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Archive for the ‘Spiritual Growth’ Category

Spiritual Journey posts are being gathered by Kim Johnson at Common Threads.

It’s a God thing.

I started this day not knowing what I wanted to write about. Kim asked us to write about compassion. I waited for inspiration.

Nothing. So I went for a walk.

There was a soft rain shower, but I went anyway.

And then God did God’s thing: a double rainbow!

When I see a rainbow, I have a list of people I send it to.

Julie: Julie lost her daughter to drowning, and she feels her presence when she sees a rainbow. When I texted it to Julie, she said someone else had already told her and she had gone out to see it herself. She texted back her photos.

Wilson: Wilson lost Betty this summer. I walk by their house on my route, so I think about her and miss her every day. Wilson responded, “I needed this.”

Susan: She’s battling cancer and has had some rough news lately. I wanted her to know she was in my prayers.

Suzy: I’ve sent rainbow photos to Suzy for years. She lost two husbands. When her first husband died, we were teaching together. She told me that when she was trying to make a difficult decision, she felt that Steve sent her a rainbow to let her know she was OK. We may not talk as often now, but the rainbow exh

Shirley: Shirley had knee surgery a few weeks ago. The tip of the rainbow touched the roof of her house. She, too, responded that she needed it today.

Two Lisas: I meant to send the photo to Lisa D., but I accidentally sent it to Lisa R. It was fine because my message was “I hope you find peace today.” Lisa R. wrote, “Yesterday at healing service I prayed for a clean heart.”

Finally got it to Lisa D. who lost her husband early this year to cancer.

The double rainbow compassion gave me a way to reach out to friends in a loving way. May you find miracles around you, and a way to share them with others. It’s a God thing, making connections and being near each other in grief and pain.

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

A week ago, I was on a tour of Edinburgh Castle, the heart of the UNESCO preserved area of Edinburgh, Scotland. During the reign of Robert the Bruce, the whole castle was destroyed except St. Margaret’s Chapel. I was drawn in to the history of Margaret, Queen of Scots, and want to claim her for an ancestor. Her life was from 1047 to 1093. She was an unusual saint because she had eight children and was not a virgin or a martyr. Yet she followed the teachings of St. Benedict and was pious and generous.

Yesterday I read a “poem a day” by Damir Soden found here. The commentary included this quote about poetry, “Poetry being the most sophisticated way of dealing with language is therefore of utmost importance when it comes to preservation of one’s identity.”

I want to preserve memories of my trip to Scotland. Preserve the feeling of being taken back in time. Preserve my connection to my name.

Edinburgh Castle, Scotland

Is like a time capsule
toured daily by thousands
walking back
through time’s doorway
into St. Margaret’s small chapel
finding a sanctuary
most sacred place in Scotland
atop the highest point of Castle Rock
spared by Robert the Bruce—
a resting place.

How her spirit caused his pause…
We pause to imagine
to inhale the soft scent of gunpowder
to rediscover holiness
in a place of violence.

Can you feel the longing?

St. Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest preserved building at Edinburgh Castle.
Simple adornments in St. Margaret’s Chapel.
Stained glass window of St. Margaret by Dr. Douglas Strachan in 1922.

There is a guild of St. Margaret that keeps the flowers in the chapel. Anyone with the name Margaret can be a part of this guild. We are encouraged to place flowers in our own churches on St. Margaret’s Day, November 16th. Here is a prayer from the booklet I bought (charitable donation).

O God our Father,
who didst kindle a flame of divine love in the heart of thy servant Queen Margaret and didst by her humility and kindness show forth the way of royal service: grant that, encouraged by her example and strengthened by her fellowship, we who bear her name may follow her in the joyful spending of ourselves for others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen

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Spiritual Journey First Thursday is being gathered by Leigh Anne Eck at A Day in the Life.

Leigh Anne asked us to write about family this month. Family is my priority always, but since retiring, I find myself dedicating more time to my children and grandchildren.

This week as my husband and I celebrate 43 years of marriage, I am caring for my grandchildren in New Orleans. My colleagues are going back to school and while I admit to feeling a pang of “I should be there”, I am grateful I am not. My mind and body are more relaxed, and I am able to devote energy to my family. What a blessing!

Next weekend we will all gather in Jackson, MS to celebrate my mother’s long life of 89 years. My mother, Dorothy Liles Gibson, was dedicated to family. She taught me the value of being fully present. I have selected this poem to read at her service: “Let the Last Thing Be Song.” My mother was a musician all her life. She taught piano lessons and got her masters in piano. She was a founding member of the Jackson Music Forum. She was also an active choir member at St. James Episcopal Church. I look forward to being with all of my children and grandchildren, siblings and their families, as well as friends and cousins. We will raise our voices to praise her life.

I am taking a poetry workshop with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. This week she used a model poem by Alberto Rios, “When Giving is All We Have” to talk about paradox in a poem. She gave us a prompt with a variety of anaphoric phrases. I chose prayer. “We pray because…” I’m sharing the draft of my poem.

When Prayer is all We Have 

After Alberto Rios “When Giving is All We Have”

We pray because we are lost.
We pray because we are found.

We pray because prayer changes us.
We pray because prayer changes nothing.

We hold hands to pray.
We kneel alone in the sand.

Prayers have many ways to begin:
Our Father
Dear Lord
Ah, me
I am here

Silence can be a prayer.

Prayers connect us to the dead.
We are helpless in prayer.

What I do not have, I offer to prayer—an empty voice, a sigh of desperation.
Does it matter who is listening? 

The prayer makes all the difference. 

Margaret Simon, draft

Molly Hogan has the Poetry Friday link up today at Nix the Comfort Zone.

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Ramona is gathering Spiritual Journey: First Thursday posts at Pleasures from the Page.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid” John 14:27

When Ramona suggested that we write about “summering” for our Spiritual Journey posts this month, I turned to two passages that bring me peace. Too often, I have a long “to do” list for summer that usually includes cleaning out closets and such dreaded chores. These kinds of chores are good for me but are not what I want to do. I’d rather have lunch with friends, go on long walks, and binge watch a show or two.

The poem “Wild Geese” from Mary Oliver reminds me that all I should do is love what I love and let the wild geese call to me. On these early June days, it’s not wild geese, but buzzing cicadas that call to me. The heat of midday sends me inside for a glass of La Croix with ice. I am settling into a routine and trying hard not to pressure myself to do more.

In May, I was inspired by Georgia Heard’s calendar of prompts for small poems. In June, her newsletter held an invitation to porch poems. You can sign up to receive Heart Beats on her website. Porch poem #3 asked “What happens in stillness?” Here is my poem response.

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Carol Varsalona is rounding up this month at Beyond Literacy Links.

 “A world of grief and pain, flowers bloom—even then.” -Kobayashi Issa

Carol’s husband died recently and as she navigates her grief, I am pleased that she still wants to be involved in the wider world of blogging. I love the quote she offered by Issa. I received Georgia Heard’s newsletter in which she invites us to write small. Writing that is small can carry a large load or it can capture a small moment. Here’s Georgia’s May calendar of invitations.

Gardenia power
scents the whole kitchen with breaths
of grandma’s perfume

Flowers have brightened my daily walks this spring. With the sun rising by the time I head out with Albert, I’ve had more light to walk in. Sunrises, too, delight me. A spiritual journey is a daily practice of presence.

I invite you to write #poemsofpresence this month. I will post daily on Instagram. I will also give myself grace if I miss a day or two. May is about keeping myself grounded as the whirling ending of school presses upon me.

This desert rose thrives at my front door. Another blossoming welcoming spring.

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Ruth is gathering the first Thursday Spiritual Journey posts at her blog: There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town.

Ruth had a suggestion for this first Thursday that ties to the season of Lent: write a Psalm of Lament. I have been laid up with Covid all week. It’s not a severe case, but it’s lingering and frustrating me with headaches and a lack of energy. I got outside for a walk this morning, and that has helped my disposition greatly. On my walk, my priest (who happens to live in my neighborhood) stopped her car and asked, “Are you off of school today?”

We talked, and she advised me to lean into this quiet time. To let God work in God’s time. Of course, that is good advice, but it’s not what I wanted to hear when I just want to be over it already. I pulled out a copy of the New Zealand Prayer Book and started to read the Psalms.

From the New Zealand Prayer Book

As I read, I realized the psalmists were just regular people living their regular lives and wanting more, wishing for God to redeem them, make their suffering worthwhile. When we read these old texts, we feel ourselves in those moments of stress, worry, ill health, and mourning. It’s a universal experience, lament.

Like my cats mew waiting
for my footsteps, waiting for me to greet them,
so do I long for you, God.

My illness clouds my thoughts,
so I reach for your presence. I cry,
“Where now is my God?”

I wait in hope
as a desert rose thirsts for clean water.
I open my ears to hear

the roar of wind breaking branches
calling through tones
of a wind chime in the tree.

I am the one whose branches are broken
who sings a mournful tune.

You, O God, are my strength.
You save me from the destructive wind.
You hand me a cup of hot tea, a spoon of honey,
sweet taste of life.

Why do I mourn when I have such gifts?

Wait, you say, wait in hope.
Sit in stillness
for You are here
with me.

Margaret Simon, draft

The Kidlit Progressive Poem is with Robyn Hood Black today.

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

A few weeks ago I attended a writing workshop with one of my mentors Darrell Bourque, former poet laureate of the state of Louisiana. He asked us to look at common language to explore in a poem form. He suggested a pantoum. I wrote one there, but there were parts that didn’t work for me, some rhymes that seemed forced. Was my heart in it? I knew what I wanted to say. Sometimes a form is the just right thing to contain all that your poem wants to say.

This workshop, Darrell’s gentle guidance, have stayed with me. Last week I copied into my Notes app a billboard catch phrase, “I triple-dog-dare you.”

Yesterday I read Fran Haley’s post, a beautiful pantoum about a rainbow. I looked up the form again and took another shot. This one satisfies me.

On Sunday I texted my neighbor to go for a walk with our doodle dogs. Her husband passed away last Sunday. I didn’t know if she would be up for it, so I was pleased when she agreed to go. Even though she thanked me profusely for reaching out, I felt it was my honor to be with her. Grief can be a weird time, and we are often not sure of the “right” thing to do to help someone through it. The dog walk was the right thing for both of us.

Dog Walk Pantoum

Split in a million heart pieces,
I triple-dog-dare you to go.
We walk our dogs on their leashes
connecting puzzle pieces as we go.

I triple-dog-dare you to go
to the place where grief hides in shadows. 
Connecting our puzzle pieces as we go.
Comfort in our walk-talk grows. 

The place where grief hides in shadows;
Listen close to the sound of the wind.
Comfort in our walk-talk grows.
Each of us finds a good friend.

Listen close to the sound of the wind
chimes, like a million heart pieces.
Each of us finds a good friend.
We walk our dogs on their leashes. 

Margaret Simon, draft

Albert and Ruby

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Denise Krebs is hosting first Thursday Spiritual Journey posts at Dare to Care

Each month a group of bloggers, who met through the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Challenge, gather to write posts about our spiritual journeys. This month Denise asked us to write on the topic of wholeness.

I think I may find wholeness by looking outward
to someone else to make me complete,
to their words of affirmation.

Wholeness is a river where my path moves in and out.
I find balance one day,
then a wind knocks me over the next.

I can watch the seedling grow,
but cannot see the growth in myself.

Whole means all of me–
Here now, in the present moment
where I am welcomed, accepted, and loved.

Broken, cracked, grieving, or angry.
All of me
Whole.

Resurrection fern on an old oak tree revived by rain.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

Every year at about this same time I look ahead to March and realize it’s coming. During the month of March for at least 10 years, I’ve written a daily post alongside many others for the Two Writing Teachers daily Slice of Life Challenge. I approach March with a sense of dread and excitement. Writing a daily post, looking at a blank page and filling it with something worthwhile, is daunting; however, after so many years of experience, I know that writing in a community of other writers drives me.

This month I’ve been writing with a Facebook community for Laura Shovan’s 13th annual February Challenge. I feel it’s an impossible task until I get it done and look at my collection of poems. Most of them are drifty drafts, but it pleases me to have written them.

The most common denominator I have seen among writers who commit to daily writing is the fear of writing for an audience, and the best feeling is having written for an audience. My students experience the same fear. They don’t know it yet, but I’ve signed them up for the classroom Slice of Life Challenge. Writing out loud for an audience makes us vulnerable, yes, but it also makes us strong and brave.

If you are planning to do the SOL Challenge, let me know in the comments. We can support each other.

Here’s a small brave poem I put on my Instagram yesterday. I was visiting Mississippi where my brother and my mother live. We met yesterday with a very sweet Hospice nurse, and for the first time, I left my mother feeling hopeful. There is a gift in small moments of hope. I’ll take it.

Morning walk encounter with hope
rising from the lake
like our heroic Hospice nurse
who speaks in loving lift,
healing hearts.

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Poetry Friday is hosted today by Carol at Beyond Literacy Link

On the first Friday of the month, Inklings (my trusty writing group) respond to a challenge. Mary Lee made it easy this month. She asked us to type a color into the public domain image archive and find a photo to write about. I chose lilac. I immediately got a photo I knew was telling a story. I imagined that Lilas and the bug are having a conversation.

“Unhappy the man who never had his eyes fill with tears at the sight of a particular flower. Such a one can have been neither a child nor a youth. He can have had neither mother, sister, nor affianced bride. He never loved.” This is the tone and tenor throughout Les Fleurs animées (The Flowers personified), a collection of floral — and sometimes florid — writing, featuring playful illustrations by J. J. Grandville (1803–1847), engraved and hand-colored by Charles Michel Geoffroy.

How Lilas Learns of Love (a cherita)

With draping lilacs for long locks,

Lilas questions Sir Ladybug,
“Where will my love grow?”

Love grows from a starter seed
planted small in your heart
until with wisdom, grace, and tender care…Blooms!

Margaret Simon, draft

To see other Inkling poems, visit their blogs:
Linda @A Word Edgewise
Mary Lee @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Molly @ Nix the Comfort Zone (and oh boy, did she ever…)
Heidi @my juicy little universe
Catherine @ Reading to the Core 

Spiritual Journey first Thursday is gathered by Bob Hamera.

Bob suggested we ponder the idea that doors may close while another one opens, how focusing on the closed door may lead us to miss the open one. My father spoke about this in his firm belief that there is always a resurrection. Jesus showed us in a very real sense that when someone dies, it is not the end. I’ve always prided myself on a belief in the resurrection; however, when faced with an actual closed door, a death of something in my life that I put my trust in, whether it be a job, a friendship, a manuscript, I get lost and lonely and question. That is the rough part of the death/resurrection story arc.

I am following a path to a new journey to retirement. This is a door I’ve chosen, but even so, I have mixed feelings. So many of my days with my students are good, happy, and fulfilling. I will miss teaching, I know. I also know I’m a teacher through and through. I chose this career when I was 15 years old. I will find ways to still be a teacher. I keep telling myself this truth, but it’s not easy. When I tell people I’m retiring, I hear “Congratulations!” I wish I could feel excited. Is it the closed door I fear? Or the open one I’m unsure about?

Resurrection fern is grey when the sun is out, but turns to bright green after the rain. May God bless us with the knowledge and grit to survive the grey and thrive again after the rain.

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