Better Than Welcoming

There is something better
than welcoming. God is that,
and so is this place.

Welcoming means open arms,
but that which can be open
can also close. This that I am
pointing to is a constant stillness
and gentle acceptance. It easily receives
our presence, yet it's fine without it.
Laid bare itself, with nothing to hide,
it sees through our many disguises,
into our perfect nakedness. There is
room here for all that we are, and
there is nothing that we aren't.

Bluebirds outside my window
invite me to play. They would sing and dance
with you, too, and even a politician.
We all belong here. And here.
In this world,
every moment offers
something better than welcoming.


Carol Barrow
August, 2016

Peach Trilogy, Part III

One day on retreat, five antlered deer - one a cute adolescent - munched on squawbush and rested in the shade of a pinyon pine in the field outside my cabin. I watched them and photographed them through my windows. Hidden behind glass that reflected the outdoors, I was able to examine hides up close as the bucks neared where I was standing. Torn ears, necks striped with scars... They wore their histories without shame, no need to cover up any possible imperfections. 

After they had moved on, I pulled a peach out of my little fridge. It, too, wore scars. And so do I. I guess we all do, whether they are worn as obviously as those of the deer and peach, or they're kept hidden beneath shirts or coping mechanisms. 

The deer and the peach have no self-consciousness regarding their wounds. Still, just as we do with human models, artists often paint portraits of deer with unfaltering coats. A still life with peach will have no bruise or blemish.

I don't want to go through life pretending I don't wear evidence of aging, pregnancy, and doctors' good fix-it skills. I am learning to accept my history without shame. Still, I spare all those at the pool from seeing the road map I call my belly - a line of decency I don't cross over in a culture that cringes when reminded that, in order to stay among the living, sometimes the surgeon's knife must leave its mark.

I know a woman whose favorite peaches are those with bruises. It is true that the wounded parts of the peach are the sweetest. With a different way of looking, maybe we could treat ourselves and each other a bit more tenderly, since in one way or another, we are all scarred dears.  

(You know I could have said we are all just peachy...)

Peach Trilogy, Part II

One year, maybe 2013, in August, as we were nearing the end of the summer's peaches, a man who called himself a spiritual teacher stayed at our house for three days. I offered our home as a favor for a friend. And also out of curiosity. I don't remember the name of this man who stayed with us and gladly accepted all we offered (and more). I will call him Joe, even though he was from Iran and was probably not named Joe.

For the most part, it was not a fascinating visit. Conversations were about this man's tall dreams of bringing westerners into alignment with the way to peace, according to some great Iranian man, long dead and never well-known - if known at all - in these parts. Joe seemed to have little interest in anything other than this project. It was a good project, and it takes a lot of commitment to bring dreams into fruition. I get that. And I enjoyed hearing Joe's plans for at least a day and a half.

Wanting to be generous and hospitable (but, obviously not thinking this through), I told Joe to help himself to any food he may need during the day. I was home working in my office, and Joe would spend time on his phone in the guest room making connections for his upcoming stops across the U.S. I never saw him take me up on my offer of food, other than the meals I fixed or the one we treated him to at Ali Baba's, our favorite Middle Eastern restaurant.

The day Joe left and I once again felt free to move about my home without being informed of further stories about this appointment and that contact, I opened the refrigerator to grab one of the few peaches I knew were in the lower bin. There was nothing there. He had cleaned us out of peaches. 

How could anyone take the last peach without making an announcement? Without saying, "This is the last peach. Does anyone want half? Hello! I know that peaches are holy and sacred, and we must honor the end of peach season — the time of year when it's okay to die because we are in fuzzy-fruited bliss — so does anyone want some before I indulge?"

There were no more peaches that year. The season had ended. Joe ate the last peach (and a few almost-last peaches) with no fanfare. It would be eleven months before Colorado's western slope juiciness would arrive once again. 

I went outside under the cloud-dotted sky and grieved.

(But I'm okay now. Sadness and peaches — they come, they go.)  

(Plus, this is what the lower bin of our fridge looks like now. Heh heh...)

Peach Trilogy, Part I

Every summer,

I agree with myself

(so I must be correct):

If death must come

(and I think that is a fact),

let it come after I've eaten

the season's perfect peach.

Walking in Sunshine

Today I realized that there is no difference between walking deserted dirt roads under huge, silent skies and walking the dirt paths at the nearby park where the buzz of traffic fills the air. Spacious ahhhh/awe is all there is, and we can focus on the contents that appear to come and go within it, or we can meld with its vastness, which is always here, now, forever and ever. Neither is right or wrong, or good or bad. It's all offered generously. 

Fly Free!

I returned yesterday from a two-week retreat in southern Colorado. A little after noon on the day before I left for retreat, and about a half hour after a yellow butterfly zigzagged leisurely in front of me and my friend, I received a text. "Mom passed away this morning. Thanks for visiting her yesterday." A couple of days later, while alone in my little cabin, another text: "The funeral will be on Friday at 11:00 a.m."

On the day of the funeral, I would be a little over halfway through my two weeks of retreat, and four hours away from the church where Betty would be remembered. It didn't seem rational that I would interrupt this precious time by going to Denver. And it made no sense that I would never see Betty or her family again.

I decided to go. I had no transportation of my own, but many kindnesses got me to Denver a couple of hours before the funeral, then back to my cabin that evening.

Goodbye, Betty. Thank you. I love you.


Thank you.
As is the custom for these types of things,
the Episcopal priest in his white robe
stood before us telling stories of Betty,
butterflies throughout her home,
her final words the last time he saw her alive —
Thank you,
which, according to Meister Eckhart —
and he may have been correct —
is the one prayer,
if one is all you have.

It was true
about the butterflies,
and thank you were always her last words,
even for the aides who needed her
to stand longer than her weakened body
would allow.

My one prayer today:
Thank You
for butterflies,
for the huge yellow one meandering by
minutes before I got the call
(I won't make meaning - even
a coincidence gladdens the heart),
for the privilege of knowing You,
in Your beauttiful disguise of
healing mother, teacher, and friend.
Thank You
Thank You
My heart is shattered.
Thank You