Poetry and Prose by Writers’ Workshop (2016)

Over fifty people have attended the Writers’ Workshop since its inception in 1992. The workshop provides a safe place for people to develop their own voice through poetry, fiction, and non-fiction prose.

The Workshop meets seven or eight times a year from January through May, and September through December. Monday evening meetings scheduled for this spring 2016 are on February 15, March 21, April 18 and May 16th.

All are welcome to participate, gathering in the Board Room or Rainbow Room at 5:30 pm. This new meeting time allows people to come directly from work. Express your interest to Kathryn Klingebiel, facilitator.

These group members displayed the following examples of poetry and prose as part of Faith & Arts Sunday (February 7, 2016): Gary Buchs, Jim Cartwright, Jean-Paul Klingebiel, Kathryn Klingebliel, Donald K. Johnson, and Rebecca Woodland.

A Kailua rain forest night

I Stopped Today

May 1st

Kapiolani Ballet

Haiku on Birds While Walking

Bears

Clever Nature

Ode to Terns

Light and bright the sky

Mother K’s Pronunciation Bee for the Dyslexic

A spelling bee is possible only in a language like English, where spelling and pronunciation of words have often diverged. In many languages, such as Hindi or Spanish, words are pronounced just as they are written, so a spelling bee would make no sense.

Gerard Nolst Trinité, “The Chaos”

…it all started with “gud fud”….

reading Proust

TREE OF LIFE (Revelations 21:1-2)

Suspended in the arms of my Tree of Life sculpture are copper symbols of the three different spiritual journeys of Adam’s two children. Note: the religious symbols are supported by three swords of the spirit.

STABLE HOUSING

Two verses for your Advent thoughts:

“So let’s come near God with pure hearts and a confidence that comes from having faith . . . . We must hold tightly to the hope we say is ours. After all, we can trust the one who made the agreement with us. We should keep on encouraging each other to be thoughtful and to do helpful things.” (Hebrews 10: 22-24 Contemporary English Version)

But then there are also these prophetic words from Isaiah: “You are in for trouble! You take over house after house, field after field until there is no room for anyone else in the land.” (Isaiah 5:8 CEV)

In your Advent preparations think Christmas lights, housing in a stable, and a sleeping form on a park bench on a cold rainy night. Hawaii has many of them, highest number of homeless per-capita of any state.

I slept on an air mattress in one of the cordoned off cubicles in the fellowship hall of an Episcopal Church last week. I was the ‘old man’ proctor for four homeless families with crying children. One of the young fathers came in after 10:00 p.m., ate a bit of supper his pregnant wife had saved back for him and was out by 6:00 a.m. the next morning to catch a bus back to his second minimum wage job. A father, a pregnant mother, one toddler and two minimum wage jobs, that is how my Advent Angel put homeless families heavy on my heart. The “Family Promise” program helps a few homeless families with children save enough money for a first and last months rent so they can enter Hawaii’s inflated housing market. It does nothing to solve our national problem of economic inequality that feeds homelessness.

Yes, individual initiative, coping skills, family experience and support, emotional health all factor into the homeless problem, but also our government’s labor laws and tax structures that help create the processes that regulate who can’t afford housing or how many mansions one person can own. In a democracy we the voters participate in whatever injustice there might be in our governmental systems.

Giving and sharing is the Christ Child’s lesson played out in a small way in our Christmas festivities. Our hearts are warmed when we help others. In Christ we do learn, “. . . to be thoughtful and do helpful things.” What the homeless need this Christmas are food, shelter, and toys, but especially a government that organizes our society in such a way that the wealth of our Nation is shared equitably so that all can afford the basics of life.

Prayer: God of Christmas wonder and the sidelined poverty people in our country, thank you for our Nation of abundance, and for the opportunity to help correct the systems that compromise justice, so that all who live here may prosper. Amen.

Don Johnson
November 2015

THE RITUAL

Our taxi crawled through narrow, bustling streets as Viviana documented La Paz’s Indian Quarter on video from the safety of the passenger-side window. The taxi stopped abruptly when a police officer stepped directly in front of it, blocking traffic and confusing the driver. Alto! He screamed at us. There was no accident or other reason for this demand, as far as we could tell. The officer glowered at the driver and Viviana as his voice rose. He spoke with conviction, speed, and increasing volume.

We were three middle-aged women: a Cuban-born Hungarian Jew from Miami, a German-born Protestant who had immigrated to Mexico, and a Canadian-American Greek Orthodox resident of Hawaii. Tres Amigas, two redheads and a blonde, an unlikely trio of travel-mates. The locals assumed that none of us understood or spoke Spanish. We didn’t look the part. At times this worked to our advantage…this would be one of them. It was impossible not to eavesdrop on the verbal exchange between officer and driver.

Que pasa? According to the police officer, no one was allowed to videotape this street. Of course there were no signs, and this was likely a random rule created on the spot by a bored officer who wanted to check out the three gringa passengers. But we all were at his mercy. The officer threatened to impound the car and take the camera. The driver, worried and embarrassed, turned to us.

As usual, Viviana took matters into her own hands. She dropped the video camera onto her lap and addressed the officer with an air of authority. What will it take for you to change your mind and drop your demands? She negotiated with the officer. He agreed that for $6 in US funds, we would be free to go and the car would not be impounded. Knowing that six dollars was far beyond the budget of the driver, each of us gladly pitched in two dollars, paid off the officer, and he stepped out of our way. Relieved, the driver thanked us and drove us back to our hotel.

The following morning we avoided taxis and walked everywhere, marveling at the crystalline skies and full moon still visible. Viviana clung to her video camera. We rounded a corner. This street looked eerily familiar. It was the same street where yesterday’s taxi incident occurred. We had stumbled on Calle de las Brujas, (Witches’ Street), just in time for a pagan ritual. It was obvious that we did not belong here.

Should we turn around? A distinguished-looking gentleman dressed in a suit and tie approached us before we had a chance to slip away unnoticed. Were we in trouble again?

Apparently not. He smiled.

Buenos dias, senoras. Bienvenidos! I invite you to observe our ceremony, if you wish. You may photograph or videotape anything you like. We are preparing a New Year’s offering to Pachamama, Mother Goddess of the Universe. We pray to Pachamama, asking her blessings for the coming year. If you wish, you may purchase some incense from the shop so you have something to offer her as well.

We did.

Several pallets lined the edge of the street, each covered with colorful trinkets, candies, and a variety of offerings. An elderly woman in an apron sat on the sidewalk overlooking this display, a single coca leaf stuck to the center of her craggy forehead like a third eye. The gentleman was joined by two other well-dressed businessmen. They donned crimson serapes over their suit coats. Each lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and passed it around. The gentleman whispered to us their reason for smoking and drinking during the ceremony. Pachamama likes to party! So we party with her.

The old woman with the coca leaf third eye never moved, except to take a swig of hard liquor and hand the bottle over to one of the men. He took a hefty swig and passed it along to the other participants.

One of the items on the pallet grabbed my attention. A petrified creature stood upright in the corner. About 15 inches tall, this dried alpaca fetus wore fancy doll clothes and a shiny pointy purple dunce cap. Honestly, it looked like a Barbie doll gone awry. We added our newly-purchased incense to the pallet that was about to become an altar of sacrifice.

About a dozen people gathered in a semi-circle around the altar. We cautiously and curiously observed from the fringes, careful to take photographs and videos from a respectful distance. The gentleman approached us again and asked our names and where we were from.

One of the men lit a match to the kindling under the pallets. As a slow, steady flame devoured the offerings, the heady fragrance of incense wafted through the air. The gentleman chanted prayers to Pachamama. Except for the chanting and the crackle of flames, silence prevailed.

We listened.

I heard my name intoned in the rhythmic chanting. It jarred me. As I listened more carefully I heard each of our names. As best as we could tell, the man invoked Pachamama’s blessings for each of us and our loved ones. The chanting stretched out until all the offerings and the pallets had turned to ash.

Witnessing this ancient ritual, I recognized familiar elements of our Jewish, Protestant, and Greek Orthodox ceremonies. Communion, sacrifice, altar, incense, clergy attire, prayer and chanting have always been part of our own religious traditions. Yet to an outsider, these traditions often seem odd, puzzling, meaningless or macabre. I pondered this as the ashes turned to dust.

The men removed their serapes, grabbed their briefcases, and headed back to work. The old woman, coca leaf still firmly centered on her forehead, remained motionless as she guarded the sacrificial remains.

Humbled, we stood in silent awe. This primitive ritual had opened our eyes, our hearts, and our minds. In that moment we knew that we were all one family, Children of the same Mother Universe.

Rebecca Woodland
La Paz, Bolivia
June 1997

The Tao of No (a bit of philosophical meandering…)

In Vietnamese, the word for the numeral zero is “khong,” the exact same word as “no.” It is the word used to hold place value, like zero. So I got to thinking…

Khong has value, even though it seemingly defines an empty space, or zero, or “nothing.” This “no” is essential, has meaning, and our world would not function without it. In Taoism, nothing is something. There is no such thing as “wasting” time doing “nothing.” The empty space and time are just as important and valuable as filled time and space. In fact, they often have more value.

In nature, the empty space (beach or shore) between land and sea keeps the ocean from overtaking the land and what is on the land; it also keeps the land from overtaking the sea. The empty space acts as a boundary, safety zone, margin, and more.

The empty spaces and rests between notes are essential to making music. Without the empty spaces, it would not be music. It would only be a nerve-wracking cacophony.

Written language would be a meaningless jumble of letters and symbols if there were no empty spaces between words, after a complete sentence, or before a new paragraph. Imagine a book with no margins on the page! This empty space helps the brain focus and process what the eye sees on the rest of the page.

Consider the number zero. We may think of zero as signifying nothing and having no value, but would you rather have $10 or $1,000,000? Yes, the zero has value; it is a place holder for the empty space.

Saying NO has value. When we say No to additional responsibilities and demands, we automatically create space in our lives, empty space that gives us room to breathe and room to grow and find our balance.

Uncluttering creates more empty space in our homes and in our lives. Empty, unfilled space relaxes the mind and spirit. Open, unfilled schedules allow the spirit to rejuvenate. Quietness—the sound of nothing—stills the mind so we can better hear “the music of the spheres,” the sounds of the natural world, and perhaps, if we listen very carefully, the still, small voice of God.

Rebecca Woodward
April 2014