Poem written by Lucille Clifton

"i am accused of tending to the past"
       by  Lucille Clifton

i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it,
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands.  i did not.
this past was waiting for me
when i came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and i with my mother's itch took it to breast
and named it
History.
she is more human now,
learning languages everyday,
remembering faces, names an dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.

[Lucille Clifton b. 1936 d. 2010, was a phenomenal poet who wrote about feminist and African American themes.]

Waking Confusion

I awake in my bed this morning, not yours.
My legs search for the luxury of your warmth in vain.
Back and forth your house mine.
Were it not for precise schedules long discussed
written down
schedules not remembered
without a book
we could not track whose bed we sleep in.

One, two nights at the most we sleep alone
else the hunger for your touch
slay me.

I used to wallow in time

Time.....a commodity 
a cognitive construct 
a shaping of reality
a shaping of sanctity
a figment of our imagination
relative

too little
too late
right on
not enough
too much 
does anyone ever have too much
what to do with it all
waiting
rushing
too busy
just enough

When I am with you
there is never enough
When I am with you
it is suspended
in the exquisite 
present

When I am not with you
I wait
I long for....breathless
I hunger for....breathless
time with you

I used to wallow in time
some days it felt oppressive
the   l-o-n-g   s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-s
of sorrow

The sorrow is long past
its intensity will not enable
forgetting

But it now enables 
relishing
sweetness
sweetness
glory in Gratitude
for my Time with you

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel......Siddur Extracts

Below are two beautiful pieces I encountered in my Siddur at yesterday's Saturday Morning Service;
written by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel.

We are a people in whom the past endures,
in whom the present is inconceivable without
moments gone by.
The Exodus lasted a moment, a moment enduring forever.
What happened once upon a time happens all the time.


A thought has blown the market place away.
There is a song on the wind and joy in the trees.
Shabbat arrives in the world, scattering
a song in the silence of the night:
Eternity utters a day.

Profound and Sacred

May our intimacies always be
    profound and sacred.

Profound and sacred sharing of our
Past
Pain
Joy
Fear

Present
Concerns
Hurts
Neglect

Present 
Touch Touch Touch
Lips
Skin
Fingers
Hands

Present 
Laughter
More Laughter
Joy
Tears
Awe

Sacred Calling In The Divine
as witness to what we share
what we Create.

Sacred Sharing
Touching
Lips
Skin
Fingers
Hands

Sacred Praise and Blessing for
         This Gift of You.

The Rotten State of USA Spending to Prevent Disease

I'll be talking to 60 women tomorrow about my favorite topic: nutrition.  Was asked to speak by one of the women who has previously attended my class, Your Body's Grace.

In preparation, I decided to include statistics regarding number of fatal deaths caused by chronic disease (the exact type of deaths directly affected by nutrition, or lack of).
Next I looked up number of automobile fatalities.  And lastly, I compared the budgets of the two government agencies responsible for disease prevention, and prevention of auto deaths.  

Here are my very disturbing results (and please note that my data comes directly from government information available on the web):

Traffic Deaths (most current numbers available are from 2011) =
32,300 persons.

The National Highway Traffic and Safety Administration proposed budget for 2013 = $981 million ($981,000,000).
Thus we spend approximately $30,370 for each traffic death in USA.


Chronic Disease Deaths (most current numbers available are from 2010) =
1,513,000 persons.  I've detailed this number below:

598,000 persons died from cardiac disease 
575,000 persons died from cancer
138,000 persons died from chronic respiratory disease
                                      (e.g. COPD)
130,000 persons died from stroke
 83,000 persons died from Alzheimer's Disease
 69,000 persons died from diabetes
 50,000 persons died from renal disease
total: 1,513,000 deaths from chronic (preventable) disease

The Centers for Disease Control & Prevention proposed budget for 2013 =
$11.2 billion ($11,200,000,000).
Thus we spend approximately $7,400 for each chronic disease death.

We're spending 4.1 x more for each traffic death compared to each preventable death.
For chronic disease prevention, we spend less than a quarter of what we spend for traffic fatalities.

Traffic deaths equal only 2% of our chronic disease deaths, yet we spend over 4 times as much money for traffic death prevention.

Something is very very rotten in Denmark (the U.S.A.).

Gratitude

Take nothing for granted
and your heart will always
be grateful.

Pockets

Does anyone notice that women's pockets are shrinking, almost disappearing?
Used to be that the expression: "put your hands in your pockets" had meaning for both genders.  Both boys and girls could find soft comfort, refuge, in that extra layer of cloth nestled between skin and outer fabric.

I did when I was young.  Putting my hands in my pockets and suddenly everything was better.  The depth and warmth of the pocket provided security; a place to snuggle cold hands on a frosty day.  A place to put shy hands, hands that could not express inner feelings, because my mouth could not express inner feelings.
I had no tools for cogent expression.  So hands were able to hide, become invisible, because I was invisible.

Later it became a place to put my hands while striding the world in confidence.  A part of my learned toughness.  I could walk down Manhattan streets humming or singing, hands in pockets, happy to feel the cement under my feet, see the sky and feel the rush of air as I hurried along, sure of my mission.  

And they held things.  The found bottle cap just right for putting black top sidewalk tar into for that later game of Skeelzies.  The piece of string which for sure will come in handy...sometime.  The coins to buy penny pretzels and Italian lemon ices.  My pink Spalding ball for our game of stick ball. And, after a near rape, my rabbit's foot and small pocket knife.  That little knife gave me strength.  I knew I'd be able to fend off the blue suited man white penis outside who came at me and were it not for my eight year old legs warp speed climbing six flights of stairs would have had his way.

Today pockets are either non-existent or have shrunk to such size that barely fingers can explore their contents.  A full hand, even to above the wrist, no longer fully fits.  It is women's pockets which have suddenly become too dainty for use.  For comfort.  For practicality.  Men's pockets are deep and many.

I keep a half score of the "old fashioned" pants, those without stretch fabric, with narrow waist, pleats below the belt loops, full hips and narrow bottoms. And with deep, wrist high, pockets.  I keep these out of fashion wonders to wear while kicking around my house.  Can't be caught dead in the "real" world in a pair.

In truth, I keep them to remind me of REAL pockets.  And how wonderful it feels to thrust my hand into that layer of fabric between my skin and the world.

Progress

Our aunt Veronica fed strays,
cats, dogs, she loved them all.
But did not claim them for neutering.
This is how it was done in Bucsa, Hungary
where she spent her formative years.
When the cats bred, she took the large
metal basin, filled it with water and
drowned the hours old souls.
Not from cruelty, just from unconscious habit.

My brother Rudy recently found four stray
kittens on his acre in Nevada.
Abandoned by their mother.
One I took home. 
Kahtohm, the orange tabby, is now my pride and joy.
One went missing, presumed eaten by the
coyotes who must also eat and breed,
who may have eaten their mother.

The two remaining have been kept,
grudgingly, by my brother and his wife.
In an unheated back room
which is warmer
than the dry, frigid Nevada nights.

Yesterday was the day to take these two
remaining kittens to the shelter --
for their care or killing --
it would not be on my brother's soul.

A county shelter refused them, they were born
in the city.
The city shelter wanted twenty precious dollars
each, for transfer of responsibility, 
being sure to note that they'd soon be put to death 
if no one adopted them.

My brother, also raised in Bucsa and well used to
the routine slaughter of creatures said,
"Well for forty dollars, I can wring their necks myself!"

But he wouldn't; and didn't.

These two strays remain his, and are now part of our family.