Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith (Mary Oliver), God Says Yes To Me (Kaylin Haught), Yes (William Stafford)

I haven't written for too long, but here I go. Yesterday I finally went to my beloved yoga, pilates, aerobics class (ok, fusion yoga), and there in front of me were my beautiful daughter- a long, cool drink of water in her yoga garb, my son-muscled, tousled, gorgeous and laughing at himself, his lovely girlfriend who is equally as stunning, and behind them, us. We are a motley crew of aging men and women still hoping to make it through the class without passing out or throwing up.

I haven't been to this class for awhile, but I used to go several times a week and feel so good about myself. I could do it, I was toning up, and there was just enough yoga to feel myself begin to relax and breathe a little. Lately, I've been slogging through life and treatment and feeling a bit off balance. One of the first things to go was this class. So imagine, there I am with my two friends next to me and the gorgeous three (TGT) in front by the mirrors (gasp, no mirrors for us). Our stunning leader uses wonderfully fun, current music during the fast pieces (lady gaga is a favorite) and often some country music during the yoga pieces, and we are often laughing at the music as much as ourselves. I sometimes have a different response, however. She used to play a country song about a father talking to his daughter who wants to get going on her life a bit faster than he thinks she should. The bloody song uses this refrain over and over, "you're going to miss this". Know this one? Ok, so I'm often weeping while trying to chaturanga without slipping all over the place.....I suspect this is very disturbing to those around me.

Yesterday, however, I was so excited to be there with my friends and TGT. But I was unsure whether i could do any of it as I'm feeling a bit tired these days, but otherwise ok. So off we go, weights up, legs flying, then a yoga section, then a fast section, then yoga again. We are holding plank (forever), then turning to hold ourselves in side plank, arms up, top leg up, and just here it happens. I am struggling, but doing it, and then .....I am smiling, I am saying thank you, thank you for letting my body still move like this, oh thank you for those kids, thank you for this day, thank you for the woman next to me who just smiled when I put my foot on her tush by mistake....just thank you for all of it, every beautiful piece of it, even through disease and death and police action and teenagers. Through all of it! Isn't this what it is all about? We all have stuff, this much I've learned. My family is no different than any other --our stuff just tends to be a bit ....dramatic. So there is the lesson for me. I must continue to thank my stuff every day for teaching me gratitude--deep, tear-welling, body rocking gratitude for every moment--even during those moments when I want too much to fling these undeserving, disrespectful, purely icky teenagers out a high window. No one said this was anything but a process...

Enjoy some poetry and have a great couple of weeks. The Stafford poem came from church this am.
For all you Clevelanders, Nancy Gilkeson's memorial service is this Thursday at Federated Church in Chagrin Falls at 2pm

Cheers!

Yes (William Stafford)
It could happen anytime, tornado
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could, you know. That's why we wake
and look out--no guarantees
in this life.

But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.

God Says Yes To Me (Kaylin Haught)
I asked God if it is ok to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was ok to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
She said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even ok if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
Who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

Little Summer Poem Touching on the Subject of Faith ( Mary Oliver)
Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything--
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening the damp powers,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker--
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing--
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness of the banyan feet--
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees
And the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.





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