Wednesday, April 20, 2011


I am walking on a desert highway beside Steve. We're in the midst of a crowd of people walking the same highway, all walking in the same direction and there is not a car in sight. Just people. We're walking with purpose, but slowly. We're tired, but not trudging. I am outside of myself, as it is in the way of dreams, and yet I am also myself. It's a familiar place, also the way of dreams. The conscious me wonders maybe then, or maybe wonders in the memory of the dream. Did I see this place in a movie? Did I see it from a car window? I don't know. It all - the dream, the setting - has the feel of familiarity, of significance, and perhaps that's why I'm reminded of it on occasion for twenty years or more.

We're walking with people we've never met and no one is talking, yet there is communion. There is no soundtrack. There is silence. The me outside of me sees the road and the people as moving from the left to the right, then sees an explosion directly in front of me, which is to the left of the dream me. Everyone is aware of the soundless explosion, the iconic mushroom cloud fills my sight and I am now the dream me. The explosion is far away, but I fall to my knees along with the people.

The mushroom cloud expands. I see me on my knees, the forward motion of falling puts me slightly in front of Steve. I see that he does not fall. He stands watching.

The me on my knees, aware of his upright presence behind, wishes I had his courage. I wish to stand with him and then the dream ends.


I am in Haiti, holding a sleeping toddler after the feeding of a hundred or more, and the children run about and the music blares and I stand in response to the words. She, movement and dancing, smiles some words about this song and I say out loud how can you not respond.

I stand and I sway and I pat a fully clothed diaperless bottom.

This is no dream.


We learn about Seder from one who spends his life in knowing tradition and I hear as if for the first time about looking back and looking forward and repentance and joy. And there is communion and I wait for joy. There is a woman and a guitar and a song of response.

It is the same song. Of course it is.

How can I not respond?

I stand.


Days of Elijah
by Robin Mark

These are the days of Elijah
Declaring the Word of the Lord
And these are the days of Your servant Moses
Righteousness being restored
And though these are days of great trials
Of famine and darkness and sword
Still we are the voice in the desert crying
Prepare ye the way of the Lord

Behold He comes riding on the clouds
Shining like the sun at the trumpet call
Lift your voice it's the year of Jubilee
Out of Zion's hill salvation comes

And these are the days of Ezekiel
The dry bones becoming as flesh
And these are the days of Your servant David
Rebuilding a temple of praise
And these are the days of the harvest
The fields are as white in your world
And we are Your laborers in Your vineyard
Declaring the Word of the Lord

Behold He comes riding on the clouds
Shining like the sun at the trumpet call
Lift your voice it's the year of Jubilee
Out of Zion's hill salvation comes

Thursday, April 14, 2011

The White Way of Delight

State Street in spring.

"But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight." -- L.M. Montgomery

Thank you, Anne.