"To forget that you are only human, to think you can act like a god-this is the opposite of reverence." ~Paul Woodruff

Being human is tough work. Or maybe it is being human, trying to be a god, that is really the tough work. Perspective skews and blurs the boundary between these states of being all the time and we forget the limitations of our humanness. In that shadowland, it is very easy to lose our way. When one believes in their god-like character that they can be in control of anything outside themselves, that they can effect change simply through their will or even might, it becomes very risky business. We see this drama being played out all the time on a national scale and in the dramas of our much smaller lives. In this play-within-a-play there is no room for reverence yet great room for pain.

Reverence: To consider or treat with profound awe and respect; to venerate. I believe the realm of reverence lies between human and the Divine Mystery as it forges the depth of the relationship between humans and what we cannot create, what we cannot manage in our limitations.  Living with reverence provides a great wake up call.

I am thinking specifically of what is happening in my garden right now. As the tulips have been pushing their way back into the world, reaching toward the light and opening their brilliant color in the world, I know that I did almost nothing to make this happen. Of course, we planted the bulbs but the work the flowers themselves did was nothing I had any part in. In fact, we even have tulips not planted by human hands but which found their way into the soil through some other means, perhaps at the hands of a squirrel who dropped a treasure along the way. These tulips are not the shades we planted and yet there they are, a blessing to us in these spring days.

Last week, in the early morning hours of daylight, my husband came into the back door of our house after taking the garbage cans to the curb. "Come out the front door." he said to me. As I did, I followed his eyes to the grapevine wreath we have hanging outside the front door. Nestled among the fake, silk flowers, sat a dragon fly. Its fully formed green and brown body looked sleek and shiny. Its delicate, lacy wings quivered in the cold morning air. Where did it come from? Where was it going? Why, in all the places it could have landed, did it land at our door, at our house?

Reverence is our response to gifts that come to us for which we did not pay or even ask. Reverence is our response to letting go of all the power we think we have as we stand in awe of our powerlessness. Reverence reminds us who we are, and whose we are, and gives us the wisdom to now the difference between our humanity and the One who breathed us into being.

"Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place you are standing is holy ground. " writes the author of the Book of Exodus. As humans, we simply need to be barefoot more often.

Here we are on May 4th and I missed completely the fact that April was National Poetry Month. It is not that I didn't hear it announced or that I didn't read it several times in several different places. I was just swimming too fast in the sea of my own words and those of so many others, that I missed the opportunity to bathe in the sparse waters of poetry.

A couple of years ago I came to the realization that poetry was, for me, the real place of wisdom. The truly important things that need to be said need few words, I believe. And so I began to read more poetry and even write some. But over the last few months I have fallen of the wagon, so to speak, and have fueled my general addiction to words with compound sentences that furrow the brow and numb the mind.

And so I am sorry, deeply sorry, to have missed the opportunity to set aside the thirty days of April to read the few carefully chosen words of the poets.Romantically, I imagine these artists of the word, hunched over desks spinning out their heart stories and then stepping back from what they have written. Taking pen to paper, they then must remove this flowery phrase and that simple word until……until…..the art of the sparse emerges. What a challenge and what a gift.

I realize, of course, that I have just rambled on about what I am railing against. So instead I will leave you with the poet's words and save my thoughts for National Too Many Words Month. When does that fall on the calendar?

"Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.

~David Whyte

I drive a stretch of road in our neighborhood that is surrounded on both sides by small, shallow ponds. It is a hilly road that runs past some of the older houses built in this first ring suburb that has the feel of a small town. An old farmhouse stands along the road with a small family-owned apple orchard that is open only a few weeks in the fall. The ponds are ripe this time of year with the sound of hope……the constant, piercing call of the spring peepers. Over the last few days as I've driven by, I slow my car, roll down all the windows and let the sound that signals change wash over me. What a gift!

Last night I was also surrounded by the sounds of hope, though not on the road. It was our school district's orchestra festival in which all the children enrolled in the programs, elementary through high school come together. It always brings me such joy to see those small children carrying violin, viola, cello and bass cases into the auditorium. As the younger children bow and screech their way through simple tunes, you can see the concentration on their faces. Their directors arms move precisely,almost robot-like trying to keep them all on the same measure, keeping time with every muscle in their body. Then the middle schoolers begin to play and you can see the progress made by practice and maturity. Hope begins to spring up in the parents of the elementary students. Ahhh….something more is possible!

And then the moment comes when the high school orchestra takes the stage. Dressed now in formal concert attire, tuxedos and classic black dresses, they file in and take their places. As the downbeat happens, you can feel the whole audience relax and rest in the music they have waited to hear. Before our very eyes we see what can come from commitment, practice, talent, enthusiasm, rigor, and the love of music.

Last night's concert included a student conducted piece by Verdi. I watched as a young man I have known since he was in elementary school took the podium, pulling and coaxing beauty out of his classmates. They watched him, followed him, the same as they would a professional conductor.It was sheer delight to watch.

Next the orchestra teacher led the students, freshmen through seniors, through a difficult piece by Stravinsky. This gentle man has conducted orchestras at this school for 37 years and is now retiring. The pride with which he leads these young people draws out the best in each of them and helps them rise to their greater selves, creating something none could do alone. As we celebrated his dedication to these young people, my heart was overflowing with gratitude as were all those other parents in attendance.

Sounds of hope come in all forms. From spring peepers to the first draw of bow across a string, we are held by those sounds that awaken something within us that was dormant. Some create sounds of hope because they were born to do so….the frog, the bird. Others need to be taught at the hand of those who have patience to instruct, to wait, to encourage, to affirm, to be present, until the day when everything comes together. Then there is magic…. or miracle….. depending on how you look at it……and a world that seemed gray and bleak suddenly is filled with color and promise.

The earth is greening. The sun is shining. Sounds of hope are all around. Why are you sitting at your computer? Go out and enjoy!

Have a blessed weekend……