TALK AT THE TABLE

moving forward

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 16:14:00 +0000

I wonder how others see us.

I have been going through old family photos with my brother who is visiting. I am trying to find stories in the faces, of the people, the expressions, the arms crossed or open. The spaces between or lack of .

I wonder if someone will look at our photos and see enough of me being engaged. Listening. Together.

I wonder how much we live the truth of the stories we want others to read.

* photo of strangers captured last fall in Montreal

of heroes and saints

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 02:56:00 +0000

.... the world bears the stamp of genius , the stain of ruin, the hope of restoration.
Philip Yancey

Perhaps you fell in love with a hero and kept on holding the lists and plans and the safe through all the years

Then one sunset after a mostly sleepless night,
windows appear under skimming shorebirds

Lambent gates right down there in the grit

You've been watching him crouch low too, bowing down and teetering on the edge of power

His belly softer, his heart ablaze

This man who weeps with you,
in the unknowing
and the beauty of just loving

the gift of beginnings

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 03:40:00 +0000



And where there are lives I may have withered around me,
Or lives of strangers far or near 
That I've destroyed in blind complicity, 
And if I cannot find them 
Or have no way to serve them,

Remember them. I beg you to remember them

When winter is over 
And all your unimaginable promises
Burst into song on death's bare branches.

from A Short Testament , Anne Porter

Amidst the sorrow  we can say good-bye to what was and ready for what may be.

Sharing some wonder .

Counting blessings. Abundant. Words soon.

Listening...

~ on my knees gratitude for all of you, for my mother and her legacy, my 3 brothers who I celebrated New Year's Eve with,

for my husband and children and our time together at Christmas, for the miracles, the hope , and the gift of each new morning.

no strings attached -edit oh my word

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 14:23:00 +0000

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and softly stole away into
some anonymous Mary's womb again
where in the darkest night
of everybody's anonymous soul
He awaits again
an unimaginable
and impossibly
Immaculate Reconception
the very craziest
of Second Comings

from Christ Climbed Down , Lawrence Ferlinghetti

the last day of the last visit I decided to sleep over . spend the night half asleep and listening to her breathing .
when she stirred and mumbled I was right there, leaning tight to the edge of the cocoon I'd made myself of various linens from the carts all up and down the hall, leaning with an outstretched arm and hand .
here mom , hold on. I'm here.
the hours that followed I wasn't of course. I was a wondering mother with her newborn, eyes finding mine in the moonlight of a vent. I was a pleading mother with teething or feverish or colicky infants and toddlers offering the curl of my flesh and bone, the life all here and yours and surely this is enough, this is the peace you crave and ache for seeping into your heart , all these tears swirling a river of mercy.
her fingers, clawed at my neck , grabbing at the strings of my sweatshirt pulling and twisting and I felt myself falling even though.

months prior I was patiently guiding her through the process of letting me cut her long yellowing fingernails. there was me playing at the caretaker daughter, there was her, not knowing rules or games . we'd found a necklace with a simple cross earlier , in the dust of her room, and she fingered it now admiring herself in the mirror . I wondered how much she recognized .
If I wear this maybe God will love me ?
I rinsed clippings, let tears go down the drain.
You are Beloved anyway mom. You always have been and always will be regardless and no matter and without the cross just because, I reassured her . Myself.

I untangled her fingers though I wasn't choking really, not as much.
Remembering. Believing.
The wonder of it all.
I'm here mom, let's hold each other and rest now.

*** sorry for the confusion, my mother is very close to passing yes, but still alive . sorry for the misleading words....thank you , humbly, me

perspective

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 16:43:00 +0000

It's probably not what you expected.

It's not what I expected when I downloaded the photos from my camera.

Joy. Whimsy. A kind of surreal beauty that I can't quite name.

It's been showing up in the even though of all these days that I could never have predicted.

I try not admit that I see everything with about me eyes but of course I do.

Until grace alone has me holding my youngest brother while we cry over cold coffee in the palliative care lounge. Regret and fear can have a surreal beauty. Just like that there was the gift of seeing that I hadn't expected at all , at all.

That the way to look at my freedom was that I was to give it away.

To help him name the loss for what it was so he could start filling up with joy and beauty after so much waiting.

To expect that which is always Mystery.

** photo credit to my daughter

distortion

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 02:34:00 +0000

Because I am the other mothers too.

The ones who've run warm water while weeping , letting unused yogourt and broth and sauce swirl down drains.
Rewashed the load from days ago before the phone call.
Brought in shoes too late from the rain.

I am you who haven't noticed
the night become day
instead attending every detail.

The beeps and drip drips and pressure cuff hiss a pathos.

You've been there.
Solemnly folding a damp cloth like it's a purificator. Wiping the blood that drips out an ear.

Because I am just like any one of us, who has given birth and then stood helpless .
Waiting . Waiting.

Waiting to be told of a common tragedy unfolding . Waiting to be told of it averted.

Perhaps just the Saturday prior in fact you found yourself bending over , under the bed and the spine board and the warming blankets and the swollen face of this barely a man who is still your baby,
to retrieve a scrap , a charm from the minutiae .

It was left there, a bit of froth .

You make it a pocket periapt.
A square of black sweater with a single button, the edges fraying from the quick cuts to free the hope. The brutality softening with every stroke of a praying mother's hands.

Every minute of all the waiting of all the mothers.

a quilt before the veil

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 19:25:00 +0000

You'll be crossing over soon. The enduring as imperfect as it all has been. I weave triumph in and out of the binding. Listen to hoarse becoming wheeze and hang up gently , you still not knowing where I am.

I'm coming soon. I need to wrap you in home. You think you can't get there, but you will. You all bone and fire with a life all patched together and I'll fold you in it. My pieced torch. Our testament.

quietly joining Heather and Emily .

and deepest thanks to Ann for keeping me in my Joseph story.

sometimes, it's time

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 02:55:00 +0000

Belief isn't always easy.
But this much I have learned--
if not enough else--
to live with my eyes open.

I know what everyone wants
is a miracle.
This wasn't a miracle.
Unless, of course, kindness--
as now and again
some rare person has suggested--
is a miracle.
As surely it is.
from In the Storm, Mary Oliver

There is the me that perhaps you haven't met .
I'm not all gentle and sweet and deferring.

I have days where I like to hide in my family and then it turns into years
and then suddenly I'm waking from yet another nightmare and I have to find
a corner of the cabana where I can hide from my family
and make another phone call.

Another one ,
that while it feels more like a quiet knock
Is still an explosion.

I feel it inside my head and I'm 5 and I'm 10 and I'm 18
and I'm having babies and then I'm just saying f you and then I'm just too many shards and I can't hear what you might need to say to me so I just quit believing.

A make believe denial that works for us.
Except it doesn't .

And I stand
dripping sweat and watching the flies and saying and offering and asking and wondering and it was a miracle.
I have you back and I won't ever let you go again.

And I meant my I Love You even though I've probably never said it before .
Except maybe when we both thought we were living a dream even when we weren't and then
it all exploded

and I forgot that you needed gentle and sweet and a mama
more than me even.

And I remember singing Jesus Loves Me to you
and how I'd forgotten .

And maybe we can find her together .

And maybe we don't need to really, after all.

But we just need each other.

* for my baby brother

** I am hoping to emerge from family and fog and other and I'm about half caught up ( Friko, Ruth, Ellen, .. almost :) , and of course those of you've that I 've visited have no doubt posted again , sigh..
I'm determined and grateful and will read , it just might take me straight through to fall :) thank you for understanding. honestly. I owe all of you , all of you, my deepest gratitude for wisdom and inspiration and strength. And laughter and art and , well... I miss you !

because sometimes there doesn't have to be a reason

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 01:35:00 +0000

Even when we are fully and completely in the with and for each other... it's good to look around.

I'm always a few steps behind. In everything pretty much. But I'm trying to see.

My stepfather and I are years of moments behind in pretty much everything. But I'm trying to hear.

Maybe we are more , by becoming less.

the common extraordinary

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 19:54:00 +0000

Does the sun dance before it sets to remind you to ?

Does it make you want to cry with the power of something you can't quite name because that is the point?

You think of something Annie Dillard wrote , about the Tulip tree hurling out a great , fringed fling of green from the turning of gravel and bitter salts into life. That if you keep biting down on the hard, you'll swell, bud. Bloom.

You say the comfort words, the mother , friend , and citizen words because you know how it feels after all, you know how it felt and look here at all that the light keeps showing you.

You start to fall asleep , like your lover and best friend has , here on the porch under the moon and the day that in the press of a tear damp cheek on the mountain of a shoulder becomes weightless.

You've taken photos of , and read stories of ,

and the voice?

You heard it where you least expected it , of course.

And can't quite find the way to put down the words.

~~~ I am thinking how we can learn of a death and a life together , and how we just really don't need to understand why.

~~~ And how sometimes it is important to do one thing vs another, even though it's hard. Because you do see the blooming . And that is the point.

~~~ And how the kindness of others is like water . ( thank you for the header , Beth )

in all the possibility

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 02:50:00 +0000

When field and woods agree, they make a rhyme
That stirs in distant memory the whole
First Sabbath's song that no largess of time
Or hope or sorrow wholly can recall.

But harmony of earth is Heaven-made,
Heaven-making, is promise and is prayer,
A little song to keep us unafraid,
An earthly music magnified in air.

from A Sabbath Poem , Wendell Berry

( photos from recent road trip... words soon )

in the now and forever

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Tue, 17 May 2011 12:51:00 +0000

spring song

By Lucille Clifton

the green of Jesus

is breaking the ground

and the sweet

smell of delicious Jesus

is opening the house and

the dance of Jesus music

has hold of the air and

the world is turning

in the body of Jesus and

the future is possible

there is laughter and it carries up through vents and down over the banister and it's in the piling on of limbs on my bed and dishes on the island and stories stories stories

this family
ours
is suddenly all come together for too short a while
each moment like an occasion now

like a wedding and we're dancing around
and dancing that way we do with each
and with the other
different and the same

it's in and out the front and the back and side by each and a hug from behind and a request for more and again

I stand at the porch doors looking out. Waiting on creation . Magnolia, brunnera, wisteria. Weeds even.
Bees.

I turn and it's a day all carpeted in the sun on flesh and voices shouldering up through the ceramic and hardwood

Shoes and cups sprout , multiply,

as does the clamouring for car keys, dreams, a place to shoulder pain and fear, the impossible, the inevitable.

Humanity binding right here in lives all unfurling , matting and knitting and clinging .

Thunder and rain thrums

like the hours

that peal

summon me to lush and awe and holy

The day erupts
runs amuck

trailing threads
leaving rings, drips, crumbs, socks, pans, tears, fingerprints

Moss underfoot trumpets

Make seeds
flower!

proclaims a song from the 70's so I'll remember where I am

And when I hear it again on the radio in the car for the first time ever because who knew this still existed somewhere

I want to kiss all those babies 'til they fly

Singing out
the little white dove's cry

Did I Miss Anything?

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Tue, 03 May 2011 18:10:00 +0000

Did I Miss Anything?

                       Question frequently asked by
                       students after missing a class

Nothing. When we realized you weren't there
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours

   Everything. I gave an exam worth
   40 percent of the grade for this term
   and assigned some reading due today
       on which I'm about to hand out a quiz
   worth 50 percent

Nothing. None of the content of this course
has value or meaning
Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class
I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose

        Everything. A few minutes after we began last time
        a shaft of light descended and an angel
        or other heavenly being appeared
        and revealed to us what each woman or man must do
        to attain divine wisdom in this life and
        the hereafter
        This is the last time the class will meet
        before we disperse to bring this good news to all people on earth

Nothing. When you are not present
how could something significant occur?

        Everything. Contained in this classroom
        is a microcosm of human existence
        assembled for you to query and examine and ponder
        This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered
        but it was one place

And you weren't here.

                                                     Tom Wayman


*** offered as a better version of some scribbled note from me. I will read your every word.

quiet joyful noise

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 03:41:00 +0000

"The most basic and powerful way to connect to another person is to listen. Just listen. Perhaps the most important thing we ever give each other is our attention…. A loving silence often has far more power to heal and to connect than the most well-intentioned words. "
— Rachel Naomi Remen

there

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Sat, 23 Apr 2011 01:01:00 +0000

it causes me to tremble

~photo from Chapel of the Holy Cross, Sedona, AZ.

I'm Deb

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 22:52:00 +0000

I watched her hands ; blue, whorled, cross hatched.

Multiple rings contain each finger because company has come.

I'm company.

Deb.

The one she's always talked to, a friend? Sister? A daughter.. oh , yes." We always talk, right?"

Her voice and words keep changing , like someone's turning the radio dial on her thoughts and emotions.

She 's missing a front tooth, the dexterity to have gotten her part right, the years where I had her grandchildren. My husband's name.

Her hugs keep throwing me off balance. They are a first.

I turn the pages of photo albums and she flips from year to year, person to person , story to story . Much of it wrong.

Heart wrenching. Bitter. Terrifying.

She drinks again and again from an empty coffee cup, gets up to collect trinkets to send me home with, hoping I'll pop by when I'm bored.

I put the dusty salt and pepper shakers back again.

Notice she has five nail clippers lined up with the razors , ask her why she is shaving her eyebrows off , catch my breath at the wedding photo of my father and her and a piper.

I'd forgotten that one . Seen it everyday for ten years and forgotten and I'm dizzy, and wondering if this is how she feels minute to minute.

She's a shadow, tapping the glass.

"He was my best" and she cries , tearless.

I have my voice here in this dream.

"Do you know who he is to me ?" I ask.

" I think you met him when you were little" she says, slowly, not sure.

A flicker .

It's fear.

I place my hand on her shoulder and guide her away. I suggest we go outside and sit in the sun for a bit.

I need some light.

I tell her she can call me anytime. Reliving and delusion are her chains . I'm bound . Losing air.

This makes her laugh. She needs people to trust.

I realize she can't use the phone. Can't find my number. "I'll call you. " I reassure , clutch my purse, cling to the time that signals the trip back home.

a bit of :: right now :: / except by the time I hit publish it will be a bit of :: just awhile ago ::

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 02:40:00 +0000

right now, I am

:: marveling that my youngest baby turned 13 today.

:: recovering from yesterday's 9.5km run, and actually excited by the challenge of preparing for the half-marathon I am registered for in September. And terrified.

:: feeling at a loss of words for how blessed I am to be married to my best friend, and have five incredible children who inspire and teach me . And I get to love them . And their hugs are dreams come true over and over.

:: being pestered by my dog as he is utterly confused by the leftover bbq ribs still out on the counter . part of bday girl's dinner request, awaiting the arrival of a sister from work.

:: noticing that I am surprisingly at peace with Wednesday's upcoming visit to see my mother. but unable to write about this just yet as I slowly process the phone call .

:: seeing sewing scraps under the dining room table that make me so very grateful for creating and texture and the soothing noise of my machine and the endless possibilities , even if I never get to them.

:: rejoicing in Lent, the journey , the grace, the trust

:: enjoying the first weekend of eating outside, of putting away flip flops instead of boots, smelling humidity and wet dirt and the piled on memories of summer inside the pool cabana.

:: looking forward to two away student/children returning home in a few weeks, but worried and excited for and proud and a little in denial about one that will not

:: loving my new Mac laptop

:: trusting in love , and Love and the lilac buds pushing purple explosions right outside the kitchen window

:: thinking that I will never be able to express to everyone in the blogging community how they are roots from which I am living and breathing and burning

:: heading into the next few days with a quiet trembling

:: hoping everyone will enjoy a peace filled week

:: wishing you all a knowing, a good in your heart knowing that you are loved and part of something powerful if you choose to believe

thank you to SouleMama for the :: right now :: prompt

Vultures On a Rainy Monday

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 04:17:00 +0000

I try to look as though I know how to

Knees slightly bent , swaying

with my eyes peeled for April in red on wings

You look like Ted Kooser might

If he decided to eat a granola bar on the same water-logged bench

Near the quarry

I mirror your leaning, as though of course, it's about time to note the muskrats

And then you're off

bounding across the clearing and up around the bend

Like a deer might

Or a sudden change in the wind

I'm wearing too many layers

and the wet wool doesn't smell like how poetry

Or a fisherman might

I don't know what I'm looking for

a vision perhaps,

a table a chair a room

something to tell me I'm alive

Four silent voices circle
As suddenly as the air is an uproar
A tempest

I'm the middle of a dance or a book
Or the beginning

I understand,now,
that you've returned to your fields
Where you've learned to watch and wait

And be

And sent these waves
Silver edged

Weaving among patient trees

To elevate me

That I might take up singing

just this

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 00:21:00 +0000

~~~ because sometimes life is annoying and petty and exhausting . in a non-tragic I am so lucky, but still, kind of way..

~~~ that is all

( and in keeping with the theme of the last few days I've hit publish about ten times and still realized I might have come across as less than fine. I'm fine. Some people might have found this hard to believe by the way I was looking at them .. but it's all good :) )

* I am so behind in my blog visits and comments and emails. grace? *

Sanctuary

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 12:36:00 +0000

I don't know how to do a book review.

I do know that words and images and the meeting of souls can have the power to change us. To make us realize that we are connected. To each other. To nature. To suffering and serving and loving.

There's a photo in Sanctuary, The Story of Naturalist Mary Majka, by Deborah Carr, that slays me for some reason.

Mary is standing just in the water 's edge at the beach, arms raised to the embrace the wind, smiling. It's the image that I carry with me now. A triumph. A moment of peace and a completely free expression of joy.

to quote from the prelude

" this is the story of how a young Polish girl named Marysia faced sorrow and then war alone and through this discovered a healing connection to nature. It is the story of how she evolved into the award-winning woman known as Mary Majka, who played a key role in preserving the natural and cultural heritage of New Brunswick and encouraged others to pursue their passion and make their own mark on the world. But beneath all this, it is the story of finding sanctuary- of achieving the sacred place of acceptance and refuge , both in the world and within the soul. "

I don't know why I came upon Deborah's blog or why something struck me as profoundly important when I read that she'd written and published a book.

When I travelled to meet her , to see a little of both her and Mary's world, I was still awestruck by it all.

I suppose I still am. I want to write a poem and don't know where to begin.

" When you observe nature, you are constantly watching, not necessarily just he birds or animals, but it is the whole picture you see. You walk on a trail and you see a feather, a leaf, or a track. You are constantly observing these things and putting them together into the story that is being told to you"

"I always felt I had been given a mission, and while I never felt a distinct vocation, the great theme in my life has been to love and to serve. These are the two things that dominate my life. "

Mary Majka

I will let others tell you why reading this book is important and moving and deserving of it's incredible success .

may I always stand at the edge of the dawn, of the sea , and the forest, and Your longing

may I always kneel in awe

and receive and give

grow feathers and leaves

and possibilities

You can win a copy (autographed by both Deborah Carr and Mary Majka ) for yourself by commenting here .

Deb and Deb at Mary's Point , NB

finding robins in winter just so

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 03:36:00 +0000

There was no rolling cheerily cheerup when I came upon a flock of robins roosting mid-winter.

No creating song.

No call of beginnings.

Ah... I thought... Emily Dickinson could have avoided the first robin after all.

The dread .

The here we are all loud and banging our drums signs of life that she was perhaps not in the mood for. Afraid to trust.

She could have half slid down the hill with me. Come to rest on a dry rock, balancing , like all that rusty red plump.

She would have learned that sometimes , they are there all along. Enduring . Lingering. Waiting.

Persevering not far from where you are.

Staying through the cold and the dark and the suffering.

This was the miracle , I thought.

In learning that given enough berries and a place to belong with, they chose to stay.

Here was the promise , a marvel.

The wonder.

That shivering and suffering was a choice.

The abiding, a way.

A hymn in the woods.

like spring lit up in all it's glory

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 17:14:00 +0000

Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, " Abba, as far as I can I say my little office, I fast a
little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace and as far as I can , I purify my thoughts. What else can I do ? "
Then the old man stood up and stretched his hands toward heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, " If you will, you can become all flame. "

   ---- From The Sayings of the Desert Fathers,
   in Thirst by Mary Oliver

once again, it's in the letting go

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 15:16:00 +0000

" I sit on a bridge as on Pisgah or Sinai, and I am both waiting becalmed in a clift of the rock and banging with all my will, calling like a child beating on a door: come on out! ... I know you're there. "

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim At Tinker Creek

you're the call of "Opa ! " when platters come to the table and I look around at where and who and what and shoulders stop trying to cover my ears and you're in the gathering to break bread

the elevator has a television ; a siren ; a desert ; a wind

you're the child who asks for the camera and wants to look out over fields for light coming up

everyone is planting , sweeping , going about , coming from

I stand on corners and wait

I weep tears, laugh

Celebrate while I can

Share wine and water and silence

~ returned from Montreal , Quebec... thinking about Japan, love, life,
~ photos taken by myself and youngest daughter
~ looking forward to catching up with all of you
~ looking forward

~ thank you to Hilary for once again choosing my rambling efforts as a POTW . she is one of the sweetest people I've ever met, literally, and I hope she appreciates these photos of our common birthplace :)

smile

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 21:20:00 +0000

OH.... THE POWER OF A SMILE......

feel it . share it . live it

a quiet thought as the sun rose

noreply@blogger.com (deb colarossi) — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 15:50:00 +0000

"we only wait when there is hope

where there is no hope ...........we lie..........dying "

Jean Vanier

~ predawn photo