The Quiteness of Snow...

It seems surreal. This is the time of year when we should be tucking the new spring annuals into the garden edges and planting sugar snap peas for the children to pick as soon as we begin to smell the sweet smell of the summer wind.  But, alas, today we are digging out from the fourth No'easter this month! Normally being located on the Atlantic Ocean, albeit sheltered a bit by the juxtaposition of three islands and a confluence of the ocean, a river and a sound which is near to the Gulf Stream, allows us to "dodge the bullet" that most heavy snow storms present, and we usually get less snow and more rain.  That did not happen yesterday!

I woke at 6am Wednesday to a gentle misty shower.  "No snow!", I thought; I was so wrong! Not an hour later at 7:00am the first flakes started and soon the snow was pelting and swirling and being knocked around by the wind that blows off the harbor onto my roof deck. The patio tables I had so carefully covered in the fall quickly began to accumulate layer upon layer of freshly fallen snow. The patio chairs that I have covered and bungee-corded were now on their sides sliding across the slippery snow-slicked deck stopping only when they hit the roof wall or the planter that was itself wrapped in burlap to protect the hydrangea plant. ( Dear Lord, keep my beloved hydrangea safe from the destruction of the storm!)

My decoy plastic owl, my hard-working Ollie, sat stoically on the ledge overlooking Bay Street as more and more snow accumulated on his head! An occasional sea gull would fly by giving him a rather wide berth.  No starlings, sparrows or the obiqueous pigeons made appearances that day! Not one was in sight. They had hunkered down somewhere out of the cold and windy falling flakes. And I did the same.

This turned out to be the perfect day to get all those things done which I have left undone. Correspondence via snail mail and email to friends, kith and kin...and other matters that needed to get done like a month ago. And then, there was silence!

And silence is not a bad thing.  It gives us time to slow down and relax in ourselves. It was time to turn off the T.V. and spend time with myself doing stuff I have not done in a while, but enjoy.  So, I knitted; I read and I meditated.  I actually took some time and watched the snow fall from three different locations in my apartment: from the deck doors from which I normally see ships coming in and out of the harbor, I could only see faint red lights coming from the taillights of the brave drivers of cars and trucks as they slowly crossed into Brooklyn for reasons unknown to me.  From my bedroom window that usually provides me with an expansive view of Breezy Point, Coney Island, Bay Ridge, and Red Hook, all I could see was globs of snowflakes hitting against my windows.  And from the sliding doors to my living room balcony, all I could see was the outline of trains as they plowed passed my building either into or out of the ferry terminal.

The only noises I could hear were an occasional fog horn and the whistle of the trains as they chugged and stopped at the local station.  I could not even see if anyone was walking to or from the stairs to the station itself.  Everything halted, as if everything was frozen in time and space. And so it was...for a day.

And now, a new day is here. Things are slowly getting back to "normal". The kids are back at school; driveways are shoveled; streets are plowed; the sea of snow is gradually receding and I am hearing a slow and steady drip-drip-drip of melting all around me. Tomorrow this snow will be but a memory for all of us, but the gift of enforced slow-down; a snow day, a slow day is something that we can all look back on and, hopefully, smile...at least a bit.

Am I getting grumpy, or is Lent getting me down?

Over the past several days, I have noticed a kind of annoyance creeping into my daily life.  I find myself making nasty comments during commercials, yelling at politicians on the news, shaking my head and mumbling smart-ass comments while listening to talk show hosts seriously interviewing twerts about their tweets. I even felt myself engaging in some passive-aggressive behavior at my local gym when the lady who checks me in began to instruct me on how to hold my ID card so she could scan from her preferred seated position.

The commercial for hiring contractors, plumbers and other craftspeople with the guy who claims since he is now a father he no longer wants to spend his Saturdays fixing a toilet annoys me to no end.  Fatherhood is not a valid reason to engage in a job that should always be handled by a professional. Why would you ever attempt this if you are not schooled in the skills needed? Just call the plumber, for heavens sake!

The young couple who bought a time share in Maui after their honeymoon who went there "...all the time!" for two years until they had a child.  These poor folks could not handle juggling an infant and a vacation at the same time. Can they walk and chew gum?  One would think a vacation is something they all needed. I can recall packing up three children, one of whom was in a stroller, and driving to Florida, picking up Grandma and gong to Disney World for a week. It is called organization. Get organized!

Yesterday I caught the tail end of one of those court TV shows where disputing parties can go and get a very public sort of justice. A tall, slim elegantly dressed young twenty-something in stiletto heels and a pencil skirt was suing a rather rag-tag street hustler for selling her a knock off designer bag at the outrageous price of $1,200!  Seems that cost of that bag, as outrageous as I thought it to be, was really a bargain-basement price. She insisted that it was really a phony that he passed off onto her as real. She was incensed that her friends would know she fell for a fake. She needed them to know she only bought the best. To prove her point she produced two of her wide collection of bags by the same designer so Judge Judy could compare and contrast the qualities of genuine and fake handbags.  Why anyone would need a $1,200+ handbag is beyond me, but to own three of them is simply beyond my power of understanding. I can hear my Mother's voice repeating over and over, " If it seems too good to be true; it is." Simple advice, rings true every time. I guess pouty-girl's Mama didn't tell her that one.

I have to admit, I find that I am becoming more and more difficult to live with under this cloud of grumpiness. Some how it must be shaken off!

In order to deal with this creeping feeling of grumpy,  I have turned to a Lenten discipline that I am sharing with a group.  Using the materials from the Society of St John the Evangelist, "Meeting Jesus in the Gospel of John", I spend some time every day listening to a brief video, reading pieces from scripture, and meditating on the words written so very long ago. The word that is sticking with me is "abide". In its modern translation, "abide" means "to accept , put up with or endure". The archaic meaning is probably the one most close in meaning to its Biblical use, " to reside or live with". So I have decided to "Abide" a bit with my cloak of grumpiness, and see how long I can really live with it.

I suspect as the dark days of Lent recede and I can begin to see the Easter Dawn over the hill, I will soon emerge from these forty days and shed this darkness of the soul, and begin to think about moving into the light. At that point I hope to rejoice with the Dad who wants to spend more time with his child; I hope to nod with great approval for the couple who are saving money and spending more quality time with their son.

But...... I can't promise I will even begin to understand the multi-purse girl. Ever.


https://www.last.fm/music/Thelonious+Monk/_/Abide+With+Me

Ashes to Ashes, redux....

On a rather cold February evening five years ago, I sat stoic and silent through yet another Liturgy Committee Meeting at the Episcopal Church where I was then serving as deacon, when, as the meeting droned on to its ultimate end, an interesting thought crossed my mind. Ashes-to-Go...I had seen an article about this new movement in the Episcopal and other mainline churches that brought the distribution of Ashes out of the church building and into the streets, byways and intersection of sacred and secular so that the people of God on their daily journey, could slow down and have a moment, a mere moment, in which to contemplate the fragility of life and to seek to embrace more closely and dearly the juxtaposition of the Divine and mundane in all of us.  I suggested we distribute ashes on the upcoming Ash Wednesday at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal about a mile from our church.

To say my suggestion, Spirit-inspired, I thought then and still do, was wildly embraced would be a gross understatement.  The jaw dropping looks and silent stares on the faces of the participants of that committee who had just complied a month long list of liturgies, hymns, rites, and rituals for a most penitential of penitential seasons hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.  

"Hum," I thought, "That went over well." I headed home and figured that was the end of it, but I was, thank God, wrong.

Half an hour after arriving home, I got a very late night call from my then rector. "That was the most exciting thing I have heard at a Liturgy Committee meeting since I arrived here. Do you think we can do this?", he inquired.  I responded that I thought we could. And he put me in charge (Thanks, Chuck!), noting that if we got arrested, I would be the one to call our parish lawyer and explain.

That Ash Wednesday we proceeded quietly and cautiously setting up near a coffee shop just outside the ferry waiting room. We were joined by a layman from our parish who counted the number of people we imposed ashes upon; he give everyone a card with the name of our church and the prayer for the day. We gave over 225 people ashes that morning: commuters mostly, but policemen, cooks, construction workers, mothers with babes in arms, students, lawyers, clerical workers, teachers, and many others. And we prayed with others, folks in need of prayer for themselves or loved ones.

And we did it the next year expanding our footprint we joined with our neighboring Lutheran congregation and increased our numbers to close to 300. We found that people were asking where we were going to be; some actually waited for us to get there and set up shop.

Over the years I have had all kinds of assistance: postulants for ordination have assisted, as have clergy from other denominations.  Some of the priests and pastors that assisted have moved on to other calls or to their eternal rest. I think of them each time we engage in this ministry.

One year we were required to get a permit and were moved around the terminal. We were always polite and followed the directions of those in charge. The interesting thing was they apologized to us over and over again for the inconvenience they were causing us. Sometimes it is tough being a bureaucrat.

This year we arrived on the other side of the ferry at 7:30 am and stationed ourselves just beyond the jurisdiction of the municipal authority for marine and aviation. It was cold and windy, but there were four faithful servants imposing ashes on, praying with and being blessed by the presence of so many children of God, a total of 238, who took a moment out of their busy day to acknowledge their mortality and the immortality of their Creator: "Remember, thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return."

Sunday Sermon 2 Epiphany

            "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” John 1:47

                        Second Sunday of Epiphany 2018

In today’s Gospel we hear an interesting conversation between two young men who will become two disciples of Jesus, Phillip and Nathaniel. Phillip, a newly called disciple of Jesus who hailed from Bethsaida on the coast of the Sea of Galilee, while talking to his friend, Nathanael, added “from Nazareth” to Jesus’ name as a means of identification since the name was a common one, and it located exactly who he was, and where he was from.  Nathaniel’s response certainly shows his personal bias and prejudice against the town from which the longed for Messiah sprang. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” He sort of scoffs, and as we close our eyes, we can easily imagine him with a condescending smirk on his face. He has some strong pre-conceived notions about that tiny village. Why is this local prejudice showing? Well, Nazareth was the decidedly quintessential “backwoods” town, a far flung hamlet of a massive empire whose population might have topped 500 when Jesus was living there. Smallest of the small potato towns in the smallest and most inconsequential part of immensely important Roman Empire, in our modern jargon: a real nothing burger.

And yet, I feel drawn to the plight of that little town because, even though we live in one of the largest cities in the world, our piece of the city, in the words of the late comedian Rodney Dangerfield, gets no respect. We are the Nazareth of the Big Apple. There are some folks who don’t even realize we are part of New York City.  Listen to the hordes of tourists who cram onto our beloved ferry to get a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.  I think every travel agent in the rest of the country and overseas tells each person who comes to New York that the ferry is free, and to ride it, and get right back on to return to Manhattan because there is nothing to do in Staten Island.  I have heard tourists tell each other that Staten Island is where the rest of New York City sends their garbage…not so.  Just FYI: the city’s garbage is sent by barge or trucked to a landfill in Pennsylvania (I learned this from my son who works for the Sanitation Department).

I have also heard that the people of Staten Island are very backwards compared to those who live in Manhattan or Brooklyn. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard people at Diocesan meetings ask me if I have my passport with me…and then laugh. I usually tell them it takes me less time to get there by mass transit with a metro card than those folks who travel from the mid-Hudson region, and, please note, they never ask them the same question.  (If I sound a bit annoyed, well I am)

I have read in the national media that we who live on this rock, hold old fashioned ideas and are intolerant of others, including immigrants. These folks don’t know what the truth is.  Here on Staten Island we are home to the largest Liberian population outside of Liberia and the largest overseas Sri Lankan community on earth. Take a walk up Victory Boulevard and you will see Caribbean beauty parlors, Latin American bakeries and florists, Sri Lankan restaurants, and Halal supermarkets next to Chinese, Columbian and Italian restaurants.  Immigration comes in waves on our island and many hardworking immigrants are making an impact on the makeup of our island and its commercial enterprises. Statistically the 49th City Council District that encompasses our North Shore, is the most diverse in the whole city.

And we know something else; something we need to broadcast more than we do.  Many faithful Christians live out their faith live here.

 And just as Nazareth, that small, insignificant town filled with hill-billies and small-minded, unimportant people, was the place from which sprang the one who was to be the Messiah, the Son of God, the Savior of the world; here in this corner of the world, on the streets and in the schools, in the offices and in the parks, in the restaurants, pubs and the churches of our little island, there are the people of God every day who are living out their faith in both small and glorious ways: bearing witness to the truth at work and at play, expanding their faith in Bible study groups, visiting our neighbors in hospitals, hospices and homes,  engaging in prayer groups, bringing the concerns of the world to the church, to this altar, and hastening the Kingdom that is to come.

Despite the concerns of Nathaniel, we know that everything good came from Nazareth, and from that “good” the “good” continues to grow from here, our small corner of the greater Kingdom, as well.  

Hey NYC Kids: SNOW DAY!

In the closing minutes of the movie "Hope and Glory", a story about the life experiences, for good or ill , during times of unspeakable horror and idyllic moments in the English countryside, of a Londoner schoolboy during the Second World War, we see the unabashed glee of the entire student body who arrive to find their school has been bombed and destroyed by the German blitzkrieg. "Thank you, Adolph!", an elated ten year-old boy joyfully exclaims as he throws his school books into the air. There was something of that macabre joy and irony here in New York City today as the first official "Snow Day" was called on the almost unpresented night before this hellicious storm even hit.
                                                                                                      

The palatable joy that bust forth on my Facebook feed last night around 9pm was fast and furious, and not from the kids.  As a retired New York City educator: teacher, mentor and staff developer, I have many friends and relations who are still involved in that behemoth of a bureaucracy known affectionately as the DOE: The New York Department of Education. Over my many years in the employ of this municipal agency, the calling of a "snow day" has always had major political as well as public safety considerations. It always appeared "dicey" to me once mayoral control of the schools was wrested from local school districts by Mayor Bloomberg in the early 2000's. During that time most decisions came out of "Tweed Courthouse" that hunk of a building that bears the name one of the most corrupt men in our city's history, William "Boss" Tweed, who ran this municipality from his political core, the Tammany Hall Democratic Club. It sits on Chambers Street in one of the most congested parts of Manhattan.                         

One thing locals understand about Manhattan is that it is built on rock, a very specific rock called Manhattan Schist, a gneiss that is the result of volcanic activity and then the movement of a polar icecap that resulted in a very hard and dense bedrock that makes the construction of skyscrapers possible (that, and the invention of the elevator). This bedrock holds the heat that is generated by both the subway system and the steam heat systems that warm our many municipal buildings which surround City Hall and the Tweed where such decisions as school closings are determined. So when decisions are made in Manhattan, where snow melts quickly, the rest of the city suffers and shovels out from under lots of outer-borough snow.  Mayors Dinkins, Koch and Bloomberg were all Manhattan dwellers whose children were all either grown and gone or non-existent, so their decisions were made from an economic point of view....i.e. parents need to get to work; ergo, schools need to be open. Now we actually have a Mayor whose children went to public schools when the family lived in Brooklyn on a street that did not always get plowed on a regular basis.  He understood the dilemma: Do I keep them home, or do I send them out in the storm? Who is going to be here if they stay home? Whom can I call to help out? These questions are easier to navigate the night before as opposed to the morning of. 

But I digress.                              

I recall with fondness those days spent snuggled under my parents' down comforter listening intently on the local radio hoping to hear that my personal school was closed or, for the "big announcement" that ALL the schools in the city: public, private and parochial, were closed. The one thing that knitted all of the schools together was the school bus system, and once that was compromised, the whole system ground to an icy halt. Ah, the sweetness of that news, nothing could compare except that final June day that marked the beginning of summer vacation.  But summer break or the hard won winter break (once referred to as Presidents' Week) are known factors, a "Snow Day" is serendipitous and random...a gift from Mother Nature, so to speak...an unearned respite that causes one to slow down and hunker down and often inspires a day of baking and soup making that will fill your home and your stomachs with the joys of the winter's cuisine we often take for granted.

So, boys and girls, friends and foes,daughters and sons, grandchildren and happy nieces and nephews: Enjoy! Relish this gift of at-home time granted on this snowy and windy winter day...make merry and make muffins and most of all make memories!

It's Snowing! Heck, it is winter!

I am mostly annoyed and somewhat amused at the on-air pundits and weather forecasters who are quick to jump on the weather related Armageddon that is just a winter in New York. These guys usually set off a major grocery store stampede that leaves shelves stripped of bread, milk, beer, soda and chips...the vital necessities for urban survival.  Because we live so close to the ocean...well, just on the ocean, our temperatures are on average, higher than the rest of New York State and the Eastern Seaboard, so most storms are not as violent here as even thirty miles north. That is not to say that we have never been summarily "dumped" upon by Mother Nature.  We have had our fair share of double digits worth of snow, raining and hailing No'easters and full blown hurricanes...I recall Sandy, Gloria and Carol as particularly destructive. And I do appreciate those meteorologists who temper their forecasts with statistics and constant reminders that their science is not an exact one.

In retrospect, I appreciate the teachers I had in elementary school who took the time while teaching geography to explain and show and diagram for us and with us just how weather and climate work.  I remember designing  "weather maps" in which we colored in the different types of climate: Artic, Sub-Artic, Tundra, Temperate, Continental, Mediterranean, Tropic, and Sub-Tropic. We also learned how to read weather maps with their warm and cold fronts and precipitation symbols. I still like looking at those maps in our local paper.  When I taught Earth Science at the intermediate level, I would use those maps to teach the concept of latitude and climate even using them to track hurricanes and snow storms.  I would also play, "How much snow will fall on Mrs. Swanson's car?" if a storm was predicted or if it began to snow during the school day.  It is interesting what seventh graders will do to get a homework pass. They would bet down to an eight of an inch. It was one fun way to introduce math skills to real world problems.

But, I guess this is not so much a part of the curriculum these days...my teacher peeps can let me know if these skills at still being taught to our children today. It just seems we ,as a society, have become too dependent on the "talking heads" on local networks, cable or on other social media for information they are basically reading to us.  Most of them have experience in broadcast journalism, but very few are meteorologists. They are referred to as "weather forecasters", but not meteorologists. Meteorologists are part of a larger group known as Atmospheric Scientists.  Most atmospheric scientists work indoors in weather stations, offices, or laboratories. Occasionally, they do fieldwork, which means working outdoors to examine the weather. Some atmospheric scientists, like Sanitation workers,  may have to work extended hours during weather emergencies. Their median wage is $92400 per year, nothing to sneeze at, and their employment opportunities are projected to grow by 12% over the next ten years. Most of these folks are employed by private industry.

So, my question is: Why are we listening to weather forecasters who are not the real deal instead of the professionals? Have you ever been "spooked" and then "fooled" by their forecasts?  Shall I count the ways? Okay, so I am now looking at about 3/4 of an inch of snow that began falling at 9am. Maybe the forecast for one to two inches is correct.  Too bad I  haven't played my snow depth game since retirement.  I could have been the big winner today.

Looking back

I have been around the block more than a few times and I have a very long memory when it comes to all things political.  I was bitten by the political bug at a young age when I first saw John F. Kennedy in a motorcade in Manhattan during his presidential campaign in 1960.  It was also my first tickertape parade, so it made quite an impression.  I remember watching the local television reporter that evening who had stood a few yards from the spot where my Grandmother and I stood near the Battery in lower Manhattan as this constant fall of paper tape cascaded and whirled around us before it hit the ground. Kennedy was young, strong, and decidedly ruggedly handsome with a glint in his eyes that charmed the general public.  My father, a veteran of World War II who, like JFK had sustained injuries while in combat, was enthusiastic about this campaign, and voted for him that November.

I remember watching the election results being reported on our black and white set with flip card numbers being used by the anchors who reported results as they came in on the telephone.
Because of a major snow storm, schools were closed on that Inauguration Monday and we were able to watch the swearing in ceremony and the parade that followed.  I remember Robert Frost being there reading a poem, "The Gift Outright".  In a later iteration, I would watch Maya Angelou reading her poem written for a later inauguration as well. She read her "On the Pulse of a Morning" at Bill Clinton's Inaugeration in 1993, the only poet asked to be at one of these ceremonies thirty-two years after Frost.

In between those two events there were other memorable elections: Mario Cuomo as Governor of New York, who was later at the swearing in of his son, Andrew Cuomo, our current governor; David Dinkins and Ed Koch both elected mayor of New York; Jimmy Carter,  Ronald Reagan, the Bush's father and son, Barack Hussain Obama,  and finally the election of 2016 and the ascent of Donald Trump.

The current days of political screaming and yelling has brought me back to other similar events of the past: the Watergate scandal and downfall of Richard Nixon. I remember it almost as if it were yesterday, and I can see and hear the ghosts of Richard Nixon, HR Haldeman and Martha Mitchell as I watch the current flock of White House staffers scramble to  duck and cover from the inevitable fall out that is soon to come.

I remember my Aunt Marie, at first annoyed that her favorite afternoon soap opera was pre-empted by the hearings on the hill in the House, and the work and presentations to the panel of Congressional representatives, one of whom, Elizabeth Holtzman, was my congresswoman. She later sat hypnotized by the hearings, watching every broadcast wondering how this would affect her daughter who was working in the White House as part of the Nixon clerical staff.  She survived, and went on to serve three more presidents. I remember the very glamorous and blond Maureen Dean who sat stoically behind her husband John who told Nixon "There is a cancer on the White House." Dean has emerged after doing his time  to be a commentator and talking head on various cable news networks.  I am not sure if he is still with Maureen.

I can remember that it was not so much the botched burglary at the Watergate Complex...a place my cousin was living in at the time, but the cover-up that was the "gotcha" moment. I feel we are headed down that same path now.  This is becoming the proverbial "train wreck" you can see coming, but just can't stop. I hope I am wrong, but as a student of history, I know it can repeat itself, if people do not heed it or learn lessons from it.  Perhaps it is time to dust off that old copy of "All The President's Men" and send it to some folks inside the Beltway.

For your reference:

The Gift Outright

The land was ours before we were the land's.

She was our land more than a hundred years

Before we were her people. She was ours

In Massachusetts, in Virginia,

But we were England's, still colonials,

Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,

Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

Something we were withholding made us weak

Until we found out that it was ourselves

We were withholding from our land of living,

And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)

To the land vaguely realizing westward,

But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she would become.

Robert Frost

On The Pulse Of Morningby Maya Angelou 

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers--
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.