Bread, this simplest of food,

Standing and hot-breathed, waiting for the crust to be sawn,

With a bread knife of generations,

Keeping thousands of successful slices and cuts,

In a memory to be relived perfectly this day.

 

As Our Daily Bread … sustains our body and delights the soul.

 

 

Can the Spanish word for lever really make all that difference?

Why would I want to lift someone up I don’t even know?

 

When God speaks to us,

Do we hear voices?

Yes, we hear the voice of another,

Speaking for Him,

Doing for Him,

Listening for Him,

Acting for Him.

 

I am living Palanca.

I am just a rock,

But with some character don’t you think?

Sitting here, on some terminal moraine in Massachusetts,

I watch the cars go by,

Mostly ignoring me,

Certainly not considering the millions of years that make up,

Well … me.

 

I’ve been crushed,

I’ve been moved,

I’ve been washed,

And overheated.

But mainly I have been ignored.

 

The lines of my life are there to read,

Just as a palm, or tree limb,

But more so.

I am indiscernible,

Which sort of makes me smile.

To myself of course.

 

Because rocks can’t communicate.

Which of course you already know.

 

 

“Every gun that is made, every warship launched,

And every rocked fired, signifies, in the final sense, a theft

From those who hunger and are not fed,

Those who are cold and are not clothed.

The world in arms is not spending money alone.

It is spending the sweat of its laborers,

The genius of its scientists and the hopes of its children.”

 

President Eisenhower – 1953 speech to American Society of Newspaper Editors

 

 

 

Back again, the sleepless nights surrounded by thoughts,

Of days gone by and yesterday.

The crowd of present and past, envelop me,

Sometimes saying nothing, just appearing for a moment,

Others, more direct, with an experience of a past relived,

But in some locution so vivid,

It just happened.

 

Can I count these like sheep and then return to some slumber or peace, currently eluding me?

Not possible,

As mature thoughts they are no longer remembrances … trophies of halcyon days,

Or missed opportunities,

Or a parallel life unlived by me,

Rather possibilities conceived.

All are distractions, but in a good way.

 

Inerasable, unchangeable, instances of potential.

Some were followed with great gusto,

Where some imbibed knowledge or direction made the decision,

Which became the path of my life.

Now, the measure of who I am … not who I could have become.

Yet, these others, the crowd who surrounded me,

Even for a moment. Remain.

 

Why this distraction now?

Couldabin … Shouldabin … Mightabin.

Self-examination perhaps, yet not likely.

The grace we know as love seeps through all,

Special events and relationships,

Disappointments, times of torture, are now healed.

So only love remains.

 

And the complex work of contemplating the meaning of this beloved distraction.

 

 

It’s there again,

The hole where the longing belongs …

Thinking again of those I am separated from,

Some are better known to me than others,

And there are those from small fleeting encounters,

Often with words unspoken,

But the connection of grace was there in full,

Even if for a flash-gun moment.

All love was transferred to me,

Completely.

 

Now, each day is filled with the delight of knowledge together,

Togetherness enveloped by a love which can hardly be described,

Words failing feelings … yet again.

 

An eternal but wonderful problem.

The splash of color settled,

So only an image remained,

Painting a background,

For an imagination excitedly waiting,

The next disturbance or event.

 

To stimulate my spirit.

 
Can’t seem to kick the feeling again,

The feast of the Epiphany tells me it’s OK to let go,

But I can’t somehow,

As I look out at the neighbors,

And their snowy, kid-filled house,

They can’t either.

 

So the tree can stay up just one more day.

 

Never risk anything,

Live in fear of being rejected,

Of litigation,

Of failure,

Of dealing with problems,

Of changing the world,

Or an attitude,

Or behavior.

 

Oh, yes, bring on the paralysis,

Stop me from my own creativity,

Halt all progress,

Stomp down the ideas,

And keep me safe in my cocoon,

Of a scared state of mind,

Where I will neither move the needle,

Or change a life.

 

By my behavior.
 

 

It didn’t seem so detailed at the time,

But now, in retrospect, it seems to have all the parts I could not see.

It’s not just my imagination,

But the scene now seems idyllic,

As if my soul saw something which my eye missed.

 

At the time.