Song of the Sage

"Grace Elvina, Marchioness Curzon of Kedleston" 

by John Singer Sargent - Wikimedia Commons

O Keeper of Wisdom! O Giver of Gifts!
You gave so softly with Thy lips,
You gave so softly I never knew--that
Ever softly wisdom grew;
For my calendar turned a page,
On the softest day I ever knew!
The calendar of my days
Turned into You--
So softly as sage my age turned
Wisdom's truth--;
So now they come both broken
And whole, telling
Scattered secrets of their soul;
And I full of wonder open wide;
Listening, all my wisdom seemingly tied
To Yours alone, with my experience sown,
So softly into my words no one heard!
So softly spoken, in mystical ways,
You blessed me with wisdom
And I turned--Sage!

©1995 Connie Nelson Ahlberg - All Rights Reserved.

Rising / My Saints in the Corner

The Last Supper by Salvador Dali

To save the world, starting and staying with our own breath,
we need to continually open to our prophet as ego falls away
like a coat too cumbersome to wear.

Our spiritual life isn't dependent on the retail calendar. Indeed we are better off by ignoring it.

If everything is part of our path as Buddhists teach, then it truly is an Earth School here.

I have a theory that one of my missions is to learn to: let go. Currently I am living in what was my parents' condominium called Woodhurst West surrounded by tenents who may have moved into Woodhurst in the '70's or '80's. Simple math tells you their lives would be drawing to a close.

Yet I've found I'm rarely ready for my neighbors to "fly up," as I say. I am perpetually startled. What Buddhists plan for in their daily mindful meditation, Christians seek to ignore. "I'll think about that tomorrow," in the tradition of Scarlet O'Hara sums up many of us.

I feel I get to know and appreciate residents belatedly if at all. I find myself mourning, in one case, a retired minister and his wife who died five months from each other. I call them my "Saints in the Corner." First Joyce Stevens died unexpectedly from a blood clot following knee surgery. I bought a garden angel to honor her. To keep the pottery angel free from blemish, it rests on my white carpet.

"I lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my strength," Psalm 121. Now the scriptural quote on Joyce Steven's memorial is my favorite as were the voluminous cream roses on her casket. Their petals were as exquisite as the life they honored.

After Joyce Stevens died, I saw her husband's light all the more. I found him remarkable. I was crestfallen that I had been so late to discern the humility, grace, and intelligence of Ed Stevens and his wife. Ed was always smiling, somewhat whimsical, and toward the end, forgetful and unsteady.

Once I happened to be in the garage with him and saw he was on route to dispose of his light bag of trash. As we walked side-by-side, Ed started to lean too far over; and I grabbed his sleeve with a gentle tug.

Catch me if I'm falling.

Their unit hasn't sold so I still see their nameplate near their door. They should be inside I tell myself, still living the decorum we all saw. They were private. And we all respected their privacy. After two lives in religious service to various church communities, they deserved just the green trees, hostas, family and friends gathering around. 

 Ed Stevens

Joyce Stevens

Joyce told me once that either she or her daughter had a poem of mine. I can only say, I have their lives. 

Siding with Pope Francis

Pope Francis 

The Pope recently commented that were you to dishonor his mother, you could get

a poke from "Papa Francisco."

This comparison arose in answer to the Charlie Hebdo attacks on January 7, 2015 after the publication of images of Mohammad. 

It was interesting to me that a co-founder of Charlie Hebdo newspaper, Henri Roussel, felt his editor, Stephane Charbonnier, went too far in inflaming and offending Muslims around the world. Roussel described Charbonnier as "brilliant, but stubborn." (CNN)

When the attack upon Charlie Hebdo occurred, the civilized world was shocked and gathered en masse to proclaim: JESUIS CHARLIE (I am Charlie.) And Henri Roussel was condemned by Richard Malka, Charlie Hebdo's attorney, as "polemical and venemous."

But protests by Muslims erupted in Karachi, Pakistan, Jordan, Alger, Niger, Mali, Somalia, Senegal, and Mauritania. (Sophia Saifi Pakistan)

Are all these hearts and passions to be dismissed? 

What I find disturbing is the challengers to the Muslim faith are from a cartoonist, Charbonnier, and artist, Lars Vilks. Lars' cartoon showed Mohammed on the body of a dog. Each felt it was their right under free speech to "poke the bear," as a benign, elder friend of mine expressed.

Charbonnier was "an athesist and a pacifist." The irony is profound.

Lars Vilks says he is an "equal opportunity offender." He not only has drawn Mohammed on the body of a dog in a roundabout, but also Jesus as a pedophile.

Provoking is what Vilks does well. In his youth he placed his artist "installations" in a protected nature preserve. 

Here is my  agrument: Is it up to non-religious individuals to confront Islam on their sacred beliefs? Isn't it more appropriate the evolution of a faith lies within the spiritual leaders and the faithful vs outsiders who seek to defy it?

The actions of Vilks and editor Stephane Charbonnier offend. They also garner little respect by many who believe in Christian tenets or Jewish beliefs. 

Why insult a religion in which the devout kneel and pray with greater consistency than many believers of other faiths?

Vilks, who hasn't found acclaim through his art, has sought attention in any way he can--like defying religious beliefs of Muslims to not depict their spiritual leader on paper, in print--at all. 

Violence against human beings is a horrific path. 

But I feel there is no honor in what Vilks is trying to do. I do not defend him. 

And the fact that Charbonnier was a pacifist yet believed in defiance against Islam which caused harm and violence in believers doesn't compute either. How praiseworthy is it?

These words are not in defense of terrorists. 

I side with the ower of Charles Hebdo who said--the actions of the newspaper were pushed too far. Insanely too far. Thus the pacifist invited death. 

I can't support individuals who disrespect the beliefs held by others. Why are they

the arbitors of what is right? 

Thich Nhat Hanh has taught us that Peace is Every Step. We are here to honor each other. I think this is what the Pope was saying. Dear Francis, with few words he said it all. 

Prayer of the Soulmate

St. Guenole

Chapel at Prigny (Loire-Atlantique)

Single girls place a needle into the foot of the Saint

So they may find their soulmate.

True friendship is a road to God;

And, yes, Lord, I am Your soulmate

Inseparable from You

On all the paths to my friends;

Yet some, Lord, take me to a higher road

Where each nuance, laugh, and lift of the head

Towards the heavens is hardly spoken

The silence not broken yet everything understood.

My road has breathless curves on all sides;

Views unseen before

I traveled with You.

We laugh bent over

And know it is Good.

The road on which we never stood

Becomes a precious place! Joy in the moment!

That human face more intricate than treasured lace,

This road to my friend

Which ends in You.

                                                                          Amen.

Written about a best friend many years ago. 

Dear Beloved Dad

A Real Letter

Dad's favorite: A Blueberry Pie

(With fresh blueberries he picked himself without 

eating one.)

Dear Beloved Dad, 

I don't know how I can keep our secret any longer. I've kept the secret that you're the real Santa Claus for 67 years!

But now I'm about to POP, Pop!

Not many daughters or sons have Santa for a Dad. If I do tell, however, there could be some sort of a revolt. After all, a few may feel I've received preferential treatment because we're kin and all.

And I cannot tell a lie being raised Catholic (as you know, because you paid for it).

If I'm asked if I've received preferential treatment, I would have to give a most affirmative "Yes!"

From my doll house days when I snuck out and caught you assembling on Christmas when I was five, to my little, mint green, Nash Rambler you bought for me in my freshman year in college--I've wanted for nothing.

When I messed up, there you were. When the starving artist wasn't just on a diet, you paid back taxes (which would have broken any ordinary back, I must say).

When mother flew up we stayed strong together; our most serious fight was over that damn diamond broach mom buried in dried beans to throw thieves off their trail. But it was you who came with flowers and a enclosure card which read: We must keep our love for your mother above all things."

I saved it, but not as perfectly as I should have. It's a little blotched.

I guess Hill Haven Assisted Living won't be too surprised if word leaks out that one of their long-term residents is the real St. Nick.  Because you hadn't been there a week, when the co-owner told me: He's a treasure.

And being moral and upright, from my heart I say: You are beyond a treasure.

It's said you pick your parents, so at this point I figure: I'm a genius!

Anyone with a heart as big as yours normally doesn't live to be 100. But God has granted you a special dispensation because of all your unselfish acts.

You're a Peach; You're the Berries. You're the most perfect blueberry pie that you and a bear picked from the same patch. 

How God has blessed me, blessed my brother and I--for giving us our Santa who gifts all year every year into our tomorrows. 

Here's a forehead kiss and my undying love. 

Merry Christmas, Pie

Cradling Christmas: A Tree Upside-Down

 Tree from Hammacher.com

For All those Dealing with Matters of the Heart 

Cradling Christmas

A Tree Upside-Down

Cradle youself this Christmas

More than any time in your life;

Soften your days with lit Candles and Love

Let embraces come from where they will;

Allow the tears to flow--for how can they not?

                                           Hang on to every Cherished Good;

Do you know, can you even begin to imagine

Or possibly remember, the million moments

Love was exchanged by the gifts

Of your hands, heart, and soul?

All the Love you gave! The Love

Received! Let the myriad moments

Cradle this Christmas

And as the months

And years go by

More and more

Will be 

Revealed--

The

Million 

Moments

Shining

Like 

The 

Stars.

Written December 5, 1998

By Connie Nelson Ahlberg

All Rights Reserved.

Finding the Heart of Minnesota Nice

Minnesota Nice is the stereotypical term of Minnesotans: courteous, reserved, and mild-mannered.

Seated Mayo Brothers Statue 2005

Yesterday I found the heart of Minnesota Nice, a somewhat bland term for people born and raised in Minnesota. I almost didn't make it. I remembered my appointment with only 30 minutes to spare. At 6:00 A.M. my driver pulled up for the Mayo Clinic.

When you strike out from the Twin Cities of Minneapolis or St. Paul, you have to allow for the driving time to cross the northern plains between here and the Mayo Clinic complex in Rochester, MN. 

As soon as you open your car door or attendants open it for you, one is offered a wheelchair if you are in need of one. The kindness starts there in the cold which is what it was yesterday. Families are either receiving treatment or waiting with baited breath for a diagnosis. This is at the core of what employees appear to be taught before they greet one guest. 

I sat near two women as we waited for a family member or caught our breathe from the cold. The woman who sat at the end of our cushioned bench was winded and heavy. Then I noticed she was crying. I asked if she was all right. She nodded and said she just catching her breathe. Soon she rose and made her way to the elevators. Her coat was lush and beautiful. It even shimmered.

The woman nearest me said her husband had been an executive in the hotel business. Thirty years ago the compulsory annual exam had revealed a spot on his lung. His wife said it was so small and caught so early that he had been able to live his last thirty years in good health. But now she said her husband was coughing blood. She hoped it was from an infection and not that cancer was back. I asked for her husband's first name; and she told me. I said I would pray for him. 

Her face lit up: she said now, I have you and a prayer circle praying for him. Her husband appeared, a handsome man both gracious and warm. She told him my intention and his face shone like hers. He shook my hand.

Then a crazy gal with dark hair, decked out in glitter from head to foot collected her jade-sequin backpack from the end of the bench. Her boots shone, and a pocket purse with long, black fringe was perched on one thin hip. 

After a bit of gathering her glitter, she and her mother strode to the elvators as well.

Charming Mayo greeters were spaced right where one would need them: outside the elevators and in the halls. Last year there had been a piano, but the piano had clearly been moved. But when we walked out for lunch several were singing right below our exit door on the second floor. There was the piano. The music was like a heart massage breaking any anxiety anyone carried past them.

On the floor which became our three-hour residence, I heard a patient berate a receptionist for an arrogant attitude. But instead of her voice becoming louder, it became softer. She seemed to apologize to him--to such an effect that an hour later, she had changed the dynamic. Their next exchange was like one at Plum Village in France: with courtesy on both sides of the desk.

I found I wanted to apologize to her but tried to stay apart from it all. But in the end I did just that. She was the most gracious soul in the world. She said: I tried to see things from his point of view. Who isn't softened by compassion holding mercy? 

We did talk a bit and she said: your words mean the world. 

Minnesota nice isn't really about casseroles served in church basements or even the wondrous Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon. It is the constant caring, brother-I-can-spare-a-dime, at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN.