With your halo slipping down

This is the warmest conference weekend I can ever remember! I'm obsessed with it--and with the glorious September that just finished with brilliantly warm days. It's like Summer came out with an extended version. Jonathan and I went on a walk and I noted with glee that it felt green like July. I bless nature for delaying my winter grief. And for the soft golden glow through the trees in the evenings I can see from the living room in our little house.

We're home with my family and it's wonderful. I wanted to share this: My bendita mother has written a poem for each of her married children and shared it at their wedding luncheon. I love her for doing that...they are so deeply sweet and personal. I remember that Doug's was about a little bird and mine is about the Heaven-fear I share with my mother (some may understand). I love her so much for knowing this part of me, and for giving voice to my hope. When she shared this poem she mentioned that she and I were good friends and we had grown up together, and that this was a burden we shared. She is right. I remember we all talked about poems that day: both my parents, my grandfather and I. It's in the blood of my life. I'm praying that it will come back so I can write again, too. Here is my mother's poem!

Search for Cibola

Legend tells of a city of gold,

shimmering in the desert,

which lay on a level stretch,

at the brow of a roundish hill,

whose people drink

living water

from golden cups

that fall from the trees.

Cibola, beautiful Cibola,

Soul of desire

Supernal joy.

Many sought Cibola. .

Her vision,

launched galleons and

consumed the strength

of mariners and mighty men,

who wagered all,

for a glimpse

of her glory.

But found instead

a dusty pueblo

home to dark eyed natives

who measured treasure

in women and children,

and neat rows of

corn, squash, and beans.

Cibola

never was.

Yet some say,

for a moment,

from a distance

in early dawn,

they see her,

when morning’s piercing ray

bathes adobe walls

in brilliance.

Cibola, beautiful Cibola,

Soul of desire

Supernal joy.

Many seek Cibola.

and lured by dreams of glory,

lust for glitter

that consumes but never fills

and die empty,

certain

the dream is dust.

Cibola, beautiful Cibola,

Soul of desire

Supernal joy.

Cibola was and is.

Be still.

From a distance

at dawning,

you will sense her,

as piercing love

bathes your adobe

in brilliance.

Search for Cibola!

Let her vision warm you.

Let hunger for wholeness

consume you,

and keep your feet

all the dusty length to her gate.

Cibola, beautiful Cibola.

Soul of desire

Supernal joy.

Cibola

still lies on a level stretch,

at the brow of a roundish hill.

Measure her treasure

in the eyes of your children,

in your neat rows of

corn, squash and beans

and find her,

at last,

at home.