The strangely happy thing about our garden
Is that it is always perfect
And yet never finished
It is always just right as it is
And yet always becoming something else

Not becoming
More perfect
Or better
Or kinder
Or gentler
Or wiser
Or more spiritual

Not always becoming
Brighter
Or more colorful

Not always becoming
Growth
And abundance

Sometimes becoming
Death
And decay

Sometimes becoming
Waiting
And barreness

Its perfection in every moment
Is inescapably always becoming

Lewy body dementia
Devastation
Robbery
Defamation
Cruelty
Why then does my traitorous mind
Immediately start singing
“Meet me in St. Louie, Louie…”

I gift you this earworm
A much kinder gift
Than telling you to google
Lewy body dementia

Robin William’s suicide
Depression
Cognitive decline
Shuffling gait
Fearfulness
Slowed speech 
Slowed walk 
Slowed understanding 
Slowed everything

Slow, slower, slowest
Death

Time to push up my sleeves
Banish the earworm
And get to work loving

Love, lovelier, loveliest
These cherished memories
Of the man now hidden
Beneath those treacherous
Lewy body deposits
That bankrupt him

Right now Woody and I live in-between
The start and finish of our renovation
Each day we complete something
Or change something
Or, when necessary, undo something

And so, what had once been our bedroom
Is now in-between a bedroom and craft room
What had once been our woodworking room
Is now well on its way to being our new bedroom
And what had once been a huge disorganized storage room
Is now a walk-in closet and a smaller potentially well-organized storage room

The worst part is that our beautiful half-sunken back porch
With the four rocking chairs and bordering herb garden
With the small pond where our favorite pieces of broken pottery reside
Looking interesting – or at least funky - amid the rocks and shallow water
Bordered by ferns and tradescantia

The worst part, as I was going to say
Before I got caught in the in-between 
Of my back porch thought
The worst part is that our much-loved back porch
Is our temporary storage and sorting area
Filled with a couple of old filing cabinets
Several bookcases
Miscellaneous baskets and boxes of memories
Old and new flooring, tools and cleaning supplies

But at least it gives us incentive
To keep sorting
Keep working
Keep believing that we can make a difference
For the better

And so we can
During this last part of our lives
In-between the almost forgotten start and the only partially envisioned end
In between birth and death
In-between the prosaic and the profound
In-between now and eternity

I am sure it is wonderful
As Loy Ching-Yuen suggests
To savor the ineffable

But me?
I can only savor the effable

My joy blooms
As I look at the sink
Full of those entirely effable
Dirty dishes

My joy blooms
Anticipating the pleasure
Of warm soapy water
And clean dishes

My satisfaction simmers
As I see the entirely effable disorder
Left by visiting honorary grandchildren

My satisfaction simmers
Anticipating the gentle work
Of picking up crayons and papers
Snacks and blankets
And sitting down
In an organized family room

My happiness surges
As I see the entirely effable bare dirt
In my herb garden 

My happiness surges
Anticipating the bent back work
Of planting and tending
Weeding and picking
With the sweet smells
Of herbs rising ever stronger
As spring becomes summer

And so the entirely effable
Becomes my own way
My own Tao
To the ineffable

What
I am prompted to wonder 
Solaces the dry places in my heart

I remember saying to Woody
Just last night
“Isn’t it wonderful when your favorite place in the world is your own home?”

So there’s that.
But then there is
Of course
Woody himself
Who tends my heart
As carefully as he tends
The rest of his garden

And there are my choir of women
Friends near and far
Who sing in harmony with my heart

Children and grandchildren
Neighbors and friends
(Even Facebook friends)
Poetry and novels
Crocheting and writing
Planning trips
Taking trips
Remembering trips
Contemplation and prayer
Quiet times with Mom
Arrogant cats and bouncy dogs
Water and mountains
Blue skies and storms
Sunrises and sunsets

It is much easier to answer
What disturbs my heart

War and pestilence
Power-hungry politicians and pompous priests 
Regretting too much
Fearing too much
Hurting too much
Forgetting metanoia
That glorious turning around
Away from should and can’t
Towards don’t have to and enough

Sink or swim.
Sink or swim, I tell myself.
Sink or swim. I tell myself to swim harder.
Sink or swim, I tell myself. To swim harder is all I learned.
Sink or swim. I tell myself to swim harder. Is all I learned enough to save me?
Sink or swim, I tell myself. To swim harder is all I learned, but it is not enough to save me.
Sink then, stop chattering, stop swimming, stop trying to save myself.
Just sink, to swim, effortlessly, in divine love.

What would I have liked to have been taught in school
You asked
And my immediate thought
So immediate that it does not feel like a thought at all
But like a feeling
Like a cloudburst
Like a big bang
Like a revelation
Bestowed by some Higher Power

I would have liked
I would have loved
I needed
To be taught a lot fewer truths
About God

I learned so much about their god
About that god I was taught to believe in
That it took long decades to unlearn
Enough
For me to find God
Shining
Solid
Beyond their truths
Behind their great cloud of doctrines

Bonhoeffer
(for whom I have the greatest respect)
Notwithstanding
Grace is never cheap
Nor ever expensive
But always free

What if we be but worms
Mortals doomed to die
Yet we are silk worms
Cocooned in eternity

We die
It is true
And then…
God uses our cocoons
To fashion yet more grace
Free and freely
Colorful and silky
In which to wrap Her creations