"Who lives? Who dies? Who tells your story?"  - lyrics from the musical Hamilton
 
"History has its eyes on you." - lyrics from the musical Hamilton
 
"When historians pick up their pens to write the story of the 21st century,
let them say that it was your generation who laid down the heavy burdens
of hate at last and that peace finally triumphed over violence, agression and war.
So I say to you, walk with the wind, brothers and sisters, and let the spirit of peace
and the power of everlasting love be your guide."
                                                - John Lewis, Congressman, in letter to be published on day of his funeral
 
I believe in the power of love.  Love is the wind that is surely blowing through these times as surely as fear and hatred. We can choose love or the other evil wind will choose us.  Choose love today and walk with it.  Wake up tomorrow and choose love again.  That is how we can shape these present days and tell historians how to pen our story.  
                                                   -debgrant, to the ELOGOS list on this day in history, July 30, 2020 

​Scattered yet gathered by debgrant
 
This morning 
I held my old dog in my lap
while her morning pain meds
did their magic, 
soothing her pain
with my presence
until she lifted her nose
that could smell anything 
a thousand mile away
to say
"Is that breakfast in my dish?"
 
This morning
I read a NYT Op-Ed
by a Lutheran pastor* 
about the pandemic's
affects on the church,
what being scattered does
to a people who have only
imagined one way to do
communion. 
 
This morning
I recalled a short video**
by a young science fan using
a football field to offer
a visual view of the
the history of the earth. 
SPOILER ALERT: 
The part that includes humans is 
a tiny blip. Our own life span is
not visible to the human eye. 
 
This morning
I did the very best 
I could to ease the pain 
in one of the earth's little creatures.
I ached for the re-imagination of
the Gospel road.
I remember how big this world is
and that the Energy and Spirit that 
created that world is bigger still.
As we are scattered,
may we
remember who we are,
where we are, 
where we have been
and who is with us.
Our gathering is a journey
easing pain where we can
including our own. 
 
 
* NYT Op- ED Emily Scott
**YouTube History of World Football Field
###
 

​Presence by debgrant
 
Presence was described 
to me once 
in this way.
 
To be present to an object,
let's say a chair,
requires little of me.
Perhaps to regard its location
just enough 
so I don't miss it entirely as I sit
and fall on my butt.
A chair asks nothing, feels nothing.
It does its duty. It asks nothing
of me. I trust it to remain a chair
for the duration of my visit. 
 
To be present to a work of art,
let's say, van Gogh's Starry Night,
requires no more than a chair.
It is an object of paint and canvas.
However,
if we want to be present to it,
to what the artist offers,
it requires more of us. 
Time, a sense of wonder,
questions & thought, isolation of the brushstrokes,
the choice of colors, the impression, 
the feeling.
Then it makes its mark
upon us, more than a chair, more than
the pigment spread
on fabric and frame.
Beauty touches us.  
 
To be present to a stranger,
let's say like in an elevator,
requires more of us than chair or painting. 
We are both human creatures,
masterpieces of the
same artist. We are mystery.
We share the tiny acreage for 
a short ride. Never long enough to 
make acquaintance but long enough
to be present to the energy of our
vulnerability and curiosity. 
 
To be present to a human love 
requires the most 
and gives the most.
It is exhausting.
Frustrating.
Electric.
Joyous. 
Life-draining and giving.
 
To be present to a love
is also a choice and a freedom.
We can treat one another like a chair.
We can regard one another distantly as a work of art.
We can stand fully, temporarily, and separate, respecting the mystery.
We can open ourselves to the other and risk
letting go of everything but love. 
 
What if....
God so loves.
What if....
God is willing to be present
in every way, in any way,
even as the chair beneath us
in this moment. 
What if....
in this moment, we are in the presence
of life's finest mystery,
of life defining love?
 
###
 

​Metastasis by debgrant
 
There are words 
that invade us 
with their power
to secrete juices
that alert us 
to join the battle. 
 
So many I know
have heard those words,
felt the hot flow of magma fear.
Lump, biopsy, malignant, tumor, tumors,
metastasis. 
 
Inoperative.  That one is hard on the soul.
Our first instinct is to cut it out. 
Open the hood. Pull out the broken part.
Close the hood.  Heal. Get back on
with your life. Back to normal.
 
Chemotherapy. That is hard. Period.
It takes willing the chemicals to shink the
cancer.
It takes willing the psyche to grow the
courage. 
 
What if the tender tissue of 
our young nation, 
has finally heard the diagnosis 
of terminal malignancy
that metastasized
even before our revolutionary birth?
 
Our first instinct is to 
Cut out it. 
Yes. Let's vote it out. 
But we are still 
dying of the chokehold
kneeling on citizens
who have never been
free. 
 
We need rounds of therapy
coursing through the 
land, into the food we eat,
into the cells that make 
us think and act,
into the choices we make.
 
We need a second opinion.
Which voice is fueled by 
hate and salivating for power?
Which voice is screaming
for a voice, a breath, freedom
to choose?  Which voice
makes for life, liberty, the
pursuit of happiness? 
Which voice kills the dream
and snacks on our bones
and kills us all? 
 
So the song of the revolution
goes, 
"History has its eyes on us."
 
###

A Painted Prayer by debgrant
 
I got a fountain pen 
the other day.
It feels old school.
It needs attention to be filled
and kept clean and alive.
It needs to be held 
just so 
to connect the synapses 
firing in my soul
to reach the nib.
It became a new vehicle
for my prayers.
 
I got out my watercolors
that need to be woken with
a splash. It needs the right brush
with more water at the ready.
I painted the prayer.
Watercolor is good for prayer.
It makes you think you are
in control but you are not.
The water does what water does.
The paint surprises with its
color, intensity, whisper and
movement. 
We get to participate
because that is
how the Designer crafted
our divine parts. 
The pen, the brush, the paint
and oh, the water.
How the water soothes, teaches 
and heals us. 
 
We get to participate. 
We get to pen and paint.
To stand back and wonder
and rediscover, the power
we have within us 
to propel into the world
a new piece of peace
or projectile.
We have the power
to splash beauty
or blood.
 
Our lives can paint a prayer today.
What will yours look like?
What will yours add to the gallery
of these days?
 
###

​We need to be held and to hold by debgrant
 
I was sent a video link one night
recently as I couldn't sleep and
scrolled through the
headlines on my phone.
 
The link was to a video.
It was a song.
The music was gentle.
The lyrics were simple.
The singer was tender.
The song repeated itself inside me 
somewhere inside my chest cavity
that spot that sometimes tells me
that it's hungry.
 
The refrain is
"I am sending you light
to heal you, to hold you.
I am sending you light
to hold you in love."
 
The need to be held
can be enormous.
It can be the surprising
flutter of fingers 
across our shoulders
or on our forearms.
But now,
our touch can be 
a trojan horse -
a gift carrying an
intruder.
The risk of causing
suffering is real. 
 
We need new ways 
of holding one another
even when it is
beyond arm's reach.
Even when it is 
"not our thing." 
 
Learn to touch 
with a song
or hold with a word
or hug with a handwritten card
or voice in a prayer
or refrigerator art.
Learn how to send light
to those sitting deeply
alone scrolling through
their phone
at night. 
 
####
Here is the video link in case you need it as much as I do:  
https://youtu.be/cIsZuoNFtXg

​On the Edge of Tears by debgrant
 
Living on the edge of tears.
The burning.
The welling.
The thickness around the throat.
The fear of the tears.
The blink back.
What good will it do?
Venting.
Purging.
A personal spillway 
to prevent the dam from 
breaking completely.
Perhaps. 
 
A family vacation to 
Niagara Falls took me to an edge.
A tunnel dug below the falls
to let the tourists stand in 
ill-fitting raincoats and galoshes
reducing us all to children 
giving us all the chance
to approach a wall of wet thunder,
to hear the roar, to feel the spray,
to touch the liquid rage.  
if we dare. 
I reached out. I felt the power of 
it through my face. 
I pulled back my hand lest it
grab me by the wrist 
and kidnap me like a stranger
who feels nothing and
pounds on a river bedrocks
day and night. 
 
Living on the edge of tears
Holding them back is not all bad.
In the space between reaching out
to the deluge and leaning away,
we discover a new muscle
and our own voice.
We want to live. 
We want to hope. 
Perhaps it is not always a bad thing
to hold back tears.
Perhaps it is our silent way of saying
I will choose the time for tears.
Not today. 
I will not add my tears today
to the waterfall. 
I don't want to be someone else's 
stranger grabbing them by the wrist.
Living on the edge of tears
maybe an act of courage
and hope.
 
###

Motion Sick by debgrant
 
I traveled for weeks on a freighter
with a Filipino crew.
Through the bits of 
shared language,
they offered what they knew.
Eat.
Keep your stomach full.
Counter-intuitive when
you are retching from 
the constant motion. 
Not exotic spices, mind you.
Or greasy sauce. 
Basic sustenance.
Bread or rice or fish.
Solid and good.
Don't seek solid ground.
You will not find it 
Even on a 900-foot container ship.
Even its massiveness steel 
heaves with a wave.
It pitches and rolls
and makes its way
slowly.
But it makes its way.
Remember where you are.
You are not on solid ground.
Shutting your eyes will make it worse.
YOU are not solid ground.
Your companions are not solid ground.
You are with them in the tempest.
You are with them in the motion.
 
Right now,
this pitching planet is where we are.
We are all more than a little motion sick.
We are retching.
We are grabbing for handholds
But they are not still. 
We are all more than a little motion sick.
We want it to stop.
We will die to make it stop.
Eat. 
Says the voice of pure kindness.
Remember where you are.
We are on a moving ship.
Our solid ground, our common ground
is that we are constantly in motion.
The truth will set us free. 
Shutting our eyes will make it worse.
When we retch a little less,
we will learn how to
crew this ship
together. 
 
### ​

​Common Sense  by debgrant
 
This has been a season 
of an assault 
on our senses. 
 
The virus if it doesn't kill you
steals your sense of taste
and smell. 
 
The distancing is necessary
but stifles our sense of
touch. 
 
The mask is necessary
but stifles our ability
to see a smile or 
a sneer or hear
well. 
 
So some choose freedom 
of their senses over
common sense and 
everyone loses. 
 
Patience is not our 
strength and yet,
if we are patient
our senses grow 
to accommodate our 
circumstance. 
 
It is the essence of 
our humanity
to taste the gifts of clean earth and air,
to smell danger and deliciousness,
to listen more deeply,
to see with the eyes of our hearts
to touch in magical ways.
 
Please be patient
A while longer
until our senses 
catch up with us. 
 
####

​What I learned this week by debgrant
 
I call this "Spirit-guided internet surfing."  It happens.  It shouldn't surprise me that the Spirit appears in places that seem so....seemy.  And yet, there She is poking me to the holy places. 
 
I was drawn to the colors and patterns of the cloth worn as scarves by African Americans. 
I learned one type of cloth is called kente
I learned it has different colors and pattern variations.
I thought I might use it in some of my art.
I thought I might want to buy some cloth or
at least, a t-shirt. 
That immediately felt wrong.  
Typical thing for a white person to do. 
Claim something for myself that doesn't belong to me. 
I started surfing kente.
I learned that the patterns and the symbols have meaning.
I saw one symbol called SANKOFA that looked similar to one of my drawings.
I thought I could copy its pattern.  Include it and be cool. Contemporary. 
The Spirit nudged me to go deeper. To learn the meaning of SANKOFA.
I learned the name means: 
 
San= to return           ko= to go          fa= to look, to seek and take
 
The sankofa bird has saught its past trail to take back what was lost, in order to protect its future!
 
One site states: Sankofa literally means to go back and get what was taken. After the term made its way to the United States, African-American scholars coin the term to mean “remembering our past, to protect our future” within the African-American culture.
I learned this was not mine to take.
This was given to me as a gift.
The gift was what it continues to teach me
about what it means to listen more deeply,
to respect more thoughtfully, 
about myself, 
the country I called home,
 
###