wintry psalm 8

your majestic name fills the sky

you have set your glory high

sun snow and stars spinning

but here in our days

the children's praise

beginning

brimming

raise 

voices 

echoing

establishing

forts for Creator

their collaborator

God's mindfulness brings them near

remembers each chickadee here

one saturnian year

we walk at dusk 

heads thrown back 
to search the darkening sky 

for emerging pinpoints of light
tell-tale tracks of sunshine 

from distant spheres

mars first, shining orange 
high in the eastern sky
jupiter plays with our eyes
flashing like a diamond in the sky
till we are certain
and then we wait for saturn's
light to reach us

two walking along spadina
peering into the southern horizon 

 
two swinging through the sky
out of step enough that they will slip

in and out of each other's arms
in the next month

if you walk outside at dusk 

you can watch them emerge 

before the rest of the heavens shine

their night lights into our sky

by 6:30 those two are bright in the south-west

every night they swing closer

till Dec 21 when they may

(I've never seen this)

look like a single star

every night the stars 

sweep across our sky

as we spin

planets sweep through

on their own orbit

spinning into new

constellations

as we all fly 

around the sun

perhaps I am telling you things

you already know

but I am walking down spadina

as the colors rise and fade

with the setting of the sun

finding new patterns

in pinpoints of light

and he tells me 

we have been married for

one saturnian year

shoreline prayer

the November morning sun slants
long and bright into my window 

green cedars wave in the breeze

discarded poplar leaves

caught in lilac's dense branches

gladiola stems stubbornly

standing tall and green

with iris spears

 'we're not dead yet!'

wanting to play banjo but do not pick it up

did not yesterday or in the many days before

longing for You

but sometimes I skirt along the 

shoreline

content to gaze at reflections, find

a sign

of Your presence and

design

rather than plunge into deep water

gulping wine

a day

re-examining a day for rest...

So many childhood pathways

lay unexamined, unmaintained.

Now the tracks of an adult

wandering on the same

journey fall uneasily 

into well-worn patterns.

What if you want to walk them this time

with a grandmother's pace?

Light 2 candles

when you see 3 stars

or when you reach the amphitheater

or when you reach home 

   on Sunday afternoon.

Walking by a different light-

a candle's light, a star's light,

the light of 2 more generations.

  

Reframing work

by rest 

by freedom

by calling. 

 

Redeeming a day.

Letting seeds of redemption scatter into our lives

week by week by week.

The kingdom of God is like seed thrown on a field...

sometimes gratitude feels crunchy

sometimes gratitude feels crunchy

leaves underfoot

instead of overhead

golden light a sign

that it is time to dine

sometimes gratitude 

sounds like a grandchild's prayer

hearts laid bare

we circled around the puppy

skateboarded and walked, feeling lucky

eating strawberry salad

roots roasted, a ballad

potatoes smashed

sourdough stuffing stashed

in a golden turkey, brined

sour cherry pie'd

and cream cheese 

with pumpkin roll, please

sometimes gratitude 

covers the triple word tile

scrabble

and the babble

of siblings

playing with words

sometimes gratitude feels crunchy

my poplar tree done

drawing water and summer sun

from branches and roots 

   through the neighborhood flung

breathes - exhales into my lungs

drops leaves like sunshine

for ladybugs to find

we scatter them like drifts

cover the gardens with poplar's gifts

 

like a breath

chickadees calling
from the trees

flying along the path 
black eyes bright

following
like a question

alight on my finger

light as a feather

wings whirring
like a breath
I thought I was holding 

rustling aspen along the ridge

sandhill cranes across the river

but this 

swishing

in the grass

at my feet

twisting

disappears

wolf willow shines

in the afternoon sun

sparkles like diamonds

in the October sun

silver among the gold

of the prairieland sun

Beaver dam at Beaver Creek

late to the sour dough adventure

So I know that sour dough bread has been a thing in these pandemic months ... but my sister-in-law brought a jar of starter with her when she came to visit, and the thing entered my kitchen for the first time.  During their visit she created  amazing waffles, and cinnamon buns, and then left me with my own starter when they went back home.  

Irene has always been a cooking influence in my life.  We've spent time in her kitchen watching her study her recipes, following or adapting, meticulously chopping and pulling together such amazing feasts over the years.  So I watched her, and she talked through things as she worked. And then she began to write her tips onto the backs of papers that held Evelyn and Rick's painting originals.  "Adventures with sour dough, by Irene". 

 

 

I had watched her tend that starter, carefully feeding and stirring (no metal, except a fork or whisk to stir), refrigerating or leaving on the counter depending on what she was making or when.  

Lid on, or lid off and covered with a towel.  

Jar on the counter, jar in the fridge, or jar in a bowl so it didn't overflow.  

Opening the lid, looking at the bubbles, smelling the thing, deciding if it was "ripe".  

You "discard" some, and feed the jar.  then you feed the "discard" and cook with it.  or discard the discard, and then take some out to bake, and feed the bubbly baking part.  

If you know anything about me at all, you know that I am not all that nurturing of things inside my house.  If you are in my house, and you are a plant or other non person (and my dear husband may have grounds to claim that this lack of nurture extended in his general direction as well ... you are good, right?  Don't have to take care of you do I?). 

I value plant and "thing" independence.  Sour dough starter feels rather needy.  

However.  It comes from Irene. so... it bears some consideration. 

I take the jar out of the fridge in the evening.  Get the bubbles going over night.    

I look at it in the morning.  Sure is bubbling.  Smells like something ripe.  Kind of yeasty sour and sweet.  By evening the bubbles have sunk and it smells more yeasty and sharp.  Now I try to do the discard and feeding math and it is too late.  My brain has deeply carved trails of baking with yeast. I understand my oatmeal brown bread.  But this sourdough requires much more of me.  Not sure I want to give that. 

I give up for the day.  I feed the thing again in the evening. And go to bed.

In the morning I discard some, and feed them all. add things to it. let it sit for 30 minutes.  put it into a dutch oven and let it sit 30 more minutes (or a bit more. or a bit less. depends ...) then do the stretch and fold thing.  No kneading this needy bread.  Then leave it at room temperature till it doubles in size.  anywhere from 3-12 hours.  depends on the temperature of the room and the happiness of the sourdough.  

At 5 pm I decide that ready or not, that dough is getting shaped into a ball.  So.  Pull the edge up, fold, and turn. Repeat.  Flip over, and shape into a ball.  It just keeps sagging though - texture feels as though I didn't add enough flour.  

I did not buy a scale for the ingredients ... as true sourdough lore requires.  A scale is more acurate.  Oh well.  let's see this experiment through to the end.  

Back into the dutch oven (a cast iron pot we bought almost 30 years ago, and for all of those years have used only for camping ... now its coming into the kitchen for sour dough bread).  Cast iron pot is liberally sprinkled with corn meal. (See? I can follow directions!)  Rise another 30 minutes. or a bit more.  

Heat oven to 450.  Put loaf into 450 oven with lid, and turn down to 400.  Bake for 20 minutes.  Then remove lid and bake another 40 minutes.  Remove from pan and let cool on wire racks for at least 1 hour ... or the middle is gummy.  Click here for a more precise recipe!

We all survived this first sour dough adventure, and the starter is back in the fridge where it only needs to be fed every 5-10 days.  I'll cut the loaf open this evening with some beef and barley soup.  I was not able to mathematically co-ordinate the ending of the sour dough baking last night with the beginning of supper.  

It keeps a bit of Irene in my kitchen, and that is always a good thing.  

Anyone want some starter? 

I DID slice the top of the loaf before baking... as instructed ... but obviously not deeply enough.
Stay tuned. 

lady bugs and lupines

If I stand too long
in one place
the lady bugs 
think I am a plant
and come crawling
looking for aphids

I am not a plant

tho I love them

and join in

the aphid hunt

a family of robins 

have decided to 

claim my ripening

mountain ash berries

as their own

they sit in stealth mode

camouflaged with their red breast

among the red mountain ash berries

accurately aim droppings on my

shirt if I stand too long

under their branch

that was the give-away

a family of magpies

stopped in the top of my 

poplar one morning

quietly discussing their day

or their night

or when to fly to

other trees

other homes

they spoke 

a different language

when perching all together

in the poplar

musical murmerings

and conversations

entirely missing the racous 

yelling I hear when they 

are far apart or 

defending territory

#poplarshelter

lupines are back

my friend brought me a 

package of seeds this spring

perhaps remembering that lupines

lined the highway to Nelson

when we picked Adam up

from his year of woodworking

lined the New Zealand creek

bed that we followed with

so much laughter when we were

visiting Mish, and Lisa and Luke

they sprouted

survived the slugs and their

first summer in the shelter of

my dogwood here 

survived - not thrived

today I moved them out 

into the front sunshine

long tap roots and

chomped-on leaves

watered them

hope to see them

again in spring

oh, I live in hope...

...and in the meantime

that frost skipped along the tops 

of my pots and gardens

but beneath the blackened shells

one zucchini blossoms brightly

one morning glory strand survived

my black-eyed Susans are trying 

to keep growing if I would just

notice that they are not dead

and offer them a drink

I finally noticed

my petunias are extravagently luscious - 

but to no avail

not one bee climbs to the heart

no hummingbirds

they go to morning glories and snapdragons

and sunflowers and liatrus and oh so many others.

even geraniums

but not the petunia. 

methinks I will 

find other flowers

for my pots

next year

august turning

Mornings are cooler on my deck. Raspberries are ripening more slowly, and wasps are eager to take the sugary sweetness of any I've left hanging too long. Spotted robins are getting better at navigating flight. Chickadees so cheerfully chatter around the yard.  Morning glory strands climb all the cords we've hung in their way, seeking the best way up - waving their growing ends back and forth, twining around each other till I introduce them to my idea of a cord.  Sometimes they wind around it right away, and sometimes I need to remind them. Tomatoes are on the verge of turning. 

They are strange slow COVID summer days with a powerful undercurrent of energy. 

And in this season of waiting, wondering, planning, taking stock, I find myself 

less afraid of old age, old trees, an old earth; of wasps and pruning

more interested in flavors

    toasted coconut, garlic scape pesto, yellow and red tomatoes

more convinced that trees clapping and celebrating is more than a figure of speech 

increasingly captivated and intrigued by children

so grateful for a morning chat with my sisters and brother

just as thrilled by fresh raspberries and haskaps on my cereal in the morning

more curious about what the beavers are up to on the river banks

 ... and increasingly intrigued and captivated by a Creator

    who speaks a universe

    as well as a whisper

Add caption

from Isaiah 40 and the south Saskatchewan river bluffs

Do you not know?
Have you not heard?

The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.

He will not grow tired or weary,
and his understanding no one can fathom.

He gives strength to the weary
and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary,
and young men stumble and fall;

but those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.

They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.

easter morning

a chill spring wind bites at our faces
the ice gathered slick and thick
on walkways
eastern horizon clear and
turning pink
seagulls and geese calling out as
they rise from the river
late moon still hanging high in the sky
bright pink spreads higher
invading the clouds

shimmering orange light spills over
the place where heaven meets earth
grows more brilliant till
I have to look away
blazing on the horizon till
morning breaks
and it is day
throws our shadows far across the
snow as we walk back home

the sun has risen

Christ has risen
He is risen indeed

bird counting

There was steam rising over the river this morning when I bundled up to go for my first ever birdcounting expedition.  I figured I'd see the chickadees who hang out around the river bank,
I'd likely hear a woodpecker, and I wanted to count some hardy Saskatoon Winter Ducks (after my morning's research, I'm going to call them Common Goldeneyes). 

Watching the birds often makes me think of my mom.  She paid attention to them.  Noticed who was around, and when the sparrows were fighting over the bird houses in their back yard.  She and Dad made sure to have lots of food out for them. I don't think she ever participated in a great backyard bird count.  But I'm pretty sure she would have enjoyed it... and laughed at her oldest daughter taking such an interest in birds. 

So I walked my favorite path to the river, and stood on the bank with Randy's telephoto lens, one glove off to try to focus on the Goldeneyes playing in the water, among the morning mists. 

Thinking of Lydia.  Thinking of a God who sees each sparrow - master of the bird count. 
It was a good morning.

My count, as submitted through ebird.org:
# of taxa reported:7
protocol: traveling
duration: 55 minutes
distance: 1.18 km

10 common goldeneyes
1 downy woodpecker
1 blue jay
4 common raven
6 black-capped chickadee
6 house sparrow
2 house finches (I heard a bird high up in a blue spruce but couldn't see it, so I turned on my audio, and the counting app added 2 house finches to my count.  I accept this interpretation of my reality, though I cannot visually prove it!)

like a crocus

on these days when darkness gets longer every day, and my Christmas lights need a timer that goes 18 hours on, 6 hours off, my morning readings take me to crocuses in Isaiah 35.

the desert and the parched land will be glad;
the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
like the crocus it will burst into bloom...

the earth wakes up with crocuses
when the winter night loses its hold
scattered along the high ridges
among the grasses and thistles
lying low
so the wind brushes
over them in its haste to find a taller
thing to buffet
open in shades of lilac, lavender, purple
that you cannot see while scannig
the horizon

tired of winter we see only
ridges of old snow on the river banks
brown grasses
things that are not yet new
not yet awake

but if you find one
one clump of
bold
purple
springtime
crocus

you will discover
the hillside is singing
river banks echo
clouds stopping to grin
returning hawks spin as they soar

this is
the earth shouting for joy

granby river line

for Irene

the breeze came up soft
from the river in the mornings
waving through the pines
winding the grasses around its fingers

when the high ridges blurred
in the haze of the midday sun
the wind mostly held its breath
silent as the river tumbled by

fish flickered in the shadows
sheets hung silent on the line
till the afternoon cooled
breeze brushed around the corners

clothes dried
by the granby river sun
caught the scent
in every fibre and crease

I could fold the clothes
and carry the river
up the stairs
into our rooms

morning moon

the old moon does not rush through the night
gets up a little late
hanging in the morning sky
as though she's lost her way

followed us to school today
disappeared without leaving traces
while we meandered along the pathways
popping up in unexpected places

overheard us
  while we discussed the colors
   of trees
   ..that bunnies hopped
   and stopped
   and also frogs
   or magpies who flew

and maybe
we could be a bunny on the way home
or a magpie
or a frog

the moon was waiting at school today
hanging in the morning sky
as though she'd lost her way

meandering on pathways

.

south saskatchewan moon

the moon rises full
as jupiter pierces the sky

when I reach the banks
the moon has already broken free

but the river holds
   the light
stretches it long and
   rippled

broken lines of light
disappearing into the far dark shore

pelicans glide across the river's moon
set all the tips aflame

till the current calms them
quiets the moonlight

rocking gently
as you rock your little one

maverick

These are dry messy spring days.
Wind throws last year's leaves
into all the corners of the yard;
tugs at the fingertips of haskap and ash
coaxing them out of winter's sleep.
Poplar gets ready to throw seeds
and stickies all around the yard.

Iris and tulip spears piercing through old growth
to begin again.
I look at all the dry, lifeless looking brown
and wonder
how things can spring to life and color.
And they always do.

Mystery of harsh prairie where
the earth bursts open when
the winter loosens its hold.
Spring clouds wander the skies like
maverick squadrons
throwing rain and wind and
occasional hail onto the
waking land
not ready to settle into warm or
soaking rain.

resurrection hangover

So would you feel lighter or heavier?
Body slowed to a stop, blood ceased pumping;
pierced so that blood runs down, muscles flaccid.
When heart surges to life again, like a Gforce spin
the weight of the world falling behind,
lungs re-inflate with a sharp intake of breath,
spirit once more is knit to this body.

Our bodies -
not just shells that are thrown away
fading back into dust.
Resurrection implies at least some sense of
reconstruction
   bringing forward something of what we have been
      utterly renewed
         unrecognized
but known.

A robin is singing her joy to the neighborhood.
Plastic bag remnant of Easter egg hunts floats through the yard on the air currents, catches
high on willow branches and
then continues into the neighbor's.

A pair of jays land in the poplar and the robin's joy turns territorial.

Sun shines warm on my face,
wind tugs at the pages of my journal.
Yesterday's laughter catches in corners
and branches of my yard.

Week 7. John 12 ... also Holy Week up till Saturday

on the ground
bottle of nard poured on the ground
spilling over his dusty feet
silken hair brushes beloved feet
giving up your life will save it

palm branches thrown on the ground
the healer was coming their way
a young donkey carried him there
the whole world has gone after him

kernel of wheat falls to the ground
dying it produces many
a man who grips his life will lose
giving up your life will save it

scent of nard poured on the ground
spilling over his dusty feet
silken hair brushing beloved feet
scandalous, mute adoration

silent
was he funny, or smart, was he strong?
belov'd friend of Jesus who died
silent at the grave and meal
two vibrant sisters served
and spoke and poured nard
Lazarus watched
betrayer
sister
Lord

silent ones
when silent ones are healed
mutely grasping for his hem
sisters calling, debating, weeping
friends load him onto a stretcher
rip the roof off to lower him in

Jesus, you hear the silent ones
all our griefs and pains you bear
you walk among us
bidding us come
you are making all things new

bunch'a haynakus
Lazarus
rose up
from the dead

Lazarus
was reclining
at the table

this
is not
what Lazarus saw

Lazarus
did not
say a word

Jesus
looked her
in the eye

crowds
were drawn
to the man

tasting
death before
eating this meal

weeping
will cease
in the morning

falling
asleep never
feels like this

new
day never
dawns like this

what
kind of
coffee is needed

new
grounds for
believing in him

IAM
right now
resurrection and life

Landays
reversing expectations, Jesus
breathed our air with our lungs and called a dead man to life

reversing expectations, Jesus
ate in the company of the resurrected man

undoing expectations, Mary
poured nard over his feet, drowning all rational thought
...poured nard over his feet, captivating every guest
...poured nard over his feet, drowning all other senses

What song?
What song shall I sing, all has fallen still?
Yesterday's vibrant music fades away
overwhelmed by whips and cries far too shrill,
and friendships - pieces of silver betray.

What song shall I sing, now darkness has slipped
into daylight and the earth is shaken
holy of holies, the curtain is ripped,
echoes o'er every hill - I AM forsaken.

What song shall I sing as they take him down -
he whose voice shook the grave loose, now silenced.
Nicodemus, come sing in this darkness.
Lazarus, what do you know of his grave?

As Mary walks weeping I catch the scent
of nard poured out in worship prescient.


Lifted
Son of Man lifted
light of the world is snuffed out
black hole drowns all light

Son of Man lifted
light of the world is snuffed out
all of us drawn in

wrestling with this hour
he prayed, Father glorify
Father responded

this voice was for us
we heard thunder and angels
Father responding

Week 6. John 11

Monday's Quatern
Oh I'm going to wake him up!
This Lazarus is sleeping sound.
His sisters called out - come to us,
but I'm just stay'n till morning comes.

They picked up stones to silence me
but oh I'm going to wake him up.
Walk by night, you're sure to fall,
so walk when y'see the light of day.

"If you had come all would be well.
You are the one we've waited for."
So I'm going to wake him up.
Watch for glory when you move the stone.

Oh watch for glory, won't you move that stone!
The dead man came a'walkin' out.
So watch when you see the light of day.
Oh I'm going to wake him up. 

Wednesday Nonets
If you had been here he would be well
strong friendships forged over the years
everyone gathered to watch
the women meet their friend
rational Martha
Mary falling
at his feet
weeping
still

everyone was thinking the same thing
if he had come when he was called
Lazarus would still be here
laughter instead of this
sorrow and wailing
now he is here
the tomb waits
death staggers
before
Christ

Haynaku
sickness
will not
end in death

martha
met him
as he came

mary 
fell down
at his feet

lazarus
stumbled out
of the grave

Thursday's Landays
trying to keep the lid on heresy
when it looks like calling Lazarus from four days gone

panic in all the upper chambers
as the structures slowly but surely begin crumbling

even the rocks and stones will cry out
testifying to life rather than holding death hostage

Friday's Sonnet
Shall I compare you to one of the chiefs?
Like Mistawasis who searched for bison
as numbers plummetted without relief
travelling far to search the horizon.

Metaphors fail if we push them too far.
We forget when they are so familiar
like shepherd, like bread, or like morning star.
Searching this prairie land... like a river.

You pulled one of us out from death's reaches
summoning Lazarus back from his sleep
like a river breaking in spring breaches
its banks, boundaries and channels. You weep

with us in chaos, and steadily breathe
our names in the silence, our lives redeem.

Saturday Haiku  
shadow and broken
glass as well as the crocus
collage on the banks

glimpse of a black hole
lit by event horizon
light disappearing

expanding reveals
ever more hospitable
creator of stars

voice of one calling
make way in the wilderness
pathway from the grave

resurrection life
we would live if you were here
called back into light