To the Pheasant living at the corner of Linwood and Gladstone

5/4/2020

Dear Bird,

I confess that your family’s presence here in the city is more than a little shocking.

Last week, during an early morning walk with Becky, I saw what must be a cousin of yours in the side yard of a house two blocks down. A few weeks before that, I drove past another one on Woodrow Wilson St. right by the on-ramp to John C. Lodge Freeway. And then back before Christmas, one of your clan spent the better part of a day back in the weeds behind our duplex.

Yesterday, when I was taking a long Sunday afternoon stroll, I saw you. You were strolling too--through the houseless corner lot at Linwood and Gladstone. I can’t say it was an empty lot because a thriving dandelion empire occupied the space, and a good number of violet villages were in residence as well. Anyhow, you were promenading through the dandelion domain as though you rule it. Perhaps you do. You certainly look like royalty: dazzling in your deep burgundy and iridescent navy headdress. Your carriage is absolutely regal, and your tail feathers long and lordly. (A peacock’s got nothing on you, in my opinion.)

I was quite awed by you and wanted to approach you and offer my regards in person, but it seems that you were anxious to avoid me. I know you saw me because I watched as you dropped your imperial posture, flattened yourself into the grasses, and scurried behind a rotting stump, making sure to keep it between us as I walked past. I understand, of course, that a noble pheasant such as yourself can’t be associating with mere peasants like me. Still, I wanted to express my admiration of your beauty and gratitude for your presence here among us. I trust this letter will find its way to you and will sufficiently convey the sincerity of my praise and my best wishes for your health and well-being.

May you live long and may your tribe increase.

Humbly,

Miriam

The pheasant himself (and his tree stump)

Stay-at-Home Ponderings

I wrote these thoughts out the day the Michigan governor announced the stay-at-home order. Now 97% of Americans are under a stay-at-home protocol. While we're beginning to adjust to a new normal, we're also still reeling in many ways and grappling with our new reality.

Personally, I don't really know exactly what to think of it all (especially the swirling politics). What I do know is that this is a time for love, kindness, trust, and generosity. It's a time for prayer (if you're a person of faith) and grieving with the suffering, for creativity and patience. I'm seeking to lean into those things, and so are most of the people that I know personally. And if we lean toward kindness together--if we lean towards each other--this can be a time of hope and renewal for our planet.

Bloodroot in Maybury State Park, Spring 2020 (a solitary quarantine walk) 

Exposed

3/23/2020

We feel these days deeply and painfully.

As though we are relearning something about ourselves and our existence:

life is fragile.

We are fragile.

This time, it’s not 4 airplanes and 3 crash scenes that remind us

suddenly 

on a Tuesday morning

that we are fragile.

It’s not the news of the impending tsunami making landfall and claiming 230,000 lives.

It’s not an individual tragedy--a phone call with a diagnosis, discovery of an accidental overdose, a family disruption, a job loss--that we experience in isolation from those around us.

This.

This has come to all of us.

It is, at once, a sudden and a creeping thing.

It rose rapidly but lingers with uncertainty. 

We cannot wrap our minds around it, because it is always shifting, changing, evolving.

The narrative keeps unfolding.

This is a virus.

And it’s established a monopoly on our TVs, radios, internet sources, social media feeds, and even our private conversations.

It’s become a household name. A global terror.

A pandemic.

And we are exposed.

Exposed to change.

Exposed to harm.

Exposed, yes, to a virus,

but, oh, so much more.

We are exposed

to our mortality,

to the vulnerability of our lives that, God knows, we tried so hard to make safe, secure, and comfortable.

We are exposed

to raw emotions (our own and others’),

to needs we cannot fathom,

to suffering we cannot alleviate,

to information we cannot make sense of,

to disruption we cannot evade.

We are exposed to our fragility.

This violent virus, microbial menace.

Today, the governor announced a stay-at-home protocol for the state of Michigan.

Some feel this as governmental overstepping; others, as too little, too late.

The diverse perspectives reiterate our tensions, our loss of control, the invasiveness of the whole situation.

We each respond in a different way. But we all respond, think, feel, something. After all, our lives are being invaded. 

No one is immune

to this fragility,

our humanity.

We are reminded again.

By a microscopic organism.

Reminded that our precious lives are uncertain.

Reminded that we are fragile.

Reminded that we are human.

It is a good reminder:

we are all human.

Dear humans, let us love well.

Lent 2020

“Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.”

Each year for many of us, Lent begins with the pronouncement of these words and the smudging of an ashy cross on our foreheads. A sober reminder of our fragile humanity.

This year, however, the Lenten season has come to us with even deeper and more far-reaching impact, and regardless of faith tradition, we as human beings have faced our mortality and vulnerability with renewed awareness.

The traditional season of contemplation, fasting, and mourning has entered our lives in new, invasive, and uncomfortable ways in the form of a pandemic.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

Brothers and sisters, members of the human family, we are dust. 

We are vulnerable, but love is strong.

Let us love well during these days.