​​“How are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“I’m fine, too.”
 
How many times have we heard this common greeting between friends, neighbors, acquaintances? We’ve all heard it. We’ve all said it. It happens almost every time we meet someone. From those few impersonal yet pleasant words we move on. But what did we gain? We said the right words, performed the expected ritual, weren’t too intrusive, were just friendly enough.  We encountered another human being but we learned nothing about each other.
                                  
Instead, consider this:
“How are you? Really.”
 
If you are fortunate to have the friend who asks, ‘How are you, really?’ or if you are the friend who asks, ‘How are you, really?’ you already know that you are creating a deeper conversation. There’s not much wiggle room here. There’s little room for vagueness and superficiality.  Most of us actually long for someone to really listen to us, to really see us. It’s easy to hide behind, ‘I’m fine.’ A friend who says, ‘No, I mean, really,’ invites us to come out from hiding and tell the truth.  And the truth is that most of us these days are living with a lot of sadness and fear. What is going to happen next? Will I be safe? Will my loved ones survive? Will I have enough? When will life be normal?  First came COVID-19, then in the midst of that global pandemic came the murder of George Floyd and protests addressing much needed social justice reform. It is globally unsettling.  Fear, outrage and sadness are being felt by everyone across the globe all of the time.  There is a universal call for meaningful conversations.  Shall we begin?
 
How are you, really???
 

Recently I’ve discovered Fredrick Beuchner, author and spiritual teacher.  His book, “Listen to Your Life” seems to fit into our exploration of ‘witness’ of our own lives that we began this year. Sometimes the meaning of events in our lives seems inconsequential, obscure or easily dismissed. We barely notice them.  At other times to witness does not seem optional.  We are forced into the role of witness.

Just last week, very dear friends of mine had a fire. An outbuilding on their ranch, close to the house, was completely destroyed in minutes.  The fire burned furiously hot and loud as chemicals, ammunition, equipment, tools, electrical gear ignited and exploded. But the winds were in their favor blowing the fire away from the house, the propane tanks, and the vehicles. The cattle and new calves were in the pastures, the horses bolted at the first sounds and the sight of flames. The dog sounded the alert. No one was injured, there were no lives lost.

Those are the facts. But an event of this magnitude stirs one to the soul. It could have been much worse; people or animals could have died, their home could have been destroyed or wildfire could have started and raged through dry prairie grass. Even though none of that happened, as the hours and days go by, thoughts tumble over one another.  It is inevitable to want to place blame. To ask why this happened to me, now. To wring your hands in anguish about what could have been done – or avoided – to be prepared for this or to prevent it.  And memories flood the senses.  Memories of those who came before to build this ranch, to work this land, to endure floods and fires and blizzards, to see new life flourish and then perish. With memories comes the feeling that somehow you have failed and betrayed those ancestors and have not been a faithful steward of their legacy. A heavy burden is triggered by a singular event.

In less than a week my friends are pulling back from the immediate pain and asking the more difficult questions. The immediate and very personal feelings of disbelief, anger, guilt, and sadness are still very real and very acceptable and almost constantly present.  There is much to sort out. And simultaneously they are asking, 'what is this for?'  In the bigger scheme of things, what role does this fire play, what does it mean, what has it come to teach us. Fire is always a cleansing and purifying element. It comes to the prairie and the forest before new growth. Is it more than this? My friends are in their seventies and have begun the process of consciously choosing what’s important to keep and what to let go of. Perhaps the fire helped in its impersonal and indiscriminate way of choosing.  Perhaps my friends – and each one of us – must choose and will continue to choose what is of value and what is not. Spiritual texts and leaders of all persuasions, from the Buddha to the Tao to Sufis to Jesus and Christian mystics, teach us detachment. Our small, personal self and all that we imbue with meaning, must be relinquished so that our larger God-like, Buddha-like essence may flourish. We may walk this path of attachment for a lifetime.  Or we may choose to release our belongings and finally release ourselves into our true identity. At any time. Perhaps in a burst of flame.      

Many of us are feeling helpless right now. We're advised to stay home, to protect ourselves, to cancel all the things we were used to doing when life was normal just a short time ago. While these precautionary measures will help us all, there is so much more that we can do, right where we are, right now.

Those of you who have been following my website posts are some of the most loving people on the planet! You pray, meditate, think loving thoughts, help others. And I think that right now, we have been granted a tremendous opportunity to expand our love in action more than ever. We can serve one another right where we are, right now. And we know that every loving action has a ripple effect which inspires others to be a little kinder, a little more loving.
 
Here's my invitation. Every Saturday morning, wherever you are at 11:00 a.m., just stop. Join with me and many others in an intentional pause for 10 minutes. If you cannot take 10 minutes, do what you can. If you want to pause for longer than 10 minutes, do so. During that intentional pause pray, meditate, visualize, chant, sing a hymn, play or listen to music, read words of inspiration, dance, think of loved ones, think of all the world, think of Earth - our home. We don't need to be in the same city, the same time zone, or even the same country.  If you forget about it at 11:00 a.m., do it whenever you remember.

You don't have to subscribe to anything, or sign up, or live stream. Just do your best. We'll all be doing our best to increase LOVE in the world. Thank you!  With all my heart, I thank you! 

​Let these words from Rumi inspire you and fill you with joy!

If you are seeking, seek us with joy
for we live in the kingdom of joy.
​Do not give your heart to anything else
but to the love of those who are clear joy.
Do not stray into the neighborhood of despair.
For there are hopes: they are real, they exist -
Do not go in the direction of darkness -
I tell you: suns exist.

-​Rumi

It seems we are being challenged to change direction with just a moments notice. And then change again. No one can predict what will be asked of us in the hours and days and weeks to come. Are we ready? How can we prepare? What and who can we trust? Who shall guide us?

I like these words of the poet, Lynn Ungar, as shared Parker Palmer, author, speaker and Quaker elder.

Pandemic

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath -
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
 different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life. 
Center down. 

And when your body has become still
reach out your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)

Know that our lives are in one another's hands.
(Surely that has become clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise the world your love -
for better or for worse,
in sickness or in health,
so long as we all shall live.

​Two
old wooden deck chairs
sit side by side,
overflowing with soft pillows,
a blanket,
facing the misty dawn,
fog lifting higher through the pine trees,
the distant calm waters,
scents of salty air and forests.
 
One
steaming cup of coffee
sits alone
on the small table
between the chairs,
beside it a slender pen
keeps the place in the journal
that lies open
to an interrupted entry.
 
Everywhere
the taste of longing.
 
 
© 1 february 2020 phyllis boernke

I'm curious. When you read my poem, One, what was your experience? I don't wonder if you liked it or not. Liking is subjective. I wonder how​ you experienced it. Were you witness to it? Did you see the mist, the deck chairs, the open journal? Did you feel the softness of the pillows? Smell the coffee, the salty air? Were you standing to the side observing? Did you walk in, snuggle down into the pillows, watch the dawn as it came in, feel the mist on your skin? Can you feel the longing? Did that line evoke emotions - a longing for someone, someplace?

Maybe your reading of this poem was not at all as I have suggested. Maybe it was quite an impersonal reading of words alone. This is not a test of your reading skills or your ability to interpret the words. It can be an insight into how you witness scenes, events, people, feelings. It's an inquiry...... 

What does the word "witness" mean to you? Do you think of the noun or the verb? What meaning came to you when you read my first question? As we continue to ask "what does the word witness mean" do more possibilities come to mind?

Witness is my word for the year. When I think of what it means to me, what first occurs to me is the active form, the verb "to witness." Hmmm. Now, that brings up some interesting possibilities for exploration...…

​to be continued

Frigid air
and darkness
shattered
by hooting of 
Owl

shelter
of Spruce
Her perch

She owns 
the night
​

         I love the quiet time of Winter Solstice.   Like a child's top, the busy world winds its way slowly down to a pause, then stops completely before the child sets it spinning wildly again.  In that gap, that pause, the Winter Solstice enters, granting to all the world time once again to breathe, to cease from all activity and allow ourselves to stop doing and just be.  In that peaceful state, as the world rests, we may notice the last quarter of the last moon of the year, the Doe in the shadows, the whish of the wind in the pines, the cry of the Owl.  A priceless gift is ours!

Life moves in its own miraculous way, sometimes baffling to us, sometimes causing anxiety.
​Always perfect. Always guided by Spirit. Always for our greatest good.
A friend along the way who understands is a priceless treasure.
​

Quiet Words
 
-for d.k.
 
 
Our parallel walk began eons ago
we were infant souls meeting
instant recognition
soul sisters sharing stories of children, lovers,
dreams and inspiration,
few words,
knowing
 
She reminds me to listen
to the silent words
Spirit sends to my heart,
to invite Eva to commune
in quiet words,
trusting
 
Have faith, be grateful, let go,
she tells me when I am weak
when I fall she lifts me up
and living continues,
grace-filled as
quiet words,
cherished
 
 
 
© 28 June 2019 Phyllis Boernke
​

Today on this last day of April it’s cold and snowy. It makes me think of what I have been told about the day of my birth, cold and snowy. But that was in the city of St. Louis in February. As is often the case, this is not the poem I thought I was writing. It began with the recollection but soon took itself in another direction. I like this process of discovery, following words where they want to go. I always find what was just waiting to be found.

​
​it began deep in the heart of winter
in the city
 
but in the city
many streets crisscross,
there are so many people, so much noise,
it’s easy to get lost and
never find your way back home again
 
some people forget till
gradually home fades from their memory
and streets, people and noise
crisscross from today into the past and the future
and being lost is the familiar way
 
but if you listen, some primal voice or
re-member-ance tugs at you,
urges you to face the cold and hunger of winter
to find the hidden foot-path
that leads someplace vague, yet, comforting
 
the foot-path from the city
becomes the road across open countryside,
into the mountains and beyond to the sea,
long byways of spring and summer
farms and orchards, ever greening
 
stars outnumber people,
the wild is faithful to its native voice
and your thoughts can sort themselves out
from the crisscross
 
the city, the winter where it all began,
when you were so young and unknowing,
gave you roots and sustenance
till you were ready
to find your way back home again.

 
© 30 april 2019 phyllis boernke

 Years ago when I was a young woman
in the prime of my life,
I dreamed a sacred dream of all my ancestors
connected to me by a golden cord
generation upon generation
to the beginning of time
connected to one another by the golden cord.
 
There was a hush all around us
the color of pearls
warmed by thousands of celestial voices
softly humming,
‘This is Eternal Life!’
 
Now I am an old woman
weighing the meanings of all things
I see again all my ancestors
bearing the gift of the golden cord
to me and into the future beyond me
to my children and their children and their children
yet unborn.
 
The hush still fills the sacred space around us,
the colors melt into the voices as before
proclaiming in reverent whispers,
‘This is Eternal Life!’    

 
+ © 2019 phyllis boernke +