Blessed are....

Who are the poor?

What are the hungry?

Where are the weeping?

Who is hated?

Why is any of this?

Who am I?

How great is Love?

Gospel

Lk 6:20-26

Raising his eyes toward his disciples Jesus said:

"Blessed are you who are poor,

for the Kingdom of God is yours.

Blessed are you who are now hungry,

for you will be satisfied.

Blessed are you who are now weeping,

for you will laugh.

Blessed are you when people hate you,

and when they exclude and insult you,

and denounce your name as evil

on account of the Son of Man.

Rejoice and leap for joy on that day!

Behold, your reward will be great in heaven.

For their ancestors treated the prophets

in the same way.

But woe to you who are rich,

for you have received your consolation.

But woe to you who are filled now,

for you will be hungry.

Woe to you who laugh now,

for you will grieve and weep.

Woe to you when all speak well of you,

for their ancestors treated the false prophets in this way."

A Poem about the end of Summer, the end of a Season

I am not achy today, but this poem reminds me of how well I know and embrace ache. Soulful woe that extends to limbs and translates in weepy gestures. A body that leans into walls, sighs in the driver's seat.

We must continue moving forward. Through this Summer, this season, into the Fall....

Yes!

Happy Friday!

Peace,

Melissa
.......................................................

"Three Songs at the End of Summer" by Jane Kenyon, from Collected Poems. © Graywolf Press, 2005. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Three Songs at the End of Summer

A second crop of hay lies cut
and turned. Five gleaming crows
search and peck between the rows.
They make a low, companionable squawk,
and like midwives and undertakers
possess a weird authority.

Crickets leap from the stubble,
parting before me like the Red Sea.
The garden sprawls and spoils.

Across the lake the campers have learned
to water ski. They have, or they haven't.
Sounds of the instructor's megaphone
suffuse the hazy air. "Relax! Relax!"

Cloud shadows rush over drying hay,
fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine.
The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod
brighten the margins of the woods.

Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts;
water, silver-still, and a vee of geese.

*

The cicada's dry monotony breaks
over me. The days are bright
and free, bright and free.

Then why did I cry today
for an hour, with my whole
body, the way babies cry?

*

A white, indifferent morning sky,
and a crow, hectoring from its nest
high in the hemlock, a nest as big
as a laundry basket...
In my childhood
I stood under a dripping oak,
while autumnal fog eddied around my feet,
waiting for the school bus
with a dread that took my breath away.

The damp dirt road gave off
this same complex organic scent.

I had the new books—words, numbers,
and operations with numbers I did not
comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled
by use, in a blue canvas satchel
with red leather straps.

Spruce, inadequate, and alien
I stood at the side of the road.
It was the only life I had.

Discerning Calls: To Teach or Not?

Divine People in this World!

I wrote and asked oodles of you for your prayers and support last week regarding this most recent invitation to return to the classroom as a teaching artist. Basically, I was wrestling with: Should I? Should I not?
Ack!

Plagued, I was. Blessed I was! As the question, or invitation to return --ON MY OWN TERMS -- seemed an absolute gift from God. It was! It is! As it gave me this great opportunity to revisit why I left the classroom in the first place and entertain the question, "Could I return, given the right conditions?"

Hmmm.......

Short answer: Nope. I cannot. But thank you very much!

Seriously! Thank you Tiffany Ingham Moore for inviting me to work with your team at Southwest High School. And thank you faith community and family around the globe for your good thoughts, prayers and loving queries.

Here's how I arrived at my decision.
Let me rephrase that:
Here's how God lead me to an answer:

Tuesday evening, following Monday's request for discernment support, I attended mass at the Visitation Monastery in North Minneapolis. Oh! It was a delightfully small ensemble of us gathered that evening in the living room of the Girard House to pray together and break open scripture, share bread, stories, and faith. As we waited for Bishop Pates to arrive to lead us in our service, I had the great pleasure of visiting with Linda, a dear friend and neighbor to the nuns, who I have grown close to over the past two years in my journey as a Visitation Companion.

On this evening, I made a simple inquiry into Linda's life and world, and what came pouring forth was something that would move me to a place of stillness, deep woe, ache, overwhelming wonder and love, anger and need for prayer....

Linda began by sharing bits from her day and her work as a foster mother. She told of the schedule she keeps the babes on, the routine of care, meals, naps, play, etc. All things she navigates in the course of her 6am - 8pm child-care hours.

It didn't seem a "chalant" thing (ie, it wasn't uttered in a nonchalant manner) that a challenge of her day existed in tending to the touching activities of one of the three year olds. It seems that this new child in her care (actually, her grandchild) had been inappropriately reaching and connecting with a one-year old babe in the house. By "inappropriate," Linda explained that it was of a sexually charged nature that this three year old went toward the 12 month old. Linda said she had to be super attentive. It made sense, though to her, she shared, because the toddler, her grandchild, had come just recently from another foster situation where she in fact had been inappropriately touched by a five year old. Linda said she couldn't afford to turn her head. She had to pay close attention.

After a short beat, my friend offered up the explanation that the 5 year old had been molested. This child was touched wrongly by a 12 year old.

And the dominoes in my heart tumbled:
Where does it stop?
Where did it begin?
Who is to blame?
What does a mother do?
What is foster care?
Who are we as witnesses?
Who am I as teacher?
What will come of this 3 year old? The 5 year old? The 12-year old? That baby of only 12 months? Will this be something they know of? Or will it recede in their bones? Will the residual scar or memory keep them from success? Will they know love? Will they know forgiveness? What is appropriate touch? What is appropriate? Where is God in this? What am I to do, other than pray?

The cycles of abuse and first hand knowledge of such terror were being shared here by my friend, before mass, in the space of simply waiting for service to start. Yes, all the while waiting for our priest and Bishop to arrive, this story came forward....

Linda didn't stop there. When we located ourselves in the living room, next to one another on the sofa, she shared of her recent trip to Omaha to tend to her other grandchildren and daughter's family. Her 14 year old grandson had been shot, and Linda went to spend a week next to him in the hospital. Last summer, her other grandson was murdered. After Linda left the bedside of her grandchild on Friday, her son-in-law was then murdered, shot in the drive through of Taco Bell.

Did I mention that this was the before-mass conversation?

***
Friends, I have to take a break here, and admit: I don't how to write about this stuff. I'm not sure it's even okay to. I'm not clear on what I'm supposed to note and what I'm supposed to leave alone. Trusting my heart here is really tough, too, because what I'm listening to is a person's life! This isn't just a "here's my day at the office" story. Or "Here's what I had for lunch." Or "Here's my tale of who came over to watch a movie last night and how much we laughed and cried." Good God! Would it be that! But no! This is a friend sharing something that is tragic! It's a kind of first-person witness to terror! This is an account of violence and death and overwhelming sorrow. And who am I to share this with anyone?

All I know is: it stops me squarely in my tracks.
I don't know any other way through this, but to write it down. And pray. And I guess that's what this blog is: my attempt at praying through the witness and navigation of life's circumstances, post-teaching in Minneapolis Public Schools.

***

That was Tuesday night of my week in discernment.

Then there was Wednesday. Hold everything. Because that was only part one of God working through the week and circumstances to speak to me.

Wednesday included an encounter with two former students of mine, that I'll just simply refer to as “Hungry” and “Poor.”

These beautiful young people showed up in the wake of a chance opening in my day, and asked that I might help them out. You can sort what they needed. Hungry wanted food. Poor wanted money. And Melissa, given her free time and suddenly free afternoon thought, "Why not? God, is this what I am supposed to be tending to?"

It seemed fairly so. I just tried to pay attention, love and trust in that moment and that I’d be lead.

Please note: I don't mean to take a flippant turn here in the telling of this tale of discernment, but that's kind of where I go: to flipping out! Because what ensued on Wednesday was pure insanity! Well, not PURE insanity, but surely a bit on the "this-makes-no-sense" scale of things!

Poor asked that I drive him to get a check for $15,000. I don't question this young man ever on such details, for the simple fact that I'm not quite sure that I'll ever get a straight answer. I choose to simply acknowledge the request for help, without pushing for details. In this case, he needed a ride to collect a check. I have a car. I thought, "Okay. This is reasonable and easy enough, and I'm free to do this with him. God be with us."

What I didn't expect was Hungry wanting to tag along. And that was because I didn't know Hungry was hungry. I thought perhaps she was just bored.

But we set out, and this is the course of things:

1. We needed to first stop and collect Poor's Driver's License. (Presumably to collect check and cash it. It was at a location in North Minneapolis, and not in this young man's person for whatever reason.)
2. Then we needed to go to St. Louis Park, the originally agreed upon destination.
3. Poor forgot the address. He asked to use my phone, since his day time minutes were out. I agreed for an agreed upon time limit. He called to check on address, as Hungry, in the back seat was chiming in her recollection of where this sizeable check was located. There was a dispute over the location, but I was trusting we’d get there. (How can one not know where a $15,000 check is?)
4. We drive. And drive.
5. The address we go to is in the middle of a residential neighborhood. This feels very strange and wrong. I have questions that start to scream in my head.
6. Poor goes to the door of house to inquire about the check. He encounters a man and a dog.
7. When he returns to the car, he is spouting death threats to the owner of the house.
8. Hungry in the back seat starts rallying, "I told you it wasn't that address!" I find the calmest voice in my body and ask, "What is this check for? Who is it from? An employer? What was the job? Or is this from a government organization? What?" Poor shares now that this is something he is doing as a favor for another person, a girl, who just moved to Texas. I cannot really hear any more. I put the car in drive. I ask God to give me patience.

9. Next, we try the address Hungry recalls. It is also wrong.
10. I turn the car around and point us to the closest commercial area I see. We pull into a strip mall, and as I'm getting ready to announce this adventure of aid is to be over, when Poor announces, "THIS IS IT! That's the name of the person I'm supposed to get the check from! It's there on the marquis." We are at a law office.
11. When Poor goes in to collect check, I start asking Hungry how life is, what's going on with her, etc. I feel God must be in this moment, and perhaps this dear is along for the ride so that we might simply have this time to visit and learn from one another. As we wait for Poor, Hungry confesses her identity to me, and her recent string of bad luck with living, family, work, and grocery shopping. She hasn't eaten today, and won’t have money until a week from Friday.
12. Poor returns, without a check, and shares that the lawyer – who is holding the check - is in arbitration and won't be out for 45 minutes.
13. I announce that we are going home!

Deep breathe. The trip is not over. What happens next is surreal. As I turn up MPR, and we listen to the news of the Utah Senator who propositioned another man in the bathroom of the Minneapolis/ St. Paul airport. In the space of our ten minute trip home, Poor and Hungry end up in a screaming match that feels like a 45 minute debate on ethics and leadership, on who should lose their job, how one should conduct themselves in any work position, and who is at fault. I enter feebly into this with questions about having compassion and not judging others, that go un-addressed.

All I want in those last moments in the car, is that compassion happen for me. I realize that I have to take care of myself, that these two are battling demons as large as the names I’ve given them, or come to see them as in the days since, and I cannot solve any of their problems. All I can do is witness. Pray. Love. Take care of myself.

And so: in the space of about another four hours that day, I realize that I cannot go back into a classroom. It is through a weepy, wondering, wanting, woeful conversation with my friend Colette, that I’m coached back to clarity:

“Melissa, ” Coey says, “You are clear. No amount of money offered to you is going to be enough. You don’t want to live like this, working through these stories, or thinking you have to solve them. Ask yourself, ‘What is your free time for?’”

And good God, there was the voice of God in my friend, Ms. Colette Deharpporte! She was helping me acknowledge my own kind of hard-wiring. My own frail infrastructure that is simultaneously weak and strong, and has a tendency to get tripped up, fried, broken down when I encounter such circumstances in our world. Yeah, I get to this place that manifests as unhealthy anger and rage as I think somehow I need to FIX humanity! I know that even though I cannot fix anyone or anything, that I cannot place myself in situations as educator where my task and challenge is to instruct and offer, shape or inspire a being toward a better place.

Ack! Tough. Too tough! And that’s NOT what I’ve been called to do.

I’m here as a witness. As a writer. As a person of prayer and love and compassion. I’m an aspiring “Warrior of non-aggression”, as the Buddhist Nun Pema Chodron refers to this; someone called to enter the fire and not have to put it out, but simply pay attention, take note and hold compassion and love in the flames of great injustice, woe, poverty, war, hunger, sorrow. I’m here to witness. Not teach or have to overcome anything. Someone else much greater than me already has done that. No need for bad sequels.

Prayerfully,
Melissa

Good things: Here. Now!

I can hear Julie Strahan and Ann Shallbetter singing this psalm. I'm at the Church of St. Philip's in North Minneapolis on a Sunday morning, and my old choir director and dear faith friend are leading us all in this sung prayer. And it reminds me that God is here. And that the author knew fear and refuge, darkness and light, sorrow and joy, ALL RIGHT HERE. And that makes my heart a tad less heavy and able to lean into promise, into melody, into Love.

Peace, Blessings, Courage to all!
Melissa


Ps 27:1, 4, 13-14

R. (13) I believe that I shall see the good things of the Lord in the land of the living.
The LORD is my light and my salvation;
whom should I fear?
The LORD is my life’s refuge;
of whom should I be afraid?

R. I believe that I shall see the good things of the Lord in the land of the living.
One thing I ask of the LORD;
this I seek:
To dwell in the house of the LORD
all the days of my life,
That I may gaze on the loveliness of the LORD
and contemplate his temple.

R. I believe that I shall see the good things of the Lord in the land of the living.
I believe that I shall see the bounty of the LORD
in the land of the living.
Wait for the LORD with courage;
be stouthearted, and wait for the LORD.

R. I believe that I shall see the good things of the Lord in the land of the living.

Lunch!

Friends,

I must share today's lunch:

It needs some kind of name other than "yummy salad with bacon and lettuce and tomato". (If you come up with something, let me know!)

Slice Cucumbers and onions into bowl. Salt and pepper. Dress in Mayo and Vinegar. Set aside.
Microwave three slices of turkey bacon, cut into squared smaller pieces.
Slice three to four lettuce leaves, assemble on plate.
Add salted avocado and tomato.
Layer with cucumber and onion.
Top with bacon and fresh cilantro.

Serve salad with a grilled tortilla and iced tea.

Yummy!

Love!
Melissa

Prayer of Oscar Romero

Friends, Fam, Loves,

I love this prayer. It's liberating. I read it and breathe. I sigh and then inhale deeply -- and laugh!

I share it with keen knowledge of the soil, seeds, sun, and awareness of God's grace.

Peace,

Melissa

...............................................

The Prayer of Oscar Romero

"It helps now and then to step back and take the long view" - wise words from Archbishop Oscar Romero. The Archbishop served the people of El Salvador and was assassinated in 1980 while he was saying mass in San Salvador.

It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.

The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying
that the kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.

We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation
in realizing that. This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well. It may be incomplete,
but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results, but that is the difference
between the master builder and the worker.

We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.
Amen.

Traveling Home: Seeing God in a semi-truck

I wonder if I will ever tire of how I feel lead by God?

Hmmmm......

Yesterday, I was traveling back from Omaha, Nebraska, through Iowa,
home to St. Paul via Inter-states 80 and 35. I spent the first hour
in silence, enjoying the rural landscape outside Council Bluffs:
rolling farm lands, terraced fields, green crops of corn and beans,
all lovely and breathtaking.

I like being silent on road trips. At least for a sweet portion of my
journey. Ever since I started reading Pema Chodron and learned about
this meditation practice called, "tonglen" I've been intentional
about using my car-time to breathe in the icks and ills and ouchies
of the world, and transform them sending out love and
compassion....It's a good use of time for me, and has lead to some
incredible insights, thoughts, emotions and memories coming forward...

But yesterday, not unlike other tonglen-road-trip-times, I had not
only the awe of inspired thought, but an experience of grace that
felt so completely of God, as the elements of the Universe seemingly
broke open to hit me on the head with LOVE already! Or what seemed:
the renewed promises of LOVE!

But I must back up to before I felt the "LOVE" and was more so in the
space of the "FEAR."

Yes.

It was on 80 that I first noticed some scary things. These scary
items were blown rubber tires littering the highway. I saw at least 5
vehicles in total on both sides of the 4 lane divided roadway,
parked, and wheelless. Drivers pulling out their spares, jacks drawn
and replacement or repair taking place. It was sorta frightening, as
I sped down the interstate going next to 80 mph, and imagining what
my Honda CR-V would look like if it blew a tire. Would I go tumbling
sideways? Roll dramatically over and into the ditch? Would things get
scratched? Would there be an explosion of air bags in the car as the air in my
wheels burst outside?

Why do tires explode, after all? Did someone drop a load of nails?
Were there broken bottles strewn over the pavement? What?

I sent a prayer request to a friend via text, and one to God, and
asked that I navigate safely, get home without having anything explode.

Okay. So, intentional and faith-aligned enough I was along Interstate
80. That was just the first third of my route.

Next: came the stormy part north of Des Moines, on 35. When I say,
"stormy" I may be down playing this a bit. (Today, checking out the
headlines and news of flash floods and six people dead in Southern
Minnesota, I think I am pretty fortunate to report the following.)

Dark clouds. Thunder. Lightening. Torrential downpour. Vision limited
to 5 feet in front of a vehicle, if only and only if a person had SUPER FAST WIPERS!
Nothing else but blackness and a thick sea of water pouring over me.

I have been in such treacherous driving conditions before. I have.
Maybe like twice:

1. Once, outside of Lincoln, Nebraska, when I was 23 or 24, coming
back to Omaha from a Cornhusker game or from a sales call...(In my
former life.) I had to pull over and park it for a good hour, until
the storm cleared.

2. And then the second time, in my early 30's, trying to make my way

through a Winter weather storm in February to attend my girlfriend
Suzann's wedding reception in Norfolk. Yes, instead of a sea of rain,
I was immersed in a continent of snow. That time, I followed a semi-
truck home. The trip that normally took 6 hours, required 9 -- of behind-
the-wheel, white-knuckled concentration. I made it safely, and got a
good toast out of the whole thing, recognizing then that God shows up
in the craziest of places. In this case: I felt the Divine in the taillights
of the 18-wheeler, leading me home. Just like it seemed God had lead
this couple Suzann and Brook to their wedding, against a storm of
fears and concerns and questions. (They are still happily married,
thank you!)

On this trip yesterday, as vehicle after vehicle pulled off the
pavement to park in the grass or shoulder along the interstate, I
asked for guidance. And voila! A semi pulled ahead of me. While I
drove going only 25 - 40mph an hour for the next 60 minutes, I felt
safe. Calm. And completely knew I was only managing to stay moving,
so long as I was being lead. Again, God in the tail lights keeping me
on the raod.

A couple times during this portion of the trip, my semi-truck and his
precious lights got a bit ahead of me, switched lanes, and it felt
like he was going to zoom off and disappear, but I stayed close. And
I was able to steer and stay centered in my lane for as long as the
storm continued.

When my semi turned on his blinker and made way to exit around Story
City, I noticed that suddenly the sun reappeared. Peeked through the
black skies, and viola! The rain let up.

As the truck moved right onto the exit ramp, leaving me almost
completely alone on this road, I was able to read the side of his
rig, "Sea Star." It made me smile.

Within about two minutes, I turned off my wipers as the sky
transformed itself. Sun light in yellow to grey hues, emerging from
the black clouds, lit up the fields. I could clearly see the corn and
beans again. This time, they too appeared transformed, new, story-
book/ movie-scene like: aglow in this post-storm magical light.

And then the whopper: That mythical Noah-and-his-ark-after-the -flood
gift: I got a rainbow. A full blown fully semi-circle rainbow. And
just because God likes to show off and double up on this promise to
take care of us, our hearts, our lands, our lives: He gave me two of
them! Like one was embracing the other, saying, "Yeah, I know you are
bright and strong and arching these Iowa fields in a poetic fashion.
Fabulous. Now, let me just shadow you. Shine alongside. My colors
aren't going to be as intense, but I'm here, mirroring your beauty and
presence."

It all made me very, very happy. And, perhaps not unlike Noah, love
God for His/Her promises. I like the big ways that God manifests in the
natural world. I am especially grateful for how even when I am
laughing and ready to shirk off my perceived sense of the Divine --
as simply being Melissa-ridiculousness, this Creator shows up and
presents a double wammy that seems to confirm His/ Her unwavering
presence in the world.

Gotta say "Thank you!" And "Amen."
Peace,
Melissa

Prayer from Jane de Chantal

Peeps:

Jane de Chantal co-founded the Visitation Sisters, (the rocking order of nuns that I have the privilege of being a Companion to in North Minneapolis.) I know many teachers are gearing up and going back into their classrooms, and the rest of us are mucking and milling about in busy, hectic lives.

I offer this as a short meditation, inviting peace and good energy to flow within, all around.

"Set your soul at liberty,

in peace and calm.

Withdraw it from the taste and slavery

of its own working and do not disturb it

with care and anxiety,

either from above or below....

for the sooner it refrains from that,

the sooner it will arrive at that holy calm, and more abundantly....

In this holy rest, affection expands."

--St. Jane de Chantal

Peace, Love,

Melissa

On Success vs. Faithfulness: Juxtaposing some Holy Peoples' Words

Good God, how this all speaks to me! Henri Nouwen, Some apostle writing to the Hebrews, and Luke in his Gospel.

Let this be my own kind of Gospel. Yes, the Gospel according to Melissa.

The Gospel According to Melissa's wondering and wandering spirit, questioning and desiring heart:

What is success? What is faith? How is a faithful life measured? What evidence do we require to know we are on the right path? What are we responsible for? What aren't we responsible for? How can we tell the difference? How do we discern our path? How does evolution of our hearts and spirits, souls happen? Is evolution something anyone else thinks about as they choose relationships, as they love? What does Henri know about the transformational power of love? What did he experience in his lifetime? How did Jesus' apostles get burned and grow? How am I like them? How am I like Abraham? How are we all Abraham and the Apostles, ancestors incarnated, wondering and wanting and awakening ourselves to Love?

Hmmm.....

The following is a Fr. Henri Nouwen passage that arrived in my email in-box this morning, juxtaposed with some of yesterday's scripture readings.

I underlined the parts of the Letter to the Hebrews and Luke's Gospel that tickled something inside me.

Maybe they will speak to you. Do respond if something speaks to you!

Love,

Melissa
........................................

Trusting in the Fruits
We belong to a generation that wants to see the results of our work. We want to be productive and see with our own eyes what we have made. But that is not the way of God's Kingdom. Often our witness for God does not lead to tangible results. Jesus himself died as a failure on a cross. There was no success there to be proud of. Still, the fruitfulness of Jesus' life is beyond any human measure. As faithful witnesses of Jesus we have to trust that our lives too will be fruitful, even though we cannot see their fruit. The fruit of our lives may be visible only to those who live after us. What is important is how well we love. God will make our love fruitful, whether we see that fruitfulness or not. -- Fr. Henri Nouwen

Reading II

Heb 11:1-2, 8-19 or 11:1-2, 8-12

Brothers and sisters:

Faith is the realization of what is hoped for

and evidence of things not seen.

Because of it the ancients were well attested.

By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out to a place

that he was to receive as an inheritance;

he went out, not knowing where he was to go.

By faith he sojourned in the promised land as in a foreign country,

dwelling in tents with Isaac and Jacob, heirs of the same promise;

for he was looking forward to the city with foundations,

whose architect and maker is God.

By faith he received power to generate,

even though he was past the normal age

—and Sarah herself was sterile—

for he thought that the one who had made the promise was

trustworthy.

So it was that there came forth from one man,

himself as good as dead,

descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky

and as countless as the sands on the seashore.

Gospel

Lk 12:32-48 or 12:35-40

Jesus said to his disciples:

"Do not be afraid any longer, little flock,

for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom.

Sell your belongings and give alms.

Provide money bags for yourselves that do not wear out,

an inexhaustible treasure in heaven

that no thief can reach nor moth destroy.

For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be.

"Gird your loins and light your lamps

and be like servants who await their master's return from a wedding,

ready to open immediately when he comes and knocks.

Blessed are those servants

whom the master finds vigilant on his arrival.

Amen, I say to you, he will gird himself,

have them recline at table, and proceed to wait on them.

And should he come in the second or third watch

and find them prepared in this way,

blessed are those servants.

Be sure of this:

if the master of the house had known the hour

when the thief was coming,

he would not have let his house be broken into.

You also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect,

the Son of Man will come."

Then Peter said,

"Lord, is this parable meant for us or for everyone?"

And the Lord replied,

"Who, then, is the faithful and prudent steward

whom the master will put in charge of his servants

to distribute the food allowance at the proper time?

Blessed is that servant whom his master on arrival finds doing so.

Truly, I say to you, the master will put the servant

in charge of all his property.

But if that servant says to himself,

'My master is delayed in coming,'

and begins to beat the menservants and the maidservants,

to eat and drink and get drunk,

then that servant's master will come

on an unexpected day and at an unknown hour

and will punish the servant severely

and assign him a place with the unfaithful.

That servant who knew his master's will

but did not make preparations nor act in accord with his will

shall be beaten severely;

and the servant who was ignorant of his master's will

but acted in a way deserving of a severe beating

shall be beaten only lightly.

Much will be required of the person entrusted with much,

and still more will be demanded of the person entrusted with more."

Finished Review!!! (Arts Ed around the Globe)

Beloved People,

Help me celebrate!

I just finished writing this review for the Teaching Artist Journal, published at Columbia College in Chicago. The "Resource Roundup" section is edited by my dear poet-friend-colleague, Becca Barniskis, who asked me months ago to write a review on "The Wow Factor: Global research compendium on the impact of the arts in education" by Anne Bamford.*

Lalala! Fancy case study and research on arts education from around the globe. Hey hey! I am a global person. I like art. I am a teacher. This seemed to sort of be a good fit. ?!

So, of course now I want to share this with everyone I know! Because I'm so thrilled to be done! And because Becca Barniskis is probably the BEST EDITOR I've ever met in my life. The woman makes me sound smarter and smoother than I am. (Not funnier ---but definitely more CONCISE!)

What follows is a tiny excerpt from the review and a quote from the book on this Namibian concept, "Ngoma" - which ROCKS MY WORLD!

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At the heart of this global analysis, we need to be able to articulate how and why teaching in and through the arts is an important thing. "The results of this world study suggest that a community—and education—pays a clear price for "blind" practices." Part of our job (as teachers, artists, administrators, policy makers) is not to be blind. We begin by first and foremost naming for ourselves the value of an education in and through the arts. Here is an example from Namibia:

The Namibian Term, "Ngoma" sees the arts as being a united whole. While this same term can mean any one of the art forms, (e.g dance, music, visual arts and drama) it also stands for the communication between the arts and spirit. Ngoma can also mean "drum", but under this notion it implies the rhythm or beat of a drum that charges life with energy. It implies a transformation, where the individual becomes transformed by the arts. It encompasses the individual becoming part of the community, linking the past with the future, the heaven with earth, ancestors to children, and the mind to the spirit. The term Ngoma also implies that the action of the arts has a purpose or function larger than the art form itself. It prepares the individual and community for the task, be those tasks the mundane or the profound, the educative and spiritually enlightening. Ngoma also sees the arts as integral to society (p. 51).

Couldn't we all benefit from adopting such a philosophy?!

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Had to share! Go buy the book, or order the Teaching Artist Journal!! (The entire review will probably go to print in 5 or 6 months!)

Smiles, Good times!

Melissa

*The Wow Factor: Global Research Compendium on the Impact of the Arts in Education

By Anne Bamford

Waxmann, 2006

ISBN 3-8309-1617-5

EUR 24.90, paperback

The Kindness of a Poem

This poem made me almost giggle when I first read it. Yeah, the word "hedgehog" makes me sort of smirk. Want to cackle or gasp with the goofiness it calls up. I keep thinking of Bill-What's-His-Name?-Murray- in Caddyshack. Hedgehog hedgehog hedgehog. A dead hedgehog. (Or was it a gopher in that flick?) Regardless, you get my point.

But the poem has a decidedly different tone than that Bill Murray comedy. Perhaps it's more of a "Rushmore" or "Lost in Translation" Bill Murray poem.

Yes. There's a darkness here. A sweetness here. A message here. A religion here. A recipe here for post-death-mourning-rage-anger-peace.

Kindness is the call of the poet.

While there is still time, let's be kind.

Poem: "The Mower" by Philip Larkin, from Collected Poems. © Farrar, Straus, Giroux. Reprinted with permission.
(buy now)

The Mower

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.

A Little Alfred

Beautiful People,

If pithy quotes and sayings don't do it for you, perhaps a bit of poetry from the Public Domain? This too arrived this morning in my email, and took me to departures, moves, sorrows, woes. "In Memoriam" is like "in memory of" - right? And we can all relate to thinking on things from the past, from memory, with a desire to pay tribute to such thoughts, love, hopes, dreams...yes? What I so love and appreciate is where Alfred goes in the 8th verse. I don't know if Lord Tennyson was a Catholic, but he sure as shoot believed in something Divine!

Blessings this day!

Melissa

Poem: excerpts from "In Memoriam" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

excerpts from In Memoriam

ii

Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasped no more—
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly through the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.

viii

Love is and was my Lord and King,
And in his presence I attend
To hear the tidings of my friend,
Which every hour his couriers bring.

Love is and was my King and Lord,
And will be, though as yet I keep
Within his court on earth, and sleep
Encompassed by his faithful guard,

And hear at times a sentinel
Who moves about from place to place,
And whispers to the worlds of space,
In the deep night, that all is well.

"Tell Me" (A poem about a homeless person that is all of us)

I love this poem.

Reminds me of sitting at Moe's Bagels in downtown Denver yesterday, 7 feet from a homeless man wearing a New York Knick's winter jacket, and drinking soda out of a Starbuck's plastic cup. I thought,

"This man and I were created by the same benevolent God. Why does he sit on the ground? Why do I sit in a chair? What is it like to ask for money from strangers? I wonder if he struggles loving himself? What are the choices or decisions of his day? How does he decide to sit here, or where to go next? What does it feel like when someone turns their head away from him? Can he feel the love I have for him?"

I watched him stand, and then had to laugh at his re-arranging of his gear. Namely, the very public way he tugged at his underwear. I thought,

"Yes, when I've sat in a space for a long while, things ride up my ass, too."

Smiles.

God made both of us. All of us.

LOVE!

Poem: "Tell Me" by Anne Pierson Wiese, from Floating City: Poems. © Louisiana State University Press, 2007. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Tell Me

There are many people who spend their nights

on the subway trains. Often one encounters

them on the morning commute, settled in corners,

coats over their heads, ragged possessions heaped

around themselves, trying to remain in their own night.

This man was already up, bracing himself against

the motion of the train as he folded his blanket

the way my mother taught me, and donned his antique blazer,

his elderly, sleep-soft eyes checking for the total effect.

Whoever you are-tell me what unforgiving series

of moments has added up to this one: a man

making himself presentable to the world in front

of the world, as if life has revealed to him the secret

that all our secrets from one another are imaginary.