The sanctuary is empty, cleared by fear
that has sent us each into our temples
seeking solace and safety.

The holy elements gather dust that shows
in the sun that pours through the stained glass windows.
The ***** is silent.

It is not the only place. Temples are empty.
Mosques are empty. The vast caverns
of the mega churches are empty.

Still, you come. A solitary pilgrim.
You sit in a back pew and pray.

It is hard, praying at such a time.
There is too much, too many, you are overwhelmed
by the vastness of loss and pain and fears.
There are too many to be grateful for,
too many helpers, too many blessings that remain.
You are fine until you begin to pray,
and then suddenly, you feel small.  Overwhelmed.
Your helplessness in the vast world of need
seems infinite.

And so, your prayers lack words,
They are what the bible calls, “a prayer of moaning”.
And that is enough. It has to be. It is all you have to offer.

In the day to day, you are fine.
There are dishes to wash. Poems to write.
The cats need to be fed.
Books to be read.
You can pretend it is normal, until you bend your head
and call on your God.

But then, that is why we pray, is it not?
Because we understand this is beyond us.
It always was, but suddenly our weakness has become real.
We can no longer pretend that we hold the answers,
that we have the strength, that we are enough.

We are not.

Perhaps that is not entirely true.
We are indeed enough.
We are enough to be loved.
We are all we were made to be,
but not all we aspire to be, never content
to be merely human,
we want to be more,
to pretend we are God,
when in the end we are children playing at it,
suddenly overwhelmed and frightened
when things go wrong, looking to our father to save us
when our humanness proves its limits.

You pray in the stained glass light.
There is wind outside and the bones of the church moan with you.
The building creaks, as if God is restless.
When you are done, you leave.
You go back to your home, a different kind of sanctuary now.

The cats greet you at the door.
The woman you love hugs you as you hang your coat.
This is your sanctuary now.
Here you can pray more coherently,
for the neighbors, for the farmers at the edge of town,
for the children next door playing basketball in the afternoon sun.
You feel more sane here. Less overwhelmed,
able to far better accept what you can and cannot be.
There are things you can do here. Now. Small things,
but, as you always say, they add up.

You sip coffee. You make a call. You write a card.
You prepare for the next days work.
God is with you. You believe this.
It allows you to do, when there is not enough of you,
a power beyond your own.

If there is greatness to be had, .
if there is humbleness, this is where it lies,
in knowing what you are and are not,
and living in faith that there is more,
both in the world, and in you,
than you can see,
that your truest sanctuary has no walls
to hold God in,
or let him out.

This is what you do.
You mourn.
And mourn more.
For as long as you need to be lost in it.
There is no timetable to mourning.

You do not.
Can not.
Will not
lose the loss.
That is not how it works.

You live it
and in time,
when you are ready,
and not one minute earlier,
you find room for something else.

Something small.
But something nonetheless.
And you let it in.
And then something else.
and yet another.

You decide.
When.

You learn. That’s the thing in it all.
you learn that it never fades, the mourning.
It will always be there, just behind the eyes.
Always.

But you learn there is more to you.
Room for more.
That hearts are far larger than the cavity that holds them.
Hearts are where eternity lives.
They are infinite.
But only
when we are ready;
for mourning has no time.

Here in Vermont, the winters are cold,
sometimes brutal, never gentle,
a teasing sort of punishment for those of us who stay.

And so it is at the end of April, snow is blowing
and there is a sheen of ice across the quarry
and you find yourself indoors in what should be a season of sun.

There is no normal here. That is what you discovered.
Behind the bucolic scenery and towns postcarded
like 1955, every ill lives here that lives in the cities you left behind,

hidden behind prettier backdrops perhaps,
but we are excused nothing for the privilege of living
in a land without billboards.

That is not a complaint. I love it here,
and since we all suffer in this life. (It is sure as seasons.)
better to choose your place of pain.

The snow falls. The sun shines. It is cold again.
No matter. You have fresh flowers on the window.
Coffee brews. You are in a good place in a bad time.

Who could wish for more?

This too shall pass. So says the bible.
Only it never did. We did, and we believe it so fervently
we gave it biblical status,

proving at that at times we can uncover
wisdom on our own, and so, give our suffering
meaning.

The first flowers begin at the bottom,
New shoots of forsythia,
almost out of sight unless you look close.

The promise of spring
lies always near the roots.

Small Adventures

The bridge is rickey, a floating bridge
over a woodland pond. Rarely traveled,
it floods in the spring,
making the passage if not dangerous,
at least a little messy, a place avoided by most.

There is no obvious view, no reason
to cross the bridge in the wet season.
Nothing draws you except curiosity.

For you, that is enough,
rarely content to wonder,
you have a desire to see,
no matter how messy,
where the journey takes you.

This tendency has not always served you well.
At times, there is nothing worth the journey
on the other side
and you are left wet and worn with nothing to show
but the adventure and stories to tell your children,
reminding them you too still have
some of the wildness of youth buried in your old bones.

You are a collector of mistakes,
some of them unavoidable, some of them not your own,
some of them spectacular.
Most barely noticed. Part of the journey,
to collect them like brim on a line,
then let them go at the end of the day.

You cross the shakey bridge. Your feet grow wet.
On the other side is a clearing of rocks and boulders.
You clamber up in the April sun
and take off your shoes and socks
and lie on the sun while they dry.
You will take a new path home, a dry one,
a safe, if somewhat longer one.

But this small adventure has been a success.
For all its mess, there is healing in the sun
that bakes you and the rocks you lie on,
and if the wet path was a mistake,
it is one you would gladly make again.

Sunlight comes through the window.
The wooden bowl casts a shadow,
beautiful, simple.

This morning, again, you are in no hurry.
Your life has slowed down and there is time
to see.

Life has become closer, more precious,
bound by walls and doors and masks
and an unfamiliar fear.

This is not who you are.
But it is, right now.
Something weaker than you want to admit,
far more vulnerable,
your breathing labored and wheezy,
unsure. Each moment, each breath
both work and a celebration.

You remember your father like this,
his smoke ravaged lungs straining each breath
for the last years of his life,
no medicine,
no mechanics able to do more than making the next possible.
I watched the wearing away,
of body and mind, and will.

This will pass. Already the medicines are at work.
Already your wheeze has died down to a whisper.
You will heal. Doors will open.
Horizons will return,
and you will walk them, staring into the dusky sky
unafraid of death,
thankful you have been spared for a time,
the gratitude itself a kind of horizon,
a way of seeing past your vulnerability,
finding again the horizons once lost,
and finally, reclaiming each and every one.