walking slowly through the contagion as autumn arrives...

Post-bubble observations on our short trip to Brooklyn: being away from the security of our garden home for the first time in 6+ months has been eye-opening. That RBG of blessed memory passed from this realm during our away time added another layer of gravitas to the whole experience. Like Parker Palmer I, too believe that we shall find the best political response in the days to come. Cold, cruel, and calculating strategies - while necessary - are not what the heart calls for right now. Indeed, they strip away even more of our wounded humanity. Just look at how Senator McConnell and 45 act: vulgar, ruthless, and cruel. And while I have little room for the whining of the Democrats who cry, "Not fair. Not fair!" (as if anything in the rough and tumble realm of politics is fair) I sense it is best to simply grieve one of the noble yet flawed souls of our generation and let that be enough for the time being. 

This is not the end of the world. It is a sign that our system is wounded: hope and integrity should never come down to the well-being of a single person. AOC was clear that RNG's death points out some of the flaws in our imperfect union as well as the emotional and strategic fragility of so many good-hearted people.I get tears right now. Disappointment and shock resonate with me, too. But not the exaggerated apocalyptic wailing I have witnessed since Friday night. So, let us do our own personal and collective grief work and listen for the wisdom of time-tested elders who have faced even greater woes. As I noted in last night's abbreviated "Small is Holy" live stream: there is much to be learned from our First Nations, black and brown neighbors, and allies in the LGBTQ community re: facing challenges with integrity, realism, compassion, as we trust that God's way is always greater than our limited perspective. Just take a listen to the way the Poor People's Campaign Choir renders "Hold On" for a clue concerning what is necessary at this moment in time.

While we were in Brooklyn last weekend enjoying the blessings of our children and grandchildren, a few truths about our new reality took on shape and form for me. While buying hummus and tahinni at our favorite Sahadi's - and a few spinach pies, too - the young clerk moved with slow and careful deliberation. This was partially due to his gloves and mask, but not entirely: he clearly wanted to get his work done in a safe, healthy, and clean manner. As I watched him move at what felt like a snail's pace, however, I became aware of just how riddled with impatience I am. I returned thanks to God for this feeling silently because it showed me yet again my profound addiction to speed. For decades I've preached the restoration of mindfulness - the necessity of slowing down as one counter-cultural way of sharing soul food with our hungry hearts and cultivating compassion - and there I was feeling as if my time was being wasted by a conscientious young man doing his best to keep us both safe. Yes, grasshopper, the Buddha DOES arrive when the student is ready! Taking another deep breath I felt a bit of gratitude as this retail Bodhisattva ministered the healing of humility to my inner restlessness. 

Our daughter said that "planning" is the biggest change she and her small family have felt in this new era of contagion: do we have the proper outside protective gear; am I ready for the demands of tomorrow; what is essential for teaching on-line; how can we keep the young ones engaged, happy, and safe in isolation; who is doing what shopping when; where is the car parked (given the family moratorium on mass transit); has our bubble been kept well enough for our folks to visit; and when was the bathroom thoroughly cleaned as a precaution for their arrival? None of us live in the realm of spontaneity any longer. No one can really just get up and go for where these old ways prevail, the virus is spiking and people are dying. The way of love now requires much more time, creative and insightful planning for all ages, and the necessity of doing more with less.

Taking a road trip after 6+ months of isolation felt like a genuine treat. Our

old safety valve of "getting out of Dodge" for brief adventures has been on hold like the rest of America. Watching the different terrains roll by was joy-filled. Noticing the use of masks throughout rural NY was encouraging. Same too with the PPE on the streets in Brooklyn. Slowly street life is returning for the young. It is not yet clear that this will be a blessing. For while most folk were well covered and protected, they were hardly practicing social distancing. Our son-in-law said there are a lot more street vendors lining the avenues than before the lock down. I was awed by the various face masks on sale - works of art as well as cut-rate paper masks as well - everything from the Virgin of Guadalupe to GO BIDEN. There is a peculiar genius in all of this as hard-working people find a way to make the best of the contagion. I saw this in Poland back in the days of Marshall Law under communism: the official state was cold, grey, and harsh while ordinary people sold wildly colored flowers on the street and turned postage stamp back yards into bold gardens filled with color and vegetables. The down-side of this in our realm is the outrageous prices being charged to the insurance companies for covid testing: for a quick test some fees are $1400 each. We never miss the opportunity to turn a disaster into a way to grab a quick buck.

Our outing to the beach as a delight. Besides baking in the sun, Riis Park was essentially empty. Our grandchildren could play freely in the sand while the adults soaked up the beauty and sounds of the sea. Our Brooklyn family has mastered the art of beach fun with appropriate chairs, well-planned picnics, and a willingness to chill in one spot for four hours at a time. It was restorative for me to play with Louie and Anna,. Same, too for feasting and gabbing with Jesse and Mike. and I learned a little more about our new reality while walking these old streets with new eyes. Riding home, the leaves in NY State and Western MA are starting to turn. Apparently we had a frost while away because our basil plants on the deck are now thoroughly wilted. We hustled the peppers and other vulnerable friends inside after picking Lucie up from the kennel. And now we are started to settle back in for another long haul of solitude as the fall ripens. My heart drifts towards Mary Oliver's insights in her "Song for Autumn."

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of the air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees, especially those with
mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the fires that will come—six, a dozen—to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
stiffens and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its long blue shadows. The wind wags
its many tails. And in the evening
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.