


The Journey

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The Journey
By
Joseph Anthony

A cool, spring breeze draped the dew-dappled dawn. The little girl and the Angel sat in a meadow on a blanket talking and weaving garlands of flowers in each other’s hair. A deep sense of rebirth and drowsy awakenings filled the bright blue sky. The Sun spread beams of light carrying fairies and sprites up and down their radiant columns. The Moon listened distantly to the conversation of the little girl and the Angel. Along with the bees and newly hatched butterflies, flowers unfurled their curtains and called out with their sweet fragrances for all to come and partake of their honeyed nectar. The song the Singer sang that morning thrummed through all things leaving everything polished and luminous. The song was particularly alive in the little girl. It swirled around her like daytime fireflies. It roused a desire she had been holding within her and lifted it to the surface. The Moon leaned in closer. The Sun took notice and turned his face upon them.
“I think I’m ready,” said the little girl.

“Come,” said the Moon to the little girl.

The little girl left the Angel (yet the Angel, magically did not leave the little girl) and scrambled up into the lap of the Moon. The Angel stood in their midst, eyes slightly closed, yet keenly interested in what they were saying.

“You want to go learn from there?” asked the Moon, pointing to the earth.

“Yes,” said the little girl.

“And what do you want to learn?”

“Everything.”

“I see,” said the Moon, “and you also want to grow?”

“Yes.”

“How tall?”

“Tall enough to be a grown up.”

The Moon laughed a little, as did the Angel, and then all three were silent for a long, deep moment.

“You know,” began the Moon, “You will suffer.”

“I know,” said the little girl bowing her head.

“Do you?” asked the Moon.

“I, I think so.”

“You will know pain,” continued the Moon, “and longing, hunger, thirst, loneliness, boredom, fear, and shame. Youwill taste death and decay. You will also, of course, know exquisite pleasure, sheer delight, wonder, union, bliss, creativity, and vast amounts of fun. You will also lose your way (and as the Moon spoke tears formed in the Angel’s eyes. She looked away). You will also do things unimaginable to you now which you will regret and not be able to reconcile for a very long time. You will also do things of remarkable grace. Are you sure you’re ready for all of that?”

The little girl kept her head low, but she mumbled just loud enough for all of them to hear: “Yes, I am.”

“You will forget me,” said the Moon looking up into the sky.

“Never!” cried the little girl.

“You will,” said the Moon, “but not completely. I will always be with you in your dreams and creativities. Once you go however, you will turn your attention to the Sun, for I will take you as far as the gates of birth and leave you with Angel at the shore. Angel will go with you across the ocean to an even further shore where you will live out your time there; then, when the time is right, the Sun will take you to the gates of death and from there Angel will carry you home, and we will all be waiting for you once you return.”
The truths of the Moons words stung the little girl’s heart, yet, at the same time, the pain was somehow full of light and a strange, dizzying expectancy.

“Will you stay with me while I’m in the other world?” she asked the Angel.

“Of course,” replied the Angel. “I have been with you since before the beginning and I will be with you beyond the end.”

“Thank you!” said the little girl leaping into the Angel’s arms.

“You’re welcome,” said the Angel, “but you will forget me too.”

“And me,” interjected the Sun.

The little girl stepped back from the three gathered there and stared at them. “Why will I forget you?” she said, unable to hold back her tears. “You are my Mother, Father, and closest friend. Why must I forget you?”

“If you truly want to grow,” said the Moon, “and learn to be free, you will need to cultivate your own remembrances. You will need to awaken us within yourself, and once you do, we will be closer to you then than we are right now. Angel will help you through all of this. She will be your constant companion. She will do her very best to keep you on a good road and inspire thoughts and feelings within you to help you remember us and where you have come from. But it will not only be your angel that will help you remember. There is another teacher as well.”

“Who is that?” asked the little girl.

“It’s not a ‘who’,” said the Moon, “It is a what—pain. Pain will help guide you to us, so will your dream and desires, teachers and so too, will nature and the holy books written by inspired people. And of course, the song from the Singer Who Loves Us will guide you too. It’s just that sometimes we cover our ears to is music.”

“I’m afraid,” said the little girl.

“This is only the beginning of fear,” said the Moon, “the fear you will come to know will be great, right from the very beginning. Fear will fill your first gasping breaths. Angel will be with you though, guiding, supporting, and giving you just enough courage to make it through. You needn’t fear your fear or let it stop you from doing what you truly want or need to do. But be aware, many people there worship feelings like gods, yet they fail to realize that feelings are as transient as the wind. The fear you will feel will leave and return throughout your time there, just like happiness and joy. All of the feelings come and go. Angel will help you know what to do with your feelings.Angel will be teaching you the entire journey.”

“You’ll do that for me?” the little girl asked the Angel.

“I will do that with you,” corrected the Angel, “we go together. I am not your lord, I am your companion, and I will be with you always.”

The little girl took a deep breath.

“Keep doing that,” said the Moon, “You will need to learn how to breathe a whole new way. The more you practice and the more you learn to remember to breathe with your whole body the easier the journey will be, and the more you will be able to remember us.”

“When can we go?” asked the little girl, practicing taking another deep breath.

“As soon as we’ve gathered the provisions for your journey,” said the Moon.

“Here,” said the Sun, “You’ll need this.” And he took a piece of light from a little box that appeared in his hands.

“Open wide,” he said, and placed the piece of light onto her tongue. She beamed, relishing the sweetness spreading through her, sharp, alive, quick. She held it in her mouth like candy, allowing it to slowly dissolve.

“That will live in you,” said the Sun, “and serve as a homing beacon when you begin your search for me.”

“Thank you,” said the little girl, “it tastes like honey.”

“Good,” said the Sun, “remember that sweetness.”

“May I have another piece?”

“Yes,” the Sun smiled and dropped another piece into her waiting mouth, like a mother bird feeding her young.

“Each piece makes me want more,” she said.

“When you feast on my light, it will always leave you wanting more. And the more light you share with others, the more you will have, and the more you will want. So use it, cherish it, eat–the supply is endless.”

“And you’ll need this,” said the Moon, draping a garland of fragrant, delicate white flowers around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” said the little girl, carefully touching the blossoms.

“When you cross over it will merge into you,” said the Moon, “it will become you. Then you will have the Sun’s light and mine living within you. My flowers will be your connection with me. They will grow into my servant, the Muse, who will help you author your life.”

“It’s beautiful,” said the little girl.

“And so will be the story of your life,” smiled the Moon with a tear in her eye.

“Don’t cry,” said the little girl, reaching up and touching the Moon’s face.

“Why not?” asked the Moon, “tears are another gift each one of us gives to you, they will help water the garden that the Singer has planted in you. The garden Angel will help you tend.”

“Garden?” asked the little girl.

“Yes,” said the Moon, “The Singer Who Loves Us plants a garden in every living thing. “

“Even you?”

“Even me,” laughed the Moon.

“We all have gardens,” said the Sun and the Angel.

“My garden looks like a field of lilies,” said the Moon.

“My garden looks well, like a field of sunflowers,” laughed the Sun.

“And yours?” the little girl asked the Angel.

“Mine is still growing, but I suspect it will look a lot like yours.”

“What does mine look like?” asked the little girl.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” said the Angel, “here, take these.” The Angel handed the little girl a pouch of seeds.

“These are your destiny,” said the Angel. “You get to plant them whenever, however, and wherever you please in your garden.”

The little girl slowly took the pouch into her hands, felt its gentle, unassuming weight, and felt suddenly worried.

“What if I plant them wrong?” she asked, “What if I lose them, or plant them and forget about them?”

“That’s why I go with you,” said the Angel placing her hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “I will guide you and be with you, I will protect, inspire, and enliven you. However, you will be in complete freedom when it comes to how, when, and where you sow your seeds.”

“But what if I waste them? What if I do it all wrong?” The little girl was crying, and for the first time since this moment began, she felt unsure of wanting to take this journey.

“It is not a question of wrong, or of wasting,” said the Angel, “These seeds are eternal, gifts from the Singer Who Loves Us. So they are always right. It is only a matter of time as to whether they bear fruit or not. They all bear fruit, dear one. You may make mistakes here and there and need to rearrange the garden, pull a few weeds; but do it without shame, for we have all done so, every one of us. In fact, tending the garden of your heart, learning how and when and what to plant, is all part of the adventure and the fun.”

“The light I gave will help you,” said the Sun.

“Mine too,” said the Moon, “In fact, with the power of the Muse you will even be able to garden at night.”

The little girl smiled, comforted.

“There’s one more thing,” said the Moon, and she opened her arms, gathering Sun, the Angel, and the little girl into the silvery drapery of her embrace. They held one another, and each one in turn, the Sun, the Moon, and the Angel, showered the little girl with kisses, tears, blessings, and prayers. And as they did they heard a song rise from the horizon. It rolled towards them, unfolding its wings, and it flooded them, came upon them with the force of a river, and filled them with hope and joy; and within its music, the most tender, yet fiercest love wove through their embrace. It spiraled around and through them, above and below them.

And when they finally let go, the Moon gathered the little girl into her arms. The song unfurled into a rainbow-dappled road, and the Moon began walking slowly upon it. The Angel followed close behind, and the Sun ran ahead deep into the distance, until he was no longer visible. The Moon carried the little girl to the gates of birth which opened into an ocean lit with a million lanterns and lotus flowers. A basket made of flowers waited at the shore, and with one last kiss, the Moon placed the little girl into the basket and nudged it gently away, tears streaming down her face. The Angel slipped into the water like a ribbon of gold and took the basket in her arms and carried it through the water. They traveled across the ocean to another shore that opened surrounded by hills and mountains, and pulsed with wild, quickening drumbeats unlike anything the little girl had ever heard. They were hypnotic, mesmerizing, and yet soothing, like a gentle storm. They were strangely familiar and seemed as close to her as her own breath.

“Here,” said the little girl, “this is good.”

And with these words, the basket touched the shore and as it did, the gates of the other world parted. For a split second she thought she saw the Sun racing ahead. She thought she saw the Moon leaning in from the sky. She turned and realized the Angel had disappeared and moved to the other side of the gates. She heard moans of ecstasy and pleasure. She felt something shimmer through her, thrilling her with something like sparks and a slow, gradual explosion of wonder and of unfolding into time and space. And the song–the song the Singer Who Loves Us sang, threaded through the drumbeats of this new world with the drumbeat of the little girl’s. Little by little the drumbeats slowed and separated, and she suddenly found herself lulled to sleep. She slept for what seemed like forever. Somehow she sensed the Angel rocking her. Somehow she felt connected and protected by the one drumbeat that now enveloped her with its steady, caressing light. Somehow she knew other drumbeats were near and ready to meet her. Somehow the song of the Singer Who Loves Us thrummed through her newly forming fingers and toes, making her do little, fluttering dances.

And then one morning, she found herself being pushed, lifted, and born into the waiting, tender arms of the world.


 

 

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Rituals Shared, a New Poem by Joseph Anthony

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Rituals Shared

By

Joseph Anthony

 

Sweeping the stoop of the shop with quick,
brisk motions,

Scattering maple tree seeds into helicoptering
swirls,

Pausing to look at the rising spring sun, he
removes his hat,

Wipes his brow, squints at the sky, hears the
distant,

Early morning train, then thanks God for
another day

Of doing what he loves. 

 

Slowly he resumes his dance with the broom,
breathing in

Images of his children and grandchildren,
breathing out

Whispered apologies for losing his patience
the day before,

Resolving to remember he was young once too.

 

He turns, pushes open the screen door that
rings the little 

Bells at the top of the frame, enters the shop,
turns the 

“Come in We’re Open/Sorry We’re Closed” sign to 

“Come
in We’re Open.” 

 

Brewing coffee aroma winds its way into his
widening 

Nostrils as he breathes deeply possibilities and 

Remembrances, he ties the white apron around his waist, 

Thanks God for another day of doing
what he loves, 

And then begins,

First pausing to look down at the
bread board,

He then sweeps his hand across the cool
surface

With the same tenderness he has used for half
a century.

 

He takes out the silver bowl of dough from the
gleaming, 

Silver refrigerator, lifts the white cloth that
covers the bowl,

Folds it neatly into a square and places it
nearby. 

 

He then tosses three handfuls of flour across 

The bread board, lifts the dough allowing it to exhale 

And
spread, and as he begins kneading he sings, 

Sings morning prayers, filling his lungs with the fragrance 

Of baking bread, 

And his
heart with devotion to Saint Elizabeth, 

And for a moment he is
transported to the Basilica 

Of Santa Maria in ancient Rome; 

He kneels before the infant, folds his hands
to pray,

And as he does loaves of bread spill from his
arms,

Turning into heaps of roses, and he weeps,

Weeps knowing he saw the infant nod,

And then he rises, rises and smiles, thanking
God 

For another day of doing what he loves, 

And as he rises the
little bells ring,

Ring at the opening of the door to the shop,
bringing him 

Back to the kneading, back to his hands, and he
beams,

Beams a greeting to the customer who has come
as he does

Every morning for coffee, for bread, and for
the humanity

Of rituals shared.

 

 


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Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Be Amazed, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

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Be Amazed

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

I am.

I woke this morning

To riotous birdsong.

As I listened, letting the staccato melodies

Sink in, I became increasingly amazed.

 

Think about it:

We are awakened

By singing.

 

Now, before you think about it too hard,

Let the truth of that statement be.

Hold it there for a few seconds,

And then go ahead and travel the winding road

Of questions and temporary answers

As to why birds sing—if you need to.

You can do that and have fun doing that.

You could also simply relish the reality—

Whatever divine randomness is out there

And in here, it chose to wake us up by singing—

By birds singing.

 

It could have chosen to wake us up

 

With construction rigging every day.

It could have chosen to wake us up

To thunderous, monotonous silence.

It could have chosen not to wake us up at all.

But it didn’t.  The divine chose to wake us up

To singing.

 

Keep that in mind–uppermost in mind

When you begin to doubt hope, beauty,

And the purpose of things,

Remember this truth

And allow yourself to be amazed.

 

Once you are good and awake

Join the chorus–let your life sing,

Everywhere you rush and run, dart and soar,

Bank and circle, glide and flutter–

May your song awaken someone–anyone

Who simply hears the song of your life—

The overarching beauty and music of who you are

And how you choose to live.

 

 


 

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Copyright Jennifer Angelina Petro of the Wonder Child Blog

Playing With Words: Curiosity, by Joseph Anthony, EFT Practitioner

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Playing With Words

Curiosity

By

Joseph Anthony, EFT Practitioner

 

Curiosity
killed the cat, so the saying goes.  It
also sparked every idea to improve something or to discover new ways to treat
illnesses or to make better mousetraps. In today’s world however, other than
cats feeling annoyed at fewer mice to eat, hardly anyone ever notices, or even
cares about curiosity.  Especially
teachers and corporate leaders.  They
need their students, employees, and consumers doing the same old-same old, day
in, day out.  The average Joe isn’t
supposed to be curious or to come up with new, innovative ideas.  That’s for the higher ups.  We’re not supposed to wonder about new foods
or brands.  Students aren’t meant to ask
any questions that don’t pertain to standardized tests.

Yet curiosity
is the very thing that will save the world. 
For this world to continue to grow, blossom, and evolve, more and more
people, especially children and their teachers and parents, need to become
increasingly curious.

Curious comes directly from the Latin and
means “careful, diligent, inquiring eagerly, and meddlesome (Online EtymologyDictionary).”  In mid-14th
century France the word took on negative shadings and began to mean “anxious,
odd, or strange (ibid).”  And, speaking
of odd, curious, when used in booksellers’
catalogs, means, “erotic and pornographic (ibid).”

Let’s hold
on to the original Latin for the sake of this post (it’s usually a good bet to
stick with the Latin): “careful, diligent, inquiring eagerly, and meddlesome.”  We can easily see the benefits of children being
careful and diligent, but once they start asking lots of questions we call
them, “Why Birds,” and get impatient: “Because that’s the way it is,” we say, or
worse: “Because I said so.”  We stifle
their questions with another DVD. We tell them to go play or take
them to another soccer practice—anything but sit and really answer their
questions or vulnerably admit we do not know the answers. 

Leonardo
DaVinci’s painting teacher quit when he realized young Leonardo was a better
painter than he was.  That man was a
coward.  Courageous and wise teachers
should welcome their students becoming smarter, more creative, more innovative,
and more enlightened in every way than they are.   They’ve done their job once their students
outshine them. 

The spirit
of asking questions eagerly should run like blood through the veins of our
minds and hearts.  It should travel our
very nervous systems and tickle our fancies. 
I am not suggesting questioning everything.  I am suggesting asking important, revelatory
questions that will change the way things are done—questions that will revolutionize
your life.  This is not knocking traditions
and well established practices in a wide variety of subjects.  It is to say however, if there are areas in
your life where you just go with the flow in the sense of living blindly (not
Taoistically), unconsciously, without care, apathetically, without any thought
of why you’re doing what you’re doing then you need a jolt of curiosity.  Ask questions that make you feel
uncomfortable, sweaty in your palms, nervous in your assumptions—thrilled with
wide-eyed wonder.  Ask the questions that
raise eyebrows, ruffle feathers, inspire sneers.  Don’t ask to offend.  Ask to know. Ask because you want a better
life, a more evolved, conscious life. Be meddlesome. Meddlesome into questions
of your faith and life-long held beliefs and prayers.  Are they working?  Are they bearing fruit in your life and in
the lives of those around you?  Your
everyday practices of thinking.  Are they
healthy, productive, fun, inspired, compassionate, open, creative? If not.  Change them. 
Ask for help if you need to. 
Revolutionize your life, one thing at a time.  Invigorate and innovate your spiritual and
emotional life with the light of curiosity.

And if you
make a change and “fail,” so what? Go back to the old way, or try another new
way.  The more we give ourselves the
freedom to fail and take healthy risks the better our world will become, the
more enlightened and plain old fun and amazing it will turn out to be.  Practice this discipline of curious
questioning, develop your sense of wonder, then pass that spirit to the
children of the world.

You might
think children have curiosity and wonder naturally, and they do to an extent,
but today’s children, raised on hand-held devices, computers, TV-nature shows,
have all the facts about everything at their fingertips.  There is no need to ask questions–real
questions.  Yet deep down, the children
of today are becoming increasingly restless (it shows up in teenagers who walk
around with their pants around their thighs and ear-buds in their ears).  Some attribute this restlessness to
diet.  I attribute it to a deadening
education system and to their own observations of the adults around them doing
the same tired things every day, watching the same old shows, going to jobs
they hate, watching the same old terrifying news sound-bites, and so on.  They are agitated, worried, concerned—they want
to know growing up is worth it.  And so
their insides stir with questions while their outsides play video games and
watch movies.

Curiosity is
the cure to the world’s restlessness.  In
fact, curious is related to the word,
cure (ibid).  If we would only ask questions—deep,
meaningful questions, inventory our lives (and ask trusted friends to help us
do this), cultivate our sense of wonder, then the gray layer of dust that
covers some aspects of our lives will clear. 
Even if we never find out the answers to our questions–the adventures of
searching and exploring, of rambling through the ancient forests of our souls,
traveling through the old towns of our unused talents with their wonderful old
diners serving up heaping plates of steaming wonder and joy, navigating through
the narrow straights of our limited beliefs towards the open, sun-dappled waters
of freedom, driving down the old back roads of our dreams—rediscovering the lost
tree house or the path leading to the creek where we used to sit for hours
writing poetry—these are the journeys into how we are meant to live.  Live the questions as Rilke would say.  And if the answers bloom before us or from
within us, then so be it.  And if they
don’t–enjoy the ride.  For through the
practice of curiosity you will be cured of complacency, the status quo, the
uninspired life.  You will become a
living lighthouse for the lost and the weary. 
You will, in effect, become truly alive.

 Thank you for you kind contributions to keeping the Wonder Child Blog going





 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog