I contemplate the year to come
It is always hard to cut away what must go.
Yards of sturdy grapevine, nurtured through the summer, a wall of green;
We celebrated the harvest, and I savored your sweet fruit.
Then your colorful cloak was stripped away,
The ground froze hard, and you were left a skeleton.
Some canes will be more fruitful than others.
The biggest canes are not the best. These must be cut back to spurs.
Their vigor may yield future canes, but they will not bear well this year.
The canes that grew pale, or narrow to a sickly end—these all must go.
Medium-sized canes, blushed rosey purple by the sun.
Strong, yet supple to bend to my will without cracking.
These canes, cut just right, will bear the sweetest fruit.
The best buds must be carried forward.
My reluctance to cut away what does not serve,
Will only overburden the vine.
Five pounds of pruned vines and seventy buds
Hold my hopes for the new year.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Genealogy
I look at the Black man in the southeast and I know that my ancestors were farm owners who brought his ancestors here, enslaved them for generations, and further mistreated them when they were freed.
I look at the Mexicans in California and I know that my ancestors came north just like they have, but in a time when the border had no particular distinction among the Spanish land grants; it is the border which has crossed them.
I look at the Native Americans in southern states and I know my ancestors were Yaqui, Creek, Choctaw and Chicasaw; driven from their lands or left nowhere to migrate freely in an onslaught of Whitemen.
I look at the new immigrants from Europe and I know that my great grandfather came here from Greece to ply his sea-faring talents in the California Gold Rush; he had an Irish immigrant wife.
I look at the so-called White people, the descendants of the French, British, Irish, and Scottish who immigrated here as the first colonists and fought each other in a massive Civil War; I know they are all distant cousins many times over.
I look at myself and know that I am an American, perhaps more typical of the southwest; similarly unique and bold, with a rugged sense of survival honed over the generations.
I look at the Mexicans in California and I know that my ancestors came north just like they have, but in a time when the border had no particular distinction among the Spanish land grants; it is the border which has crossed them.
I look at the Native Americans in southern states and I know my ancestors were Yaqui, Creek, Choctaw and Chicasaw; driven from their lands or left nowhere to migrate freely in an onslaught of Whitemen.
I look at the new immigrants from Europe and I know that my great grandfather came here from Greece to ply his sea-faring talents in the California Gold Rush; he had an Irish immigrant wife.
I look at the so-called White people, the descendants of the French, British, Irish, and Scottish who immigrated here as the first colonists and fought each other in a massive Civil War; I know they are all distant cousins many times over.
I look at myself and know that I am an American, perhaps more typical of the southwest; similarly unique and bold, with a rugged sense of survival honed over the generations.
Monday, April 05, 2010
April
My route parallels the broad Sacramento River delta flowing out to the San Francisco Green grass grows high in the orchard rows and covers the hillsides all around, but the ground is still too muddy for mowers or cows in some areas. California
Thursday, March 11, 2010
three n one
What dare we allow to enter and pass through?
Life and Love—be either, or
Breath and Light.
Through the deepest of darkness, One reaches and peers
To distant starlight, numerous and luminous;
Alive and Clear.
Beside us, inside us, resides the strange and cosmic;
Equivalent depth extends within the individual
Being and Consciousness.
We enter through love or light.
Deepest One peers starlight—luminous clear.
Inside, the cosmic extends individual consciousness.
Through light, peers clear cosmic consciousness.
Life and Love—be either, or
Breath and Light.
Through the deepest of darkness, One reaches and peers
To distant starlight, numerous and luminous;
Alive and Clear.
Beside us, inside us, resides the strange and cosmic;
Equivalent depth extends within the individual
Being and Consciousness.
We enter through love or light.
Deepest One peers starlight—luminous clear.
Inside, the cosmic extends individual consciousness.
Through light, peers clear cosmic consciousness.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Water Lilies
I couldn’t help myself today as tears came to my eyes in a Chicago art museum. I was captivated by the lilies and flowers floating in the light and water of Monet’s mind. I sat on the bench across the room to regain my composure, but wished I had the courage or craziness to just let it all break loose and flood my eyes blind and blurry. I reapproached the painting and read the information posted on the wall beside it. This painting was one of a series of more than eighty. The commentary goes on to explain that at this point in his work, paintings constructed from remembrances were indistinguishable from those painted outdoors in the garden. In capturing the light and color of a lily pond, everything becomes a remembrance in a very short time. I wondered to myself about the importance of such a distinction and what it was I saw in that pond. I sat back down on the bench to lull in the sweet reverie of a painter, a pond of lilies and his imaginings of the garden on that day. My heart softened and opened; the tears came again. I choked them a bit in my throat and searched my heart for the what and why of life that had led me here—a weepy middle-aged lady in a city of strangers surrounded by the visions and creations of Rodin, Degas and Monet. When we let the present moments pass unnoticed, there is nothing to life but remembrance. When we exist in the present, we are offered a chance to live and love deeply. The world is revealed to us as never before, changing and passing like swirling currents above deep water. Remembrance does not enter, but informs as it should from a distance.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
A Priestess of Hecate Passes--In Memory of Tara (Meg) Webster
“There are some who bring a light so great to the world that even after they have gone, the light remains.” A borrowed sentiment from a condolence card, but so fitting for this priestess of Hecate, the torch-bearer. Her light was so pure and great that I had been touched and changed in sharing parts of life in which we by chance had crossed paths and found ourselves working together. I was not sure if I should go to her memorial, for I was a mere acquaintance through mutual friends and I had felt so remiss and pathetic in my failure to somehow form a deeper bond with her. I had always hoped that I could someday tell her how she had unknowingly touched my life… in all those little moments in waiting for dance instructions or for rituals to start… or smiles across a line of dancers encouraging me on… or a knowing look in context of a ritual… a way she had of being present and so genuine that one felt recognized for themselves—all parts inclusive and accepted. Over and over our lives crossed and re-crossed. I knew just a facet of a complex woman. I knew from covenmates and friends, and friends of friends, so many more facets of her. In retrospect I realize that I needed to know who she was and that I was not alone in my sadness and loss. She was no more and I didn’t know what to do with that information which I had set aside since the recent news of her passing.
I was a half-hour late for a four and a half hour memorial. I followed familiar smells of incense up to the third floor library of an Oakland Masonic hall. I had changed my clothes a few times and laid out a few more sets of clothes before I settled on my outfit that day. I was caught in a frustrated Barbie loop for some time, it seemed. It was so uncharacteristic of me to fuss or dress as I had chosen to that day. I wore a very stylish designer black pantsuit usually reserved for academic conferences and formal graduations. I knew more than half of the crowd would be Pagans. I feared I would look like a weirdo relative, a minister, a realtor or facility staff. Still, it seemed imperative to dress according to certain standards of presentation regardless of the distinctly foreign feel and motivation of such an act. When I arrived, I was relieved to see quite a few others in the room dressed in suits and ties or quite elegantly… others who don’t normally dress like that. Then there were bikers in leathers, business casual coworkers from Kaiser, dancers in elegantly comfortable sparkly dresses, Pagans in rich and colorful outfits, and a sizable portion of people dressed in no particular fashion… as if they had walked in off the street and were waiting in a doctor’s waiting room.
The first few hours of the memorial service was story sharing. The room was open for anyone to share their story of Tara. We sat in a big circle. Many of us shared the gift that Tara had left with us—how she changed our life and our being. Some shared songs and poems. Joi, her primary death midwife, led us in a Grateful Dead tune—Ripple. Not so many people knew Tara had been a Deadhead… or that her given name was Mary Margaret. In the final difficult months while Joi stayed with Tara, she described her discovery of the woman she knew as Tara; answering phone calls from people calling to talk to Mary and Meg and Tara, helping Tara to prepare for the various visitors, unable to convince her that pajamas and comfy clothes were acceptable on all occasion for those dying of brain cancer when Tara insisted that standards of attire must be maintained, and Tara’s last outdoor experience of transcendent glee belted into a swing seat with her big brother pushing her. There we all were. People mourning the passing of Mary and Meg and Tara and the duo of Tara and Sam—her husband. Those things are no more as we have known them. After sharing, part of the ceremony was the dissolution of Sam and Tara’s earthly bond of marriage. At this point, a man whom Sam and Tara had joined in marriage to his wife began to wail inconsolably. We had all lost so much. Not just a person, but a place—a hole in the web of life was torn.
I was so happy to learn more of Tara—to see all facets illuminated in one room—us all standing there, sharing, singing, laughing, crying and stunned. One of the biggest surprises was so many people who came and spoke of the same things I did; how they hadn’t made it to her bedside to see her before she died, how they had not gotten as far as they had dreamed in developing a friendship with her, and how she had so profoundly touched their lives. I no longer had any doubt that I belonged there. As it had been with Tara in life--I had a sense of belonging and acceptance. I learned that her presence, her being full of acceptance for others, was a conscious choice, a path of hers in life—that it was her work. She loved being a psychotherapist and she gave and gave and gave of herself generously, spontaneously and genuinely. I learned that she was the consummate girly-girl loving makeup and fine clothes. I no longer was confused or concerned for what I had chose to wear or why. Obviously this is what Tara would have liked to have seen me in and felt to be fitting. I no longer felt angry or sad that she had died so young when I heard of her distaste and alarm for the physical signs of aging. She died young and beautiful. As mourners shared, “She stepped out like a dancer,” “She left a beautiful corpse,” and they talked of how they lovingly bathed and oiled her body and how she lie in state donning her tiara.
The ritual was really brought together by the act of a close friend, a Unitarian minister—one of the first Pagan identified UU seminary students whom Tara had encouraged and worked with. She stood up and read us a poem which reiterated and wove together all the stories; we all felt heard and as one in our experience at that point. The culmination of the ritual for me was the final chant to Hecate. We all drew in and chanted two woven songs—only one of which I chose to stay with… "Hekate, Keeper of the Crossroads. Hekate, Holder of the Flame. Hekate, Wisdom of the Darkness. Guide our way. Guide our way." In this chant, all of what had been added to our ritual ‘stew’ of energy was cooked up and offered to Tara in the best way we knew how. She was truly everywhere in all of us and nowhere anymore. We used song and dance and heart to meet her spirit; to both let it go and welcome it into ourselves and our lives wherever it chooses to enter.
We all were instructed to take something of hers—many of her possessions had been laid out on altars throughout the room. After the ceremony, I had to rush off to make sure a friend got to work on time. I had forgotten to take something. I was sad about that. I recalled looking at a garish bright green frog marionett-like figure with a goofy painted-on floral bikini and long lizard like toe-nails painted sparkly red. My attention would return to the frog over an over… that is the freakiest thing, why can’t I get my attention off of it? I bet that is important to someone. I bet someone wants that frog and will need to have it as a memento of Tara. I wanted the frog, but I had an unexplained ambivalence to actually taking anything of hers from the tables. It seemed too much like a swapmeet to me and I could not bring myself to join in despite the stern command of Joi, the officiant. I feared for negotiations or depriving someone of their most prized sentimental memento of Tara. Upon leaving, we realized all the clocks in the Masonic hall had been incorrect—some slow, some fast. We had a chance to stop for a Chinese meal; neither one of was quite functioning well and we had both missed a meal to come to the memorial. We fed ourselves and I got him home in time for work that night. Before I departed from my friend’s house, he pulled something from his backpack and set it upon an altar in his living room. The bikini-clad frog dangled its segmented wooden legs over the edge displaying those surreal and bizarre toenails. I laughed aloud and told him of my fixation on that frog. He offered it to me, but I declined. Maybe someday, but for now I’m content to visit the frog at his house. I’m charmed enough that it followed me out of the hall.
Thank you Tara—once again—for the gift of your attention and presence. Your life was well-lived and fruitful. Priestess of the torch-bearer, guide to the thresholds, may you walk in beauty as you rejoin the infinite and may your light dance in our hearts always.
I was a half-hour late for a four and a half hour memorial. I followed familiar smells of incense up to the third floor library of an Oakland Masonic hall. I had changed my clothes a few times and laid out a few more sets of clothes before I settled on my outfit that day. I was caught in a frustrated Barbie loop for some time, it seemed. It was so uncharacteristic of me to fuss or dress as I had chosen to that day. I wore a very stylish designer black pantsuit usually reserved for academic conferences and formal graduations. I knew more than half of the crowd would be Pagans. I feared I would look like a weirdo relative, a minister, a realtor or facility staff. Still, it seemed imperative to dress according to certain standards of presentation regardless of the distinctly foreign feel and motivation of such an act. When I arrived, I was relieved to see quite a few others in the room dressed in suits and ties or quite elegantly… others who don’t normally dress like that. Then there were bikers in leathers, business casual coworkers from Kaiser, dancers in elegantly comfortable sparkly dresses, Pagans in rich and colorful outfits, and a sizable portion of people dressed in no particular fashion… as if they had walked in off the street and were waiting in a doctor’s waiting room.
The first few hours of the memorial service was story sharing. The room was open for anyone to share their story of Tara. We sat in a big circle. Many of us shared the gift that Tara had left with us—how she changed our life and our being. Some shared songs and poems. Joi, her primary death midwife, led us in a Grateful Dead tune—Ripple. Not so many people knew Tara had been a Deadhead… or that her given name was Mary Margaret. In the final difficult months while Joi stayed with Tara, she described her discovery of the woman she knew as Tara; answering phone calls from people calling to talk to Mary and Meg and Tara, helping Tara to prepare for the various visitors, unable to convince her that pajamas and comfy clothes were acceptable on all occasion for those dying of brain cancer when Tara insisted that standards of attire must be maintained, and Tara’s last outdoor experience of transcendent glee belted into a swing seat with her big brother pushing her. There we all were. People mourning the passing of Mary and Meg and Tara and the duo of Tara and Sam—her husband. Those things are no more as we have known them. After sharing, part of the ceremony was the dissolution of Sam and Tara’s earthly bond of marriage. At this point, a man whom Sam and Tara had joined in marriage to his wife began to wail inconsolably. We had all lost so much. Not just a person, but a place—a hole in the web of life was torn.
I was so happy to learn more of Tara—to see all facets illuminated in one room—us all standing there, sharing, singing, laughing, crying and stunned. One of the biggest surprises was so many people who came and spoke of the same things I did; how they hadn’t made it to her bedside to see her before she died, how they had not gotten as far as they had dreamed in developing a friendship with her, and how she had so profoundly touched their lives. I no longer had any doubt that I belonged there. As it had been with Tara in life--I had a sense of belonging and acceptance. I learned that her presence, her being full of acceptance for others, was a conscious choice, a path of hers in life—that it was her work. She loved being a psychotherapist and she gave and gave and gave of herself generously, spontaneously and genuinely. I learned that she was the consummate girly-girl loving makeup and fine clothes. I no longer was confused or concerned for what I had chose to wear or why. Obviously this is what Tara would have liked to have seen me in and felt to be fitting. I no longer felt angry or sad that she had died so young when I heard of her distaste and alarm for the physical signs of aging. She died young and beautiful. As mourners shared, “She stepped out like a dancer,” “She left a beautiful corpse,” and they talked of how they lovingly bathed and oiled her body and how she lie in state donning her tiara.
The ritual was really brought together by the act of a close friend, a Unitarian minister—one of the first Pagan identified UU seminary students whom Tara had encouraged and worked with. She stood up and read us a poem which reiterated and wove together all the stories; we all felt heard and as one in our experience at that point. The culmination of the ritual for me was the final chant to Hecate. We all drew in and chanted two woven songs—only one of which I chose to stay with… "Hekate, Keeper of the Crossroads. Hekate, Holder of the Flame. Hekate, Wisdom of the Darkness. Guide our way. Guide our way." In this chant, all of what had been added to our ritual ‘stew’ of energy was cooked up and offered to Tara in the best way we knew how. She was truly everywhere in all of us and nowhere anymore. We used song and dance and heart to meet her spirit; to both let it go and welcome it into ourselves and our lives wherever it chooses to enter.
We all were instructed to take something of hers—many of her possessions had been laid out on altars throughout the room. After the ceremony, I had to rush off to make sure a friend got to work on time. I had forgotten to take something. I was sad about that. I recalled looking at a garish bright green frog marionett-like figure with a goofy painted-on floral bikini and long lizard like toe-nails painted sparkly red. My attention would return to the frog over an over… that is the freakiest thing, why can’t I get my attention off of it? I bet that is important to someone. I bet someone wants that frog and will need to have it as a memento of Tara. I wanted the frog, but I had an unexplained ambivalence to actually taking anything of hers from the tables. It seemed too much like a swapmeet to me and I could not bring myself to join in despite the stern command of Joi, the officiant. I feared for negotiations or depriving someone of their most prized sentimental memento of Tara. Upon leaving, we realized all the clocks in the Masonic hall had been incorrect—some slow, some fast. We had a chance to stop for a Chinese meal; neither one of was quite functioning well and we had both missed a meal to come to the memorial. We fed ourselves and I got him home in time for work that night. Before I departed from my friend’s house, he pulled something from his backpack and set it upon an altar in his living room. The bikini-clad frog dangled its segmented wooden legs over the edge displaying those surreal and bizarre toenails. I laughed aloud and told him of my fixation on that frog. He offered it to me, but I declined. Maybe someday, but for now I’m content to visit the frog at his house. I’m charmed enough that it followed me out of the hall.
Thank you Tara—once again—for the gift of your attention and presence. Your life was well-lived and fruitful. Priestess of the torch-bearer, guide to the thresholds, may you walk in beauty as you rejoin the infinite and may your light dance in our hearts always.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Hecate
Cousin of Artemis, standing at the crossroads.
Your black dog howls and my hair stands on end.
I find myself lost and scared and I need a guide in you. A guide through the dark, through the death, through myself... what stands between me and who I want to become.
A night owl in flight.
What is me and what can I cast off?
A wild mare in fright.
What is love and what is dross?
In nature there is no loss.
Walk with me, beside me, in front of me, behind me, over me, under me, walk within me as protectress and guide. Your virgin sister stands scared and faltering on a path. Meet me in the dark. Meet me in my heart. Your titaness strength and resolve as my own.
Your black dog howls and my hair stands on end.
I find myself lost and scared and I need a guide in you. A guide through the dark, through the death, through myself... what stands between me and who I want to become.
A night owl in flight.
What is me and what can I cast off?
A wild mare in fright.
What is love and what is dross?
In nature there is no loss.
Walk with me, beside me, in front of me, behind me, over me, under me, walk within me as protectress and guide. Your virgin sister stands scared and faltering on a path. Meet me in the dark. Meet me in my heart. Your titaness strength and resolve as my own.
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