Ahz mah (So what)

 (with apologies to Robert Frost) Something there is that doesn’t love a poem of thanksgiving right now, that chokes on superficial sentimentality, and quashes any wanton expressions of joy, and forcefully diverts energy into darker discourse. There is a war, it says. There are dead and dying and grieving and raging and broken-hearted people strewn everywhere. Something there is that doesn’t love a poem of thanksgiving right now, that judges it blasphemous to give thanks in the face of the unfaceable. And yet— gratitude stubbornly arises, tear-stained and insistent. And so I give thanks for the deep pink of an October sunset reflected on the blue green ocean, and for the elderly couple stepping carefully out of their sandals and ambling to the water’s edge, hand in tender hand; and for the old man encouraging his little granddaughter to climb the rocks lining the barrier wall -- no hint of anxiety in his voice, no doubting of her capacity for risking and becoming. I give thanks for the

  Every autumn, landscaping workers descend upon the earth with blowers roaring,   attacking red, yellow, and orange leaves as though they were evidence of some shameful truth that must be obliterated. The battle will not end until first snowfall, when snow will become the next Enemy. Every autumn, the tree outside our temple gifts us with a gradual snowfall of tiny yellow leaves, which cling to our shoes and accompany us inside, creating a carpet of yellow on the sanctuary floor. Years ago we stopped trying to rake outside or vacuum inside. No battle, no enemy. We just open our arms and welcome autumn into our prayers

  Normal Memory Problems   "Transience" What I carefully, compliantly learned in school?                                                                                 Gone. State capitals, times tables— especially the sevens and eights— gone. Geometry, algebra, calculus, Norse and Greek and Roman mythology, how to write a book report, the periodic table of elements, timelines of wars and famous men, Manifest Destiny—                                                                               gone gone gone like the Nancy Drew mysteries and Archie comics in my bookcase, which gave way to absurdist theater which gave way to 18th century British novels which gave way to Judaica, psychology, meditation, eldering, death and dying. Note to self: Shredding or burning diaries may increase the likelihood of forgetting. Remember this.   "Absentmindedness" Three university lectures in European History II were not encoded in memory, due to the nearness of the boy sitting to

We are told that a covid surge is upon us… and so we are responding as best we can with additional, by now familiar, precautionary measures. And the thought arises: What other surges might we experience this season? How about a surge of caring for our neighbors? Or maybe a surge of laughter in our families? What about a surge of compassion? Or a surge of honesty? This feels like a different sort of “new year’s resolutions” list. Let’s imagine a surge that we might like to participate in, or that we might wish to get started…. It may be that all surges begin with an individual and spread outward from there, so who knows if it might be YOU that makes a new surge happen? Personally I would love to ride a surge of meaning and purpose—ride it right through this bleak winter and into a spring of hope and possibilities. Or how about a surge of quirkiness?? I so value and celebrate all of our quirks bubbling up even through this culture’s heavy blanket of conformity. Let your quirkiness shine,

On Thanksgiving For what shall we be thankful, we humans who keep hurting ourselves and one another in our tragic pursuit of happiness? For what shall we be grateful? For every blessed thing — not just the shiny easy happy things, the turkey with stuffing, the sweets. For what shall we be thankful? For a nor’easter in October, for power lost and power restored, for burnt sienna leaves against a cobalt blue sky, for anxious eyes above a mask For the raucous sparring of blue jays at the feeder and the deadly precision of a red-tailed hawk, For the fog of confusion, the sting of disappointment, the rumble of regret. For the weight of sorrow on the chest, the ache of breath bone muscle. For what shall we be thankful? for every blessed thing, for every blessed thing