For, a Thanksgiving meditation

 

For 

the birds that nest in the trees and in the reeds,

the flowering plants and fish that sustain them,

the great, diverse system of living beings;

the depth of roots in the seeded earth,

providing shade and shelter, food and fuel;

light, shadow and darkness,

an unending cycle of renewal from everything,
from waking to rest;

land, with all its contours and environments,

that supports each footfall, each seed, every root and liquid source;

water, from which all life emerges and returns as a blessing;

people, of every uniqueness, who discover in themselves roles to fill,

who grow & nurture, think & create, who care & give & build,

contributing to the rich song, music and dance of existence;

deeply thought ideas,
drafted over such seas of experience as joy, love, pain or hardship,

intended to pave a better way, or at least make the attempt;

circles we move in,

of family, friends and colleagues, 

shaping and sharing community through arts and cultures,

people who challenge and improve by being healthy exemplars;

those no longer with us, who lived, loved, served, nurtured 

even especially people we don’t know,

the empty chairs that trigger unforced tears & a heartache of memories;

all who stand for something, stand up for someone,

all for one, few, or many — and one for all;

being for is a sort of goodness; 

it might be the only goodness there is

in this world where some people profit 

by inviting anger, strife and antagonism to the table,

where the constant tug is either passively or aggressively against;

I pray for all in need, for all who love, for all who sorrow,

and for all who stake their lives on being
for something, anything, someone, goodness;

for all that is for

—for all that and more, 

I give thanks.

© Elisabeth T. Eliassen & songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com 

Classic Order

That photo of me,
shuffling toward you
for the very first time,
says it all:
small being,
newly bipedal,
approaching tall man
emerging from fuzzy background
— and that is how I remember it;
“There he is; go on,” she said,
but my baby eyes
could not see that far ahead.

Sometime later,
you and I stood on the corner
of a very wide avenue,
and little me could only cringe
at the speed of everything flowing by
— fast, so fast, too fast for me —
but when the light changed,
you took me by the hand
and we raced across,
returning to the car lot
before it closed,
because the steed we’d driven off
had failed only blocks away.

It was revived, however,
to become the beloved chariot in which
we rolled over every stretch
of road we could wind along,
from coast to Sierra foothills,
staying at creaking cottage courts
or car camping roadside,
like that time a small dog
tried to catch a mighty river by the tail,
while her human sisters panned for gold
— the golden treasure garnered,
the laughter this triggered in us all.

These are glimpses
of how this child gained vision:
Plans meticulously made
so often veered out of control,
and the lesson always seemed to be
Just Roll With It;
though not always what we expect
(Results May Vary),
rewards can still be reaped,
such as a cozy at-home indoor picnic,
because an unexpected storm
rained out an intended excursion.

Adventures in education,
ever a tilting against windmills
of cultural experimentation;
how could “new math”
compete with “old math”?
Surely there is only onemath;
but while numbers were fated
to be my Achilles heel,
for you they were stock and trade.

Building and design,
weights and measures,
these are living lessons in conformity
and resistance — even revolution;
any angle can be joined,
but will it stand and withstand
the forces of gravity and
unintended use?

Perspective is itself an art,
and everyday proposes a new lesson;
perspective does not always form in
nor heed to the painful symmetries
we are taught to expect,
asked to cultivate.

Any rejected stone
has keystone potential,
viewed with the right eyes
and placed by the right hands,
as masons from Greece,
Europe and Yavapai attest
by way of the monuments
they left behind.

And this is how you taught me,
whether you know it or not,
that symmetry is illusory,
even unnatural;
the human struggle has
always been a vertical challenge
to the gently curving horizon
of a continually growing and quaking earth,
a battle against the natural order;

Similarly, modern science is baffled
in the attempt to unmask
nature as a formulaic perfection,
perhaps because there is
no perfect, simplistic formula,
more an ever growing
agreeable synergy
of complexities.

How many places, things,
people and relationships
have we witnessed that work
in defiance of a stated perfection,
while the captains of industry
fail to produce a toaster that can toast?

Perhaps more to the mark,
nature trains us to cooperate,
revealing the truth that beauty
is uniquely, even willfully, nonconformist,
as can be seen in any garden;
you can nurture and train,
but a garden will go its own way,
and even lowly weeds can flower
with unexpected beauty,
given their moment in the sun.

You’ve lived at the apex
of this age-old human battle
to best nature, and you’ve
tested your fulcrum against
the weight of normative fashion.

I’ve observed that
your preference has been
to lay paths that gently conform
to the soft contour of the natural setting;
there you’ve planted the aloe and reed,
and together we’ve released
butterflies into the wild
— letting go is the magic blessing
that allows beauty to bloom
as it will do.

This lesson in artful living
has not been lost on me,
and these feet of mine
find those paths,
from time to time.

It is in such times and places
where I find a classic order
that allows me to
feel my feet firmly planted
and to see just a little
of what lies ahead.

for Father’s Day

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen