Spring and the Trial Moon

Shabbat gratefuls:  Love. Justice. Compassion. Our winter weekend. Less illness overburden. Dishwashers. Slavic.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Cold night

 

Kavannah: Netzach. Perseverance. Trial begins on Wednesday. I need netzach as I enter this latest round of treatment.

Tarot: paused

One brief shining:  Gathered in a circle, arms on each others shoulders, we Woolly Mammoths sang at the close of our monthly home meeting: We circle around, we circle around, the boundaries of the earth, spreading our long wing feathers as we fly.

 

Not sure how we got this Ghost Dance song, but the memory of singing it with my Woolly brothers remains powerful and haunting. We met twice a month for over twenty years.

One meeting was in a Woolly home. Warren would serve his turkey chili. Frank always took the March meeting: corned beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes. Though the host picked the topic, Frank would often punt with–wild card.

Just before we left, we sang.

We also had lunch once a month. More casual. We’d talk over breadsticks, egg drop soup, shawarma. Catching up, discussing the news. Friends. Sometimes there would be heated arguments, most often between the two Charlies.

An annual retreat. I tried to arrive early–to claim a private room.  Many bags of groceries collected on the counter. Sleeping bags, hiking boots, heavy coats. The retreat was usually in January. A Minnesota January–bitter cold.

We stayed in Catholic retreat centers like Blue Sky Monastery, a lodge in northern Minnesota, and in a large lake cabin/home designed by one of our members.

Gathering at Emily’s.  Lunch.  The upstairs room–ours. I liked the raw kibbi. While we ate, Mark might tell us of new exhibits at the science museum. Tom might regale us with blowing up cars. For work!

Each Sunday morning five of us gather on Zoom. Bill’s white hair, a year from 90. Paul’s caps: WTF. Tom and his cat Rascal. Mark and another good week.

Paul, in Maine, moved away first. Then Jimmy headed to South Dakota. Finally, Kate and I moved here to Shadow Mountain. Diaspora Woollies, yet still bonded.

We’re all still alive. We have one Nonagenarian, Frank, who is 93 now. One of us, Bill, will join Frank next year. Most of us cluster in the late seventies to early eighties.

Architect, ob-gyn, clergy. Not a poker club. Not a  beer and the game group.

We did banish a member. His concerns hijacked meetings.

Bill stood by Regina’s bed, stroking her hair.

Tom and Roxann got married in a mandorla.

Ode lost his prostate.

We showed up.

Building trust, shared memories. Almost exactly half my life.

Sure, some of us, like me, have significant health challenges. Yet our lives are ongoing. Braiding together like sweet grass.

Time, braided.

We fly.

Wing feathers catching air.