Jeff Naylor was the planned speaker on July 14, 2019

I know I’m not the only one among us to feel anguish over the state of things. Despair. Even paralysis. For me, when it’s especially bad, I lose the will to speak; I feel I have nothing constructive to say. I am learning that those are the times I should listen to others’ voices.

For me, reading is one form of listening, and I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. I’d like to share some of the things I’ve encountered that resonate with me across a range of emotions. Following are some short pieces and excerpts – poems, mostly – written over the years by members and attenders at this meeting.

Jeanette M – “Creation”

and god said,
let there be.
let there be
a was, an is, a will be.
let there be
an up, down, and sideways.
let there be many who Know.
and it was good.

and they answered.
there will be upside-down,
inside out
and backwards.
there will be Never.
the Light will have shadows,
and our seeds will grow without light.

and god pleaded.
let there be Maybe.
let there be a waiting
and shadows without darkness.

and they answered.
let there be No.
let there be hollow flesh
and powerless hands.
let it begin
over and over and over

and Jesus wept.

Marilyn Johnson – “Holy, Holy, Holy”

At the edge of the ocean I am closest to Thee.

I walk alone on soft sand
Dark sky hides me, allows me to stretch
As far as I want to, without attracting attention
Thus inward turned and small, I know of
Ocean power, neck-breaking waves at my side
Death offered.

Betty F – “Witness”

Tears flow
catching sunlight,
prancing prisms expanding.

Can we see the light refracting from our own tears?
Or does it take someone else to see that?
A witness, a friend,
who can stand by and say,
Even your tears are holy.

Mary Logue – “A Moment”

How to make the words say more,
how to get closer to the earth,
to see farther into the sky.
I want to do all this

and do it naturally,
no strain of the pressure
to be perfect but in my
imperfection fall into

the whole world:
Oceans roaring,
trees falling like splinters,
butterflies flitting to Mexico.

The wonders and horrors
of every day — in my hand
in my eyes — fill me
with life in every way.

This belongs to me, this vivid life,
the unwanted pain, the undeserved
joy, this clear moment.

Elizabeth Watson from “What We Know So Far”

Very gradually, I came out of my withdrawal and into the acknowledgment that we must all cope with loss . . . In time I began to let go of the concept that God is all-powerful and to see God as part of the human process, unable to help, just as I . . . So God, too, was suffering from the inability to step in and save the human family. The sense of God suffering with me, and with the whole human race throughout history, made me feel I was no longer alone in a meaningless, randomly evil universe. I slowly experienced a newly earned sense of belonging to the human community in a deeper way.

Nancy Peterson from Northern Yearly Meeting’s Faith and Practice

Blessed are the truth sayers, the contrary ones, the poets, the seekers, the doubters, the believers, for together they can shake the foundation.
Blessed are those in community, because they are not alone.
Blessed are those who reach under the fence, over the wall, across the divide, for they will show us the way.
Blessed are the risk takers, who step out of comfort, for they shall explore new lands.
Blessed are those who stay in for the long haul, those who turn the other cheek and don’t turn back, for they shall be trusted.
Blessed are the humble listeners,
Blessed are those who live their faith as witnesses,
Blessed are the broken, for they shall become a new whole.

Mary Jean Port – “Ceremony”

We carry tools out back.
You claim the spade, I the shears.
Your girl comes last, urging
her ghost dog to follow. The sun
slips low. You turn the soil
with swift strokes, bury the promise
of day lilies. Their golden fingers
unfold at dawn, close,
like withdrawn gestures, at dusk.
I trim the lilac bush, making way
for new boughs gravid with buds.
The girl says, “Dad, when I was you
and her, I slept in trees.”
Later I think I see her, wings
soft as petals, crouched on a limb
outside our bedroom window, cooing.

Jack Parker – untitled

Beyond the door
Beyond the wall
Love is
an open field
where nothing is hidden
From soaring hawks
Or probing bees

Where all that is
Holds hands with
All that is
Where thorns and waving grass are kissed by flowers
And there is no asking why