Uphill idealist

     Too late I opened the pages of a new to me book written by  an author I loved. I was in a hurry to get to the pages that  I  just  learned existed.                Too late. I rushed through the forward greedy to get to the main event. But the words cut me to the quick.                Too late. "Who's writing this? I know this voice." The tone, the hope, the wisdom  slowed me down to        savor            every               word.                Too late. I knew it was you. You write these words like they are just for me. You write your words so I hear your voice in my head.               Too late. The writer is/was  dear to me.             ...

  For a Prophet, empathy is a gift, that sometimes feels like a curse.   I was taught, or maybe assumed, that a prophet is: MALEANGRYSHAKINGFISTSGROWLING JUDGING what they see, as ugly.   But maybe a Prophet can: Smile. Paint. Listen, Write. Speak. Sing.  Be human AND connected to the Divine.   A Prophet with empathy: Comes to tiredness and tears, because they care.   A prophet without empathy: IS LIKE AN UNPLUGGED MICROPHONE. It should be saying something important…………………...............................But isn’t.   Being a Prophet is a curse, if empathy, is forgotten.   T.L. Eastman   Copyright  August 2020 Written in honor of poet   Lucille Clifton

Over the past several weeks, I have noticed the concept of “always connected” showing up in conversations with KOK folks. In a time of “Physical distance”, the church had and continues to learn new ways of staying connected – of seeing the work of the Kingdom of Heaven here on Earth.   A friend sent me a poem this week that helped me see the power of meaningful connection, even between people and nature. The author Lucille Clifton tells about a moment where the miracle of connection came to her in the simple task of preparing greens for a meal.   Cutting greens curling them around i hold their bodies in obscene embrace thinking of everything but kinship. collards and kale strain against each strange other away from my kissmaking hand and the iron bedpot. the pot is black. the cutting board is black, my hand, and just for a minute the greens roll black under the knife, and the kitchen twists dark on its spine and i taste in my natural appetit...