Apparently, the fifty-six-year-old
wife of the eighty-three-year-old

billionaire kept him locked in his
room during house parties so he

wouldn’t interrupt the good times.
She also kept from her husband

the purchase of a gazillion-dollar
condo which she has for the per-

sonal use of her and her lover. It
is also alleged that she recom-

mended that his feeding tube be
removed. Was that a directive?

Or did she suggest that before
somebody with legal authority,

on his behalf, could change the
will? Hay, don’t the rich have it

ever so good? No wonder we want
to be with them in the ‘hood.

He died; she got the goods.
Do we really want in that neighborhood?

He wants to be out jogging
along the trails and cycling

on the roads, which he can
do even during a pandemic

but two important surgeries
have left him gingerly pulling

weeds from the dune grass
which come out of the sand,

thank the Lord, like knives
slicing through melting butter

at a picnic on a hot day in July.
He pulls, rests, pulls, rests,

pulls, rests and asks, “Honey,
can we have that hot July pic-

nic in the air-conditioned house
while we watch reruns of NCIS:

New Orleans?” “Sure, don’t
overdo it. Come in now and I’ll

get you an ice-cold IPA.” “Thank
you, Jesus, er, I mean dear.”

I asked my white, suburban mom wife
what do you think of Portland?
She gasped and said, “On my life,
I have never! The flame of hate is fanned.
The ‘Wall of Moms’ abused and shoved;
the Mayor of Portland gassed;
a Navy vet beaten, mugged?
Is democracy dead; has liberty passed?
Gassing/abusing a vet and moms, a mayor —
this is some kind of sick strategy to win?
How do they dare?
This is fascist, demagogic spin
by scared, old, white, racist men.”
I, her proud, old, white husband, simply said,
“Well, all righty then.”

Bloggers have copyright laws
which appear on site,
often in the right-hand column.
That, of course, assumes the
intellectual-property contains
intellect, which others
might want to claim
for themselves — that’s a
pretty big assumption.
And we all know how to
spell assume, but, hay,
a writer has to believe in
his or her stuff.
On the other hand, people
may just wish to keep
their stuff to themselves
in seldom read blogs,
like the stuff stuffed in
attics which someone
far on down the line would
take to Antiques Roadshow
when it comes to town
on the chance, it might
be a previously undiscovered
treasure.
And yet, there is always
the dream of the Nobel
Prize in Literature, which
may have prompted
the copyright in the
first place. Or, as a writer
was once told by a friend
after reading the writer’s
first book, “What a wonderful
thing for the grandkids,
someday.”

Creation Ruach enters my mind and heart
merging with my spirit. I breathe deeply
Creation Ruach, hold it in my chest,
feel it moving through my lungs, enrich-

ing my life’s blood and moving like an
ever-flowing stream of complete spirit,
emotion and body — spirit, emotion, and
body! Yes! And each part needs the other

to be one. How can we know Creation Ruach
when we cannot breathe — grasping for
each and every, ever-shorter breath of life?
And God blew God’s spirit and we became

living beings. The physical battle is an emo-
tional battle is a spiritual battle, but if it is
to be death, death from sources of brutality,
if such brutal death says it has won, death

is a fool. Death has lost its sting in sacrificial love,
for it is at the moment of death that eternal
healing takes place — the “Into your hands I
commend my spirit” sacrificial love. The yet-

to-be-cured continues the battle with the virus
and the brutality that remain and ravage for
a while, while spirit merges with Creation Ruach
in deep, beyond death breathing bliss, together

in one, dancing Whirling-wind Dervish dance while
reveling in anticipation of restored, renewed,
resurrection-new, complete peace for all in the
eternal wind and breath of Creation Love.

James Pennington, Senior Minister of First Congregational UCC, Phoenix, AZ, in an excellent e-newsletter message, points out the deadly consequences and severity of anxiety and how it infects groups like a contagion, not unlike COVID-19 itself.

In part, Pennington quotes one of his favorite authors:

Author Brene Brown states: “Stress and anxiety are two of the most contagious emotions that we experience. Many mental health professionals and researchers believe because anxiety is so contagious, it’s rarely a function of individuals, it’s a function of groups. Like dominos, once one person’s anxiety or stress flares up, it’s really hard for it not to spread – it’s the contagion.”

Pennington went on to pen comforting, pastoral words for his congregation.

I wrote the following prayer in response to the e-newsletter’s message. The poem/prayer alludes to the Hebrews in Egypt (The angel of the Lord passing over dwellings of the Hebrews and the subsequent exodus), the Beloved Communion, a play on Holy Communion and MLK, Jr.’s universal “Beloved Community,” Revelation’s “Come, Lord Jesus,” into the present tense and Jesus as the healer.

Interestingly, the poem contains far fewer words than the number in the explanation. 😇

Oh, Sweet, Healing Jesus,
May contagion passover the congregation.
May comfort abide with the Beloved Communion.
Be with us, Sweet, Healing Jesus.

And what of Adam and Eve?
They are in my heart.
And what of Cain and Abel?
They are in my heart.
And skipping much of human history,
what of WWI?
It is in my heart.
What of WWII?
It is in my heart.
What of Korea, Viet Nam, Afghanistan, Iraq —
Well, you get the picture?
They are all in my heart.
What about America’s Indigenous People?
They are in my heart.
Including the Trail of Tears and Wounded Knee?
They are in my heart.
What of 400 years of slavery?
Those years are in my heart.
And all the Black people carrying that history in the marrow of their bones?
They are in my heart.
And brown people and yellow people and white people?
They are in my heart.
Okay, let’s cut to the chase.
What of all the history of human inhumanity to humanity and the very creation?
It is all in my heart.
How can you bear and not despair under such a weight?
Because the message of Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Francis, Mary, Teresa, Dorothy (to name a few), that Great Cloud of Witnesses, is in my heart.
Anything else?
All that…is in my heart because God has placed my broken heart within the heart of love….Oh, and the two new goldfish help, too.
And then an old, African-American spiritual came to mind
and he sang to the new fish, “Lord, I want ta be like Jesus,
in ah my heart…in ah my heart….”

*idea from a meditation by Henri Nouwen

A friend said he is practicing the fine art of silence in the face of potential hostility.

There is a significant rise in violence and shooting deaths following the protests affirming Black Lives Matter. People wonder what is going on. It’s physics. For every action, there is an equal or greater reaction.  In this case, we are seeing a much greater reaction than the mostly peaceful protesting.  Be careful out there.

In order to help people see the necessity of good health practices during the epidemic, we were advised to assume everyone with whom we come into contact has the virus.

And so, with the increase in hostility and violence, assume that everyone not wearing a mask or indicating racist attitudes is carrying. Silence is golden while social distancing.

she said that when
   we are young we
      have ideals and
we go out and
   fight nonviolently 
      and then we grow
older and have all
   kinds of other things
      that come into our
lives — marriage,
   family, careers —
      and we lose the
vision and abandon
   non-violent action
      for the cause and
then she watched,
   on one hand, the
      tributes to John
Lewis and, on the
   other, evidence of
      federal authoritarian
acts directed by the
   thug who loves total-
      itarianism and she
thinks to herself, i
   may be old, but
      i’m still vertical
and taller than
   grass so it’s not
      too late
to help make some 
   "good trouble."

He wants to be Jiminy Cricket.
He wants to wish upon a star.
He wants to be away – ever so far, far, far
from everything scary in the thicket.

America is deep in the thicket
and as he walks past the park
he whistles and speaks into the thicket so dark,
“I see you there in the thicket.”

Is there any hope in facing the wicked
(that may be in the thicket)?
Is it that he made it past the park?
Is it that the light emerges after the dark?
And that, while, yes, there still are scary things in the thicket.