March 2023 – Jane Tawel

Remember

by Jane Tawel

Remember.

Six times a year, our family lights candles for Gram, and for Grandma and Grandpa Tawel. Birth and Death. Life and Love. Remember all who have come before you and made you who are.

The Hebrew Bible is full of loving reminders, admonishes, and encouragements to Remember. The God that appears in the Genesis is One Who would like us to believe that He/She would like to be remembered and that we can nudge Him/Her to remember us when we are in need. “Hello, here I am, YHWH. Remember me?” “Why yes, but don’t you think, little human, you might have forgotten something? Me. Here, IAM.”

Next week two great faith traditions begin a season of remembrances. Passover, when we remember the God who “delivers”, the God who “saves”, the God of covenants of love and mercy and commitment. “I am the LORD. The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are; and when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike Egypt. This is a day you are to commemorate; for the generations to come you shall celebrate it as a festival to the LORD — a lasting ordinance.” (from Exodus 12)

Next week we remember a Jew named Jesus who celebrated that covenant with the God of his ancestors by reworking it so that people in a new time and new place could evolve a new understanding and begin to understand what internal, psychological, personal, spiritual salvation and deliverance might mean for them, and then could spread that new understanding of what we humans were created to be out to the whole world in love and rightness and peace. “And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me. And likewise the cup after they had eaten, saying, This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood. (from Luke 22)

It is hard for me to look at what these great religions have done in the name of remembering that same God and continue to do in a false sense of who we are created to be, as nations continue to rise against nations and as people use a God’s name to do what we keep hoping that very God won’t do to us — judge, hate, neglect, diminish, etc. Sometimes it is oh so hard for me to remember that God longs to see us restored to the wholeness with which He created us and so, I pray, “God, help me to remember that You are good. That You have created me for good. That there is goodness in the world and help me remember that You have not forgotten the people here. Remember us, Oh Lord.”

Today, I encourage you to light a candle, literally or metaphorically to all that you have that is worth remembering and honoring. It may be that you need to remember that YOU are worthy of honor today. Today I am remembering and honoring my mother and next week my family and I will light a candle for my mother-in-law and throughout the year, we will remember and light candles. Lighting candles not to lead them home, because they are already Home, but lighting candles to lead us Home.

Remember not just those who have given you so much in the past, but remember all you have to be grateful for in this very present time, and if you can, remember that tomorrow is another day and you do not need to carry today’s burdens any further than when tomorrow begins your life anew.

Remember all the love. All the Love.

Remember the ancestors and despite it all, despite them and their mistakes, despite us and our wounds, we have each been given enough. We have been given enough and we are alive for a reason. Honor those who have given you life and then forgive them and forgive yourself. Be at peace by being sure that you have inherited enough goodness, enough strength, enough love, enough of what you need and enough to share a little with someone else. Remember you are enough, however small you may feel your portions are.

Remember that today, you are able. And when you are not able, look for the helpers. Remember there are helpers out there in the world. Remember that you are stronger than you think and loved more than you know. Remember that no matter what you face, no matter how you feel, there is always hope, hope in what we may only vaguely remember from when our spirits were created. Remember that today, there is a Spirit of Love that wants you to believe — today you are loved. Today, you are love.

And remember — the children will find their way; they will find their strength; they will find love and faith and wholeness and health. They will. They really will.

Remember the future. And believe, that despite it all, the children will learn from us and they will learn better than us. The children will ask God to remember them and the Earth, and they will remind God to remember us, to remember that She loves them and loves the world She created. The children will seek and seek and they will continue to find the old ways and new ways. And the children will find The Way. We will find The Way that has always been, if we remember. The Way, that is here now, if we remember to look for it. The Way, that is up ahead, all across the universe, if we remember that we have enough if we have just a little candle-flicker of faith and hope and love.

Remember.

A Psalm of a Child’s Lament

by Jane Tawel

“Gallina con sus pollitos [Hen and her chicks] (Gallus gallus ♀ + pichones)” by barloventomagico is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

A Psalm of a Child’s Lament

By Jane Tawel

March 26, 2023

And as we look, under narrowed lidded eyes,

with hearts made heavy by hate and fear,

we fear that each of us, alone, or with our few,

are helpless.

For fear and hate are the same thing,

and now, oh, heavy-hearted, helpless headed, I fear,

the whole world seems to want to de-evolve.

Nations look to gods whose time has passed.

People rage and flail against those who might have been a brother.

All come down upon the women who might have been mothers;

might have been if only someone cared for the babies they bore;

might have been if only their nurturing love had not so often

been raped

by those who think power

is a type of holy matrimony/patrimony/schmatrimony.

Incarnation has been a willing victim of climate-change.

And the Little One,

who asked to be birthed in every single one of us;

The Child still offers up His life to us and says,

“If you let the kind of God that lived in Me,

live in you,

the True You will be reborn.”

The Child looks at his barren womb, the World,

and weeping, cries,

“How I long to gather you to me,

as a mother hen gathers her little chicks.”

But without a peep, the world seems to give up.

Instead we fight battles against what we could change for good.

Instead we play foolish dangerous games,

trying to return to a past we never knew

because it never existed.

Nothing has ever existed outside our own good selves.

And having given up Goodness for false idols,

we don’t know what story to live.

And the world lets go of Truth and Love,

in the name of gods who don’t care

about what we claim They created.

It would be silly if it weren’t so horribly sad.

And the human beings have given up

with a deafening roar of silent uncaring.

Our Creator weeping, turns away.

He can’t stand to look at us any more, in our pain, Her pain.

He can’t stand to see us picking at scabs,

that She has so often offered to heal.

For God never once imagined, that when He birthed us from His womb,

that we would think we were born to live in a Place elsewhere.

Why would a lovingly created creature,

hope to live again somewhere else?

Why long for somewhere “out there”, when

This Place, here, this Earth, these creations, these people,

were created in beauty and truth and caring and love?

Why look for perfection elsewhere, if a Perfect God

created this Perfect World for us?

Why hope to live in Heaven, when Creator said,

“And it, this world We made

this planet and all in it,

they are good.

It is all Very Good.”?

Perhaps the God we say is Good,

is birthing Goodness elsewhere.

But has not God left us in charge?

Does not the Universe still call?

“Oh, ye of little faith!

Regard the mustard seed,

the sparrow, and the grain of wheat.

Believe that you are not alone in longing.

You only need to take one prayerful step

into the Grace of Hopefulness.

Light your small lamp and know

that all is Possible.

For even in this dark time,

where two plus two awake,

Infinity is born.”

Perhaps the Heroes of Old will be reborn

and their rusty swords will become plowshares,

tilling the earth back to health.

Perhaps the great female warriors,

who have saved the world before,

will arise,

and mother us all to wholeness.

Perhaps the God we say we put our hope in,

is still hopeful.

Perhaps She hopes, like a Little Child may hope

that Her paper dolls will come alive.

Perhaps the Divine Parent

is crossing the Fingers that made this world;

fingers crossed that we, His dearest children,

will still take the plunge, and be reborn.

Perhaps Creator One, still believes in us;

believes that we can heal our Land;

believes that we can love each other;

believes that we can bring Heaven to Earth

as we were entrusted to do.

Perhaps there is still a smidgen of Divine Belief

that lions will once more be at peace with lambs,

and that we humans will look around and see —

there is enough for all of us.

And we will look at each other without fear,

because we will have re-created God’s world,

and we will say, “It is good. It is very good.”

If today, in this small being I call myself,

if there is a grain of hope that I can be a part,

then like the little fledgling that I am,

I hope to purify my longing heart.

Let us be gathered under Wings of Love,

to safely brave the elements of war,

and may I, even I,

someday say with all the hope a newborn has,

“Let there be peace on Earth,

and let it begin with me.”

Dust Motes

“Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust (NASA, Chandra, Spitzer, 03/30/10)” by NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Dust Motes

By Jane Tawel

March 18, 2023

Dust motes are quite beautiful,

if only I stop and watch.

I had nothing better to do just now,

so, I watched them, just because.

You may not have noticed —

I know I did not,

but they don’t just fall,

they rise.

And there’s much to learn

from a speck of dust,

which took me by surprise.

You see, we are all just specks of dust

who eventually also will fall.

But taking the time to open our eyes,

and to notice our fellow dust motes,

I think we will see that quite often, we rise.

And does that not give the world hope?

Look deeply, my friend,

at all that might be,

right there, just in front of you, here.

The world’s full of magic and beauty and light.

The world’s full of wonder and hope.

And it’s there in those small acts that keep love afloat.

And it’s there right inside you, and inside of me.

If we just take the time and the care just to see,

there are sparks of light rising in every dust mote.

Then? When? Now? It’s Just a Matter of Time

“Grass ii” by satakieli is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Then? When? Now? It’s Just a Matter of Time

By Jane Tawel

March 9, 2023

No one knows what happens.

Don’t believe them when they say they do.

They tell you there’s a Heaven out there

and so, we stop focusing;

our eyes grow bleary with the hopelessness,

of bringing Heaven to earth now.

There can be no fear if we admit

we simply never know enough.

Never enough —

not then, not now, not whenever.

I hope to hope

mostly from now on,

to hope in what I can not know.

Let’s live in hope,

that all who seek might find,

and all might have and be at home,

here and now.

And no one knows the Truth

of what once happened

long ago or yesterday.

Your truth can never be mine,

nor mine yours,

but therein lies peace.

We all have inner-inter-interpretations;

and the impressions left on hearts and minds

run deeper than a chasm of doubt,

run deeper than any one can dig us out of,

run deeper than a mother’s love,

run deeper than a child’s dreams,

run deeper than a hope unborn.

The ruts are deep

and mine are mine to mine

and yours are yours to rest in if you choose.

All of us should stand ready,

above the ruts we’ve worn,

and hold out hands

to lift another up,

or perhaps just to see

if arms are really wings

and we can fly.

I tried to write a final verse

about living in the moment,

but instead I went out to lie in the green field,

and there I played with a blade of grass.

And I thought no more of yesterday.

And I thought no more of tomorrow.

And I thought no more of you or me.

And I thought no more,

but rested there,

and played a little with a blade of grass,

and hummed a small and meaningless tune.

Then? When? Now?

It’s just a matter of Time.

I have so much to un-accomplish,

and so little else to say.

Time is short, contracting in upon itself.

Only what we love will last.

Come be with me,

until our time has passed.

And of yesterday,

we will remember only love.

And as for tomorrow,

we will need know nothing,

only Love.

And as for now —

Come, let us laugh,

and play with blades of grass.

Grey and Me

“Rainy day on Campus” by cseeman is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Grey and Me

By Jane Tawel

March 4, 2023

I love the sounds and sights of grey.

It’s funny how a day

can feel a certain way to some

and others feel a difference.
Do you think there’s significance

in just what kind of mood is struck

by just what luck the weather holds?

And whether we like sun or clouds

will take some blame for what enfolds.

But as for me, I do incur

a pleasure when the world is blurred

by fog or clouds or rain or drizzle.

But others like the world to sizzle

with sun and heat and bright, hot blues.

And that’s okay — that’s me and you.

So, whether we find solitude

or being out there romping through

the kind of weather that brings people together —

they’re both okay — it’s just our kind of day.

But if there are a few of you,

who like I do, need some excuse,

to stay inside, alone, obtuse

to what so many gain in pleasure

by peopling out there in fine weather,

then you may know, and with me say:

“God, give me less of sunny rays!

I find myself at home in greys.”

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by Jane Tawel

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