Dear Friends ~

I hope this message finds you caring well for yourself and others as we head toward the second Trump presidency. Those of you who followed along with me during the seven weeks of the Omer counting in April and May may remember that I plunged into a serious health challenge at that time, with a crippling of my mobility and a diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis. After a spring, summer and early fall of continued crises, I now have a new and less frightening arthritis diagnosis (Polymyalgia Rheumatica-PMR) and a treatment plan that seems to be working. I am moving freely again (Halleluyah!), and I find myself slowly emerging to meet this country and this world as it is. Or perhaps it is better said, as we are.

Before I post the poem that I want to give you today–a new one, born of my mobility struggles this year–I want to offer just a few words of political analysis. Feel free to go head on below to the poem if you would prefer. For myself, I need to be clear-headed about the oligarchy in which we find ourselves now and the failures of the Democratic Party to take on that necessary fight over the recent decades. For my understanding of how we got here, I refer you to one of my favorite national news sources and political commentators, someone I have been following since the Bernie Sanders 2016 campaign. Krystal Ball (it’s her given name!) lays the history out here much better than I could. After you come to her somewhat harsh closing, please return to the poem for the gentleness that is also needed at this time.

 What follows is not a political poem. Or maybe it is. The words invite us to pause where we are, listen and look. Receive the light that comes our way and let it nourish us to the depths of our souls. This is how we will move forward in the particular ways each of us is drawn to move.

For Gregory, 30 Years Later

When you were one, far yet from two,
we would climb the stairs together
with your favorite pages of the moment—
the squirrel, the berry book,
or the bear and his birthday moon.
Midway up the tall ascent,
you’d stop, turn, place
your padded butt securely
on the step, and
at your clear instruction
we would read the chosen book
until you were ready
to climb again.
From our seat between the stories
I would lift bedazzled eyes
and look.

There’s a window you see in our house
if you pause on a step and gaze.
There are panes you cannot see through:
light comes dappled, delivered in silver,
in green, purple, yellow and peach,
and plucks some secret chord
that makes me sing to you.
You, and your brother, in the wonder years,
were the finest teachers I had ever had.
There would be decades yet
of hurry, impatience, anxiety, fear
until I’d learn again to move
as I am able, rest when I must
and receive the curious gifts
slowly dropping

from a loving mother’s tongue.

Susan Windle

Love all around and through and through~,

Susan