I am not the only one who
THINKS
or most certainly
F          E          E          L          S
I    T.          .          .

But I keep looking for the rest of Summer
as soon as the last sparkler loses its sparkle
on the 4th of July
which got me to thinking about things
a little beyond Summer
and this one Summer of 2023
being the last one any of us will
ever live.        .       .
h      e      n      c      e:

100 Summers                                               

100 Summers from now
I’ll be gone
and so will everyone
I know and love
(and you too, dear reader)
My name won’t be
remembered or spoken
The Okay-ness
of this is that after
100 Summers gone
is there’ll be as many
Falls, Winters and Springs
taking their places as
100 Seasons before
without much explanation
(recently written for a 15 poems in 10 day challenge for local gems)

Uhhhhhhhhh
days gone by
are never really days
g  o  n  e.        .        .        .

]]> http://thecaringcatalyst.com/5984-2/feed/ 0 5984 http://thecaringcatalyst.com/protected-presence/ http://thecaringcatalyst.com/protected-presence/#respond Fri, 19 May 2023 11:00:39 +0000 http://thecaringcatalyst.com/?p=5899

It seems like it’s raining no where you happen to be in the World and even if the sun is shining, it’s a kind of rain that produces no rainbow, at least none with any ohhhh/ahhhhh breath-taking-stop-your-car-on-the-side-of-the-highway-take-a-bad-picture-kind-of-a-Rainbow; and at best if there’s anything good that can come from this kind of rain is someone willing to share their umbrella to hold space, to provide a protected presence that’s not so willingly given and even harder, at times, to accept.

Yeah, that kind of presence

For the past couple of years, one of the most requested presentations I do is called, HOLDING SPACE–WALKING EACH OTHER HOME, and like any of the presentations I’ve ever done, though done dozens of times, not one has ever been done the same way, twice.    .    .on purpose.  That’s why I never PowerPoint or do hand-outs because even in the middle of a presentation I might tell a story, share a poem, provide an intervention that I haven’t done in previous presentations or may be in any future one to come.

And that’s how it was last night for the HOLDING SPACE presentation where not only CEU’s were provided for nurses and social workers, but oh yes, dinner was served with unlimited amounts of wine.  I couldn’t resist encouraging the group that they more they drank, the better I would sound and then, the magic took place.  I talked, and they did more than simply listen; THEY HELD MY SPACE, which I highly complemented them because the greatest presentation, I’ve always believed and strived to achieve, is not the one that’s told or heard, but the one that’s experienced.
Out of the new differences I added to this presentation was the following poem by Ellen Bass

IF YOU KNEW
Ellen Bass

What if you knew you’d be the last
to touch someone?
If you were taking tickets, for example,
at the theater, tearing them,
giving back the ragged stubs,
you might take care to touch that palm,
brush your fingertips
along the life line’s crease.

When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase
too slowly through the airport, when
the car in front of me doesn’t signal,
when the clerk at the pharmacy
won’t say Thank you, I don’t remember
they’re going to die.

A friend told me she’d been with her aunt.
They’d just had lunch and the waiter,
a young gay man with plum black eyes,
joked as he served the coffee, kissed
her aunt’s powdered cheek when they left.
Then they walked half a block and her aunt
dropped dead on the sidewalk.

How close does the dragon’s spume
have to come? How wide does the crack
in heaven have to split?
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?

Just a few months ago when I was the last speaker at a workshop, I literally wrote the following poem, waiting for my turn to present the HOLDING SPACE talk.  .  .uh, yeah, I added it that talk and last night’s one as well:

PROTECTED PRESENCE

I’m Broken
and I’ve lost a lot of my pieces
I don’t exactly remember when I
Humpty-Dumptied if off the wall
No recollection of all the Kings men
and all of the horses they rode in on
But I know. . .ohhh how I know
How I’ve not been put back together again
and when you dare to
provide protective presence
and choose to hold me
It’s not so much of an Embrace
as a specific piece that never existed
You’ve brought to me
A wholeness I’ve not known
but now never want to forget
or ever want to be without

Jane’s poem and some commentary of it has found me twice in less than a week which shouts:
PAY ATTENTION
and 
S H A R E
Have you ever had some
OTHERWISE
moments.          .          .          ?

While in the recovery room from a colonoscopy a very kind and attentive nurse told me I should get a mole checked on my shoulder.  I did.  But the mole I got checked was fine but there were two others ones that were discovered because of that visit that were not; they were successfully removed after being discovered that were cancerous.        .        .but it could have been OTHERWISE

*                                                        *                                                    *

I suffered through a agonizing night of urinary retention which resulted in an early morning Emergency Room visit before a busy day of two funerals and a wedding; while the young nurse was catheterizing me, she asked me what I did for a living and when I told her among other things, I was a hospice chaplain, she asked me what hospice and when I told her Hospice of the Western Reserve, she stopped and looked down at me and told me that her daughter of 8 months had been on our services and had recently died from brain cancer.  It was her first day back after her daughter’s death and her taking off three months to grieve her.  As we were finishing up with paperwork she asked me, “How did you know that I needed you to come in today?  I told her at that moment being there for both of us was the only thing that made sense and that we helped each other.          .          .but it could have been OTHERWISE

*                                                             *                                                  *

I had a stye on my eyelid but in my mind it had to be cancerous that would cause a hideous deforming blindness and as luck would have it the eye doctor was open late on this Monday night and had an opening for me.  He confirmed that it was a simple stye and could be managed with some hot compresses.  I told him I hadn’t been to see him in the 20 years that I’ve had success lasik eye surgery but then thought but there’s other reasons to visit him just to make sure my eyes were in good shape.  Tests were run and it was determined I have a cataract in both eyes that will eventually need repairing and pressure in both eyes that indicate early detection of glaucoma.  It was a less than a routine visit for a stye that could have easily been taken care of by Dr Google and it could have been OTHERWISE

*                                                                  *                                               *

What’s been your OTHERWISE moment?  Like the poet, Jane Kenyon, to be sure we all have those OTHERWISE moments, most likely more than we pay much mind.  “ONE DAY” as Jane says at the end of her poem, “IT WILL BE OTHERWISE”

One day, for a sure certainty, there will be a visit that will leave me so very much different coming out than when going it, if I come out at all, and I will not so much fall as drift softly into the arms of whatever’s next–a world that can’t be glimpsed from here.          .          .
But until that Sunrise that’ll never set I hope that I, and sincerely hopefully, like you, we will truly rejoice in the happy OTHERWISE-NESS of being alive, of being here, NOW

Mary always, gives me, like so many others, the most essential of Moments:

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

~ Mary Oliver ~

So here’s the thing about
Moments
We wait for just the right ones
so we’ll never miss them
And in the waiting
We miss them the most

So make sure you look both ways
And especially straight ahead
before stepping out
in the multi-lane traffic
of your life
or you’ll have a moment
that won’t miss you
When it comes to 
M O M E N T S
.          .          .take one

The Seven of Pentacles–Marge Piercy

Under a sky the color of pea soup
she is looking at her work growing away there
actively, thickly like grapevines or pole beans
as things grow in the real world, slowly enough.
If you tend them properly, if you mulch, if you water,
if you provide birds that eat insects a home and winter food,
if the sun shines and you pick off caterpillars,
if the praying mantis comes and the lady bugs and the bees,
then the plants flourish, but at their own internal clock.
Connections are made slowly, sometimes they grow underground.
You cannot tell always by looking what is happening.
More than half a tree is spread out in the soil under your feet.
Penetrate quietly as the earthworm that blows no trumpet.
Fight persistently as the creeper that brings down the tree.
Spread like the squash plant that overruns the garden.
Gnaw in the dark and use the sun to make sugar.
Weave real connections, create real nodes, build real houses.
Live a life you can endure: make love that is loving.
Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in,
a thicket and bramble wilderness to the outside but to us
interconnected with rabbit runs and burrows and lairs.
Live as if you liked yourself, and it may happen:
reach out, keep reaching out, keep bringing in.
This is how we are going to live for a long time: not always,
for every gardener knows that after the digging, after
the planting,
after the long season of tending and growth, the harvest comes.

I came across this nice Spring Time poem as the weather forecaster is telling us that snow and wintry weather is about to descend down upon us
IN  MARCH
(uhhhhhhh just 10 days away from Spring)
which is enough to make any Thermometer
(AND US)
be a little more than confused

THE UN-CONFUSED THERMOMETER 

Sometimes a Place 
can have all four Seasons
in one day
that’ll schizophrenically 
have you guessing how to dress
so you’re not shivering or sweating
at any unknowingly moment
confusing the most sophisticated
of Thermometers  
And yet you meet 
THAT Heart
that’ll have you begging
for the harshest of Winter’s Terriblesnesses
so IT could forever be Warmed
Now any Caring Catalyst
S            H            O            W            S 
that it’s not the Season we’re in
we dress for
but the Season we bring
to the worst
t e m p e r a t u r e s
a confused Thermometer
can ever read.    .    .

Ok, full discloser, I LOVE WRITING.  I always have.  Perfect gifts for me have always been books, notebooks, pens, pencils, paper.    .    .lots of blank paper.
And with this I always believed that I would be a raw child phenom writer; published way before my time (and everyone else’s) to the chagrin of many who tried but could just never succeed or even be recognized and affirmed.  THIS is why, with the help of my school secretary mom, who had access to the office ditto machine, I put together a poetry book and handed out to friends and family when I graduated from high school.  College brought on a whole new challenge as I actually majored in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing.  HEAVEN but, but still no official publication except from some college newspaper and literary magazine we put out quarterly, but I had a big drawer with rejection slips politely telling me, “We thank you for your submission, but it doesn’t fit our standards. . . .”
Pages and pages were written and as I moved to and through Seminary with an emphasis on Social Ethics/Pastoral Care, I was able to convince my Advisor to write five short stories for my Thesis based on some theories of Peter Berger.  It got me my Master of Divinity Degree and with graduation and full time parish ministry came lots of speaking, sermons, teaching, youth grouping and continued rejection slips.
But the writing never stopped.  Writing classes.  Two unpublished novels.  Lots of poems.  Many speaking engagements and an idea.  Brilliant actually, especially for the acting President of the IMPOSTER SYNDROME CLUB.  I write, because I can’t help it. Which is probably why I have close to 2000 blog posts, many of them featuring some of my poetic expressions.   I no longer write for traditional publication.  I write now for all things to Self-Publish (because I can totally control all aspects of the writing/publication and distribution) and, wait for it.          .          .
TO LITERALLY GIVE IT ALL AWAY.          .           .in fact, one of my goals for 2023 is to give away up to 1000 books hand in hand with my presentations.
(WHICH BRINGS US TO THE REASON FOR THIS PARTICULAR BLOG POST

A GIVE-AWAY of sorts.          .        .

I accepted a poetry challenge this past year, actually three of them which resulted in over 60 poems.  The first Challenge was in February where I had to write 15 poems in 15 days of just 15 lines on several prompts that were provided.  I think in one-liners or poetic lines.  (I DARE YOU TO LOOK AT MY FACEBOOK/TWITTER/INSTAGRAM feeds).  The second Challenge happened in April: NATIONAL POETRY MONTH where I was allowed to write 30 poems in 30 days up to 30 lines or less a piece.  The third Challenge was this Fall where it followed the first challenge of 15 poems, in 15 days of just 15 lines on the prompts they suggested.  I was a little surprised that they were published and both appeared in Amazon Prime as separate Chapbooks for $10.00 a piece.  I was able to purchase them at half that price and have given about 50 a piece away and now for a brief period of time, will use as a fundraiser for the small church I have served at North Royalton Christian Church since 1995.  No price tag attached, not even a suggestion–purely whatever you’d like to donate

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
I did mention that I am the acting President of the IMPOSTER SYNDROME CLUB, didn’t I?
As another safety net
(p a d d i n g)
or layer
I found this perfect quote
almost as a disclaimer:
So as I have accepted a few Challenges this year
Let me know if you’d like to accept mine
and donate accordingly.          .          .
and I’ll leave you with one more meager poem
(not yet submitted or self-published:

 

James Crews is a poet who teaches Poetry at the University at Albany and lives on a organic farm with his husband in Shaftsbury, Vermont.  Each Friday he posts a poem, sometimes one of his own that serves as more than just some mere Poetry Prompt.  He recently posted this: I’ve been sitting with this very short but very powerful poem by Jane Hirshfield ever since a dear friend passed it along to me earlier in the week. It speaks to the season so many of us might find ourselves inhabiting, not only that of autumn, but a moment of loss and transition during which we’re asked to accept such changes as necessary, and perhaps even sacred. In this poem, she invites us to see each shedding tree as an icon, “thinned/back to bare wood,/without diminishment.” And there is almost a haiku-like quality to those final three lines that urges us toward deeper contemplation of the richness inherent in these wooden beings. Perhaps what we see as loss and a kind of death each year as fall comes is really just wind and weather having worshipped the trees so much they are returned to their basic essence. In this way, we might reframe any difficult season when we are worn back to our essential selves as holy, worthy of worship for the way such trying times allow us to become something new. Autumn by Jane Hirshfield Again the wind flakes gold-leaf from the trees and the painting darkens— as if a thousand penitents kissed an icon till it thinned back to bare wood, without diminishment. Invitation for Writing & Reflection: How might you reframe a difficult season in your own life as sacred or holy, seeing how you were worn back to the truest version of yourself even while in pain?  It prompted me to write in kind: FALLING And just like that Summer fell into a colorfully crisp confetti of blazenous colors that never reached the ground Flutterings into what can’t always be planted but never fails to be garnered in whatsoevers that find us all softly soaringly sheltered in a cooling uplifting Breath A heavenly satisfied Sigh May this Fall Season bring you lots of Oooooh and A W E

 

In April, National Poetry Month, there was another Challenge to write 30 poems in 30 days with the top three winners getting a publishing contract with Local Gems Press; uhhhhhhhhh, I didn’t finish among the top three but the there’s more to FINISHING than completing a project or subjectively placing into a top three tier that has a poetic justice of itself.          .          .
I have piles of legal pads with poems or bits pieces of them all over the place, often spilling out of folders and books that surprise me with the horror/delight of:
“I WROTE THAT?”
I’ve known for a long time that I think in poetry, mostly one-liners that pop up in the middle of the night, or during a conversation or while I’m reading, walking, meditating, listening to music or hearing the story someone whotrusts me with as I sit at their bedside or hospital room or coffee shop as I listen to their lives spilling out.      .     .
These little pop up bubbles are blank but for brief moments as they hover above my head but they are more heart-thoughts than head-scratchers or mind-blowers and they are unstoppable.          .          .
They are a Blood Letting that literally allows my heart to beat better; please know, it’s NOT FOR PUBLICATION.  .  .that’s a poor excuse, I’ve found for writing.  WRITING for WRITING, because it can’t be helped; can’t be stopped; won’t be dammed up; is a form of happiness I’ve yet to find in other ways that have uncovered this truth:

I WILL DIE WITH WORDS LEFT IN ME, NO MATTER HOW MUCH
I WRITE/SELF-PUBLISH/SHARE

Do you feel that?  Know of it?  Feel like joining me?
Well, here’s the Challenge.          .          .

Autumn Poetry Chapbook Challenge – Local Gems Press (localgemspoetrypress.com)
Who knows.               .            .
Maybe that Blank page which calls for you
is exactly what
Someone
needs to read.            .
FIND OUT

C O I N E D                                            .

  Sometimes I feel like an old discarded
C O I N                                                     
Worn                                                          
Weathered                                              
 Unnoticed                                                  
In open air                                                
 Sunning                                                    
 With the Shine long rubbed away           
To no longer reflect                     
  Sun                                                           
  Moon                                                          
Or Star                                                        
 Just Because                                             
  I’m not in a gutter                                    
  Doesn’t mean I haven’t been Displaced                                                 
  Laying there                                              
I scream out dully                                    
  I’M NOT  S P E N T                                    
 PICK ME UP
USE ME                                                     
  KEEP ME                             
  SAVE ME                                                  
 COLLECT ME                                             
 BUT DON’T WALK BY ME                      
   like all the Others   

So remember.            .            .
The next time you feel like something that doesn’t spend
not worth being picked up
Un-used
Thrown away
Not sought
Walked past
Shunned

YOU ARE THE CHANGE
THAT DOESN’T JINGLE
(only  c o u n t s)

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
— Mary Oliver

They are no longer clouds
but brightly striped ribbons

blown free from packages
never quite opened
or worse
opened and neatly tucked away
in drawers that don’t easily open
seemingly safe
from  any robber
       any loss
                          any misplacement
and sadly
   any use
These ribbons don’t know of a wind
that’ll wave back
in the harshest or gentlest of breezes
no matter how much
mind
you pay them
They dwell in sunlight
and more of an ahhhhhhhh
to any sunset
if but noticed
But for a Now
This Moment
recognized
so briefly
like confetti

gone in a sudden burp of air
They are seen
as a Comma
in a Pause
that refuses to be left behind
before a never ending sentence
ahead