The Contract

What covenant have we made?

What is this contract

   that leaves babies

                          bleeding out

their tomorrows on terrazzo floors

         on a school day?

What have we done?

We pray, we kneel,

                    point in all directions, and spit into winds

that blow another day like this

                        back at us.

It is our choice.

It is our choice

to never learn the names of the little ones.

Their fresh faces, their sweaty smells of outdoor play, their years,

     belong to someone else.

           Now to no one.

                                          Their names, never on our lips,

live in the halls of our conscience.

It is our choice, our covenant,

                   to put profit before all else.

                    to put power before people,

                              to put a fragile, fractured world in more jeopardy

and go about our Tuesday

 like three dead babies, their protectors too,

               matter no more than

   a news cycle,

           the empty words we say

and pray.

We worry about the cost of eggs,

                what our money will buy.

worry we do not about our children,

               the souls we are abandoning on the streets of commerce.

What we value, we protect.

Profit.

Assault weapons.

Power.

What is this contract

that leaves babies bleeding out

               their tomorrows

on terrazzo floors

on a school day?

                              (copyright 2023: Lisa Froman)

The Invisible Season

Wisteria, brittle and stripped bare of color,

clings to the weathered fence post.

It’s on pause, like the seasons,

and in the space between half dead, half alive,

something breathes.

In the hush, seasons wrestle,

bump borders.

Canary-colored weeds prosper,

parade along roadside ditches

ready to trumpet in spring

or mourn winter’s passing.

Either way, beauty is awash,

waiting its call.

–Lisa Froman copyright 2021

Breathing In 2020

We took a deep breath under dark skies.

Standing six feet apart, we began to calculate the loss.

Some spat, others cursed, my sister prayed.

What was gone was gone.

Mourning would come later,

when children were washed clean of ash.

Fires burned wild the west,

emptied closets and cupboards of their wears/wares.

Some stood in soot, traced their address in dust,

and wondered, what was left to lose.

The breath.

It left in gasps for some. Others, one long, aching good-bye.

We froze in place,

covered our eyes with fingers at the scary parts

so not to notice the thinning of the herd, the empty chairs at tables.

(How do we prepare the fields for so much death?)

And when there is more to steal?

More to reveal?

More spit for the eye?

Hurricanes blow angry winds south in these times,

blow out windows, blow down fences, pour out grievances into night air

and return with a Greek name to break more glass.

The breath.

It comes and goes.

Daylight brings more dying to some.

When a man stands on the neck of another, he stands merciless,

and the breath and the words stolen, forever a haunting.

So, we said—enough! To the dying.

Robbed of excuses, we see through our own veils now.

Still, some go easy into the night,

cloaked in fear,they inhale and pray for safety.

For another breath.

For mercy.

       

The breath.

It’s harder to catch a virus, to breathe in masks. But it’s easier to avoid ventilators.  

For now, we mold in seclusion, hunger

for food, ordinary days, the smiles of strangers.

Rooms empty of politics.

A bar room fight.

No more victims, I say.

We know loss.

Can we instead raise a toast to hope?

Clap and sing, bang pots at 7 p.m., in cheer again?

Can we end with a new beginning?

ghost our despair, tie up our dogma?

Can we sow a new spring, and play in the clover?

Can we listen to the pause, the sounds of silence shuffling our fate,

the hum of tomorrow making known its beat?

Can we pray, like my sister,

for all that was lost,

and for the breath left, to create from the ashes?

–Lisa Froman

–Dec. 2020 copyright

My Journal Entry, Sept. 11, 2001

I recently dug out a stack of old journals and come across an entry dated Sept. 11, 2001.  What I captured in my journal on the evening of  9/11 was mostly observational, not having had time to process my emotional reaction.  After I wrote this entry, I did not journal for a long time, so there were no additional entries until I started a new diary the following year. I am sharing a slice of history, including my own. 

In the name of some unholy god, terrorists declared war on America today.

Like a surreal scene from “Independence Day,” or a page right out of a Tom Clancy novel,  unnamed terrorists hijacked and crashed a plane full of passengers into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City and into the Pentagon in D.C.  A fourth hijacked plane crashed into a rural field in Pennsylvania just 85 miles from Camp David.

I first heard that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York on my way to work. I was channel jumping and I had landed on the Walton & Johnson show, a popular but racy and often tasteless bit of radio.  When I heard a caller interrupt the hosts, I was taken aback.

And from that moment on everything changed forever, I think. While the hosts continued to joke, the reality began to sink in. I called *Brad and asked him to turn on the TV. He confirmed in moments what the caller had said—an airline jet had crashed into the World Trade Center. And within moments Brad shared the startling news that a second plane had crashed into the Twin Towers.

I raced to work where employees were already gathered around their computers frantically searching for the news on the Internet.

I found my portable TV and listened while Bryan Gumbel shared the fateful news to an astonished world….and I knew a sense of panic and fear in my heard I had not known before.

With the crash of the second plane, everyone in America knew it was no accident and that a terrible, terrible time was upon us. The news bulletin continued and I sat in a daze when I head Gumbel announce that a plane had just crashed into the Pentagon.

We were at war and we were unprepared. Rumors flew in the next thirty minutes—a car bomb had gone off near the State Department, a plane had crashed into the Mall in Washington, another into a school in Los Angeles.

By the time we heard a plane had crashed into the field in Pennsylvania, we were nearly numb. We were in the middle of a war and we were living it minute by minute, play by play, station by station and from New York to Washington to Pennsylvania, the whole world had erupted into chaos.

And then the towers came crashing down—like a computer animation drawing, it couldn’t have been a more surreal scene. Imagine a plane crashing into a 110-story building and bursting into a huge black ball of smoke—and then spitting red hot fire from office windows as people tried to jump to safety.

I’ve seen the images replayed on network TV and CNN at least 100 times and it is horrifying. The truth is that after all of the adventure movies I’ve seen, somewhere in my heart I want to believe that it is not real life. I like the movies better where I can sit in a dark theatre and eat Runts and Junior Mints and be entertained for two hours before trudging back into the day.

But what I saw captured on TV where the Twin Towers collapsed killing thousands and thousands and thousands of people, looked more like a scene from Hiroshima than a matinee movie. The building began to fold like an accordion and layer by layer, 110-floors began to fall from the sky into the concrete sidewalks of Manhattan.

When the first building collapsed, dust and smoke and debris spilled out and it looked like a volcano was exploding—or a nuclear bomb had dropped from the sky—and white dust and grit splashed and then soiled the streets chasing standbyers it seemed for blocks, and bloodied people scattered like pigeons.

I called Brad about every fifteen minutes. I was afraid and I was sickened and saddened because I knew that our world was changing right before our eyes and ears. Brad, I’m afraid of war—and what about our son, I asked.  I cried and sat like a mindless but dutiful employee at my desk. I wanted to rush to Alex’s school and pick him up and hide from this terrible terrible world. I am afraid and everything now has been divided into before and after.

Earlier, or this morning, I was me—living my simple, complicated, uncomplicated, happy, harassed, sad, joyful, fulfilling, bored and safe existence. None of that seems to exist anymore.

The president has said the terrorists have committed an act of war, and that we will seek them out. Meanwhile, untold thousands of people are lying in concrete rubble that was once national landmarks, tall symbols of freedom, finance, and national security, as an uneasy world looks on.

Today, terrorist destroyed the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, thousands of lives and threatened our national security, our air traffic system, and economy.

Every airport in America is shut down; the New York Stock Exchange is closed and families are searching for victims amidst dirt and dust and tons of concrete. Tonight, I pray for America and for my family and for my American brothers and sisters.

Like every American, tonight, I pray for peace, but I know we are now at war.

 

(Notes: *Brad was my husband at the time of this entry. Alex is our son.

I get chills when I re-read this because I remember that day so clearly; I remember what it felt like to live in the present–where planes were crashing into buildings—and in the future, where I could clearly see the trajectory of a new history unfolding, a world changing before my eyes–all at the same time. I didn’t capture that in my journal account–but I remember knowing it, as I sat helpless behind my desk.

If you are interested in more of my work, check out Tao Flashes   on Amazon. )

What to do in a Wackadoo World

In a world gone Wackadoo, what is one to do?

I can tell you this–don’t give up. And don’t give in to the fear and anger inspired by stokers of hate.

It’s not easy. Especially when we’re seeing children locked in cages, bodies strewn across parking lots after another mass shooting and politicians playing hot potato with the future of our country.

But the energy of anger creates more anger, cues more outrage. We see this play out in our personal relationships, in politics,  in trade wars and in our daily life.  I had a taste of this last week while driving to work.  The person ahead of me on the interstate was moving slowly and I impatiently waved my hand, not expecting the driver to see me or my frustration.  The driver noticed my little wave of frustration and put his hand out of his window and waved in a similar annoyed fashion–and then raised his middle finger at me in disgust.

I knew then he was mirroring my frustration–and worse, I knew I had caused his ugly reaction.

It was a reminder that I want to be more mindful of my energy. I want to use my passion and frustration and energy for good–for positive change in this world. I don’t want to spread the virus of discourse and anger, the virus that is invading the hearts, minds and spirits of so many today.

I believe the future is malleable and we have free will and choice in how we react–and act to what we’re seeing in the world. We can clutch our hurting hearts while still going about the righteous work of lifting our society, our politicians, our lobbyists, our churches, and our financial institutions to higher standards.

And we can do it with resolve, not anger. This week, I reached out to my two Louisiana senators and shared my thoughts about the need for sensible gun control. I controlled my frustration and appealed to the angels of their higher nature in my request that they support background checks and ban assault weapons–not a popular concept in this Sportsman’s Paradise state. But it’s the right move.

I also reached out to co-workers and leaders in the healthcare company for which I work, to become more educated about the behavioral health services we offer and the types of organizations our Foundation supports. I want to see what I can offer in the way of promoting mental health in this state. I want to know which organizations I can support to make a real and measurable difference in my state and country.

I also plan to send another check to the Southern Poverty Law Center to support the work they do for ensuring fairness and racial equality in this country.

If we’re going to do something about the gun violence and racial hatred and mental health issues plaguing America, we need to tackle it from all angles. And we need resolve, which requires energy, for the work. Anger, which some use for fuel, burns a lot of energy quickly and then weakens one.

So, choose calm. Choose resolve. Choose action. Call your senators and representatives. Volunteer. Write a check to support organizations with whom you share values. Better yet, join an organization that actively works for social good.

I plan to use my resolve in a meaningful way. Because I believe love and action can trump hate and fear–and even lobbyists!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tips to Detox Your Spirit in 2019

 

The new year brings lots of resolutions. Health magazines are filled with articles about cleanses and programs to help detox your body. But what about a program to detox your spirit?

Let’s face it, lately we’ve been bombarded with the sort of headlines and daily news that can make our own nightmares seem like a Disney movie. Taking in too much CNN or Fox News can create low-levels of anxiety or even depression. And when we spend too much time in this low-level state, we can unwittingly spread the negativity like a virus to those around us.

Highly sensitive people (and even those who aren’t) can pick up the collective energy of others and must be vigilant about creating boundaries and keeping toxic energy at bay. But it’s not always easy.

So here are some tips to help detox your spirit in 2019:

Spend time with positive people. During times of crisis or change, times when the entire world feels upside down, it is important to seek out those who can lift you up. So many people are focused on what’s wrong in the world–-go seek out the people who see what is right to counter-balance the negativity.

Set a tone and an intention for the day. When you wake up, listen to music, read poetry, journal instead of starting the day with negative news.

Limit reality shows and violent dramas. Watching too many of these programs can make you tense, angry, even depressed. Protect your spirit.

Monitor your social media time. Social media can bring connection, but can also encourage competition, separatism, anger and depression. Filter your feed and fill it with people and information that rank high on the joy meter or that contribute to your betterment, intellectually, emotionally or spiritually.

Take salt baths. They help to wash away toxins from your body and negativity from your spirit. They work.

Watch your words. Words have the power to heal or to harm. They carry intentions that can infiltrate your subconscious, for your benefit or to your detriment. Watch how you speak to yourself and to others.

Need more ideas?
Volunteer. Mediate. Pray. Run. Dance. Exercise and sweat out the stress toxins the old-fashioned way. Studies prove exercise raises your serotonin levels, which will make you feel better, more hopeful.

Or how about these ideas? Practice patience with loved ones, co-workers or people who annoy you in the grocery store, spread messages of hope, donate to a war-torn country or to the hungry in your community.

Hug your child, help a neighbor and do whatever you can to eradicate anger around you and within you. Detox what is toxic in your own life and in your immediate surroundings.

Energy is real and anyone who has ever walked into a room after a fight or angry exchange of words can feel the tension. We feel energy transmitted through the television, through the body language of others, through words, through music. So, it becomes crucial, in this 24 x 7 new cycle, that we be conscious of what we say, how we carry ourselves, even what we read or share on Twitter and on Facebook, so we don’t expose ourselves to too many harmful toxins. And while we can’t live in bubbles, we can take responsibility for not spreading energy viruses ourselves.

So, let’s start the year on a healthy note. Let’s detox together and cleanse our mind, spirit and world for a healthier, happier 2019!

Are you in?

(Interested in more of my work? Check out my book Tao Flashes , on Amazon.)

 

The Bridge

Yesterday, I was on a bridge leading to the small town where my mother lives. Near the top of the bridge, I saw police cars and flashing lights and a young man sitting on the edge of tomorrow. I prayed for him all of the way to my mom’s house. Later, I learned he jumped. Like many others, I was his witness on this day. And for me, it means something. This poem is for him, and for all who are struggling with despair. I believe suicide arises from a deep longing to be validated, to be “seen.”  May we all bear witness to the light in one another, friend, stranger, foe or family, through this journey of life.

Cradled in hope
a chapter in someone else’s story
you played little league, chased fireflies
hid in plain sight on the highest branch
you could climb.
Starbright, you polished the skies,
once you were
light burning over the darkest of deserts.
You belong to the mist now
but I saw you
sitting on a ledge of aching steel
in a halo of headlights
none able to measure your brightness or despair.
I saw you,
sent up a prayer ahead of you.
I hoped it would find you,
buckle you tight in a mother’s caress.
I saw you,
a flickering light, someone’s phantom son
on that bridge, lost,
but inches from hope, a stranger’s hand.
I saw you,
light releasing itself into orbit with a punctuation mark
before you disappeared
into the mist and over the bridge.
I saw you. I saw you.

2018-copyrighted.

(If you are interested in more of my writing, check out my book, Tao Flashes, on Amazon.)

Serenity Under Fire

Downward dog turns into corpse pose
breathe in calm
breathe out fear
serenity under fire.
Synagogues, houses of faith,
find no escape
serenity under fire.
Grocery carts pushed by shoppers of color
don’t always get filled for dinner, mother.
Serenity under fire.
Places of peace,
places of sustenance,
places to pray and duck.
Home to us all, ya’ll.

 

(Copyrighted 2018)-

(If you are interested in my writing, check out my book, Tao Flashes, on Amazon.)

A Starry Night in Sedona

Leave me here on the hardwood deck,

head up to a darkening Sedona sky,

heaven’s stage stretching high above the red rocks of old,

higher than the land native spirits roam.

On this starry starry night,

I think of home, wherever that is.

I see stars cluster in community,

hear the beings talk in lights.

Their words don’t work with humans

but I read the curve of constellations, intentions

scattered like so many galaxies

across a hopeful stage.

How many wishes can one star hold?

How many promises can a sky keep?

My faith, dressed in Sunday best,

keeps me looking up at a cathedral without walls,

on this starry

starry night.

 

 (If you are interested in more of my work, check out my book, Tao Flashes

on Amazon.)

Eat Barbeque for World Peace

Nashville is known for many things: country music, good barbecue and whiskey, plus a fast growing real estate market. But a place for spiritual epiphanies or enlightenment? Nah.

But sometimes insights, spiritual or not, come at random times, in random places. Like when I was at Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint, a Nashville favorite, on a hot summer night.

I was standing in a long line with locals, friends and other tourists waiting to order. “The line is moving fast,” said my boyfriend after reading the tension in my stance. I didn’t reply. I wasn’t feeling talkative or spiritual.

Some people might see long lines snaking outside a restaurant door as a good thing, but I find places like that hard to swallow. Sure the restaurant might get rave reviews for the food, but the noise, the crowds, the wait give me a bad case of indigestion before my first bite.

The smell of barbecue mixed with sweat and beer made me more irritable. As the line inched forward, I surveyed the large room like an engineer to assess seating for our large group. I wanted a place away from the front door where the over-worked air conditioner greeted the humidity and created steam every time someone entered or left the restaurant.

I was thinking the quicker we got seated in the nearby room, the quicker we could eat and leave. But my boyfriend’s daughter and friends were frequent visitors to the restaurant and they steered us up the stairs where they promised it would be cooler.

As we got to the top of the stairs I felt the temperature drop and my mood lift. The place was lovely; huge tables, a sky for a ceiling, lots of seating, ping pong tables and a stage for music. For the rest of the evening I relaxed into the giggles and murmurs of the twenty-somethings around me while I ate my brisket and beans.

When it was time to leave we descended down the stairs back to the first level where the majority of patrons were seated. This is when I had my epiphany.

Clutching the bannister on the way down, I looked around and realized that the people in the ground level room were having a completely different experience than the one I had just enjoyed upstairs. Sure the food was the same, but the experience was worlds apart.

The lighting in the room was bright and harsh, the people sweaty.  I wanted to grab the momma with the crying baby and say, “seek refuge up there, in the Good Place, the place with blue skies and music and big overhead fans that blow your hair back like a model in a Journey video.”

I wondered if any of the people in the steamy, noisy room on the lower floor even knew there was something better … just feet away. I wondered if they just grabbed the first table nearby to make sure they were seated, uncertain of what they would find at the top of the stairs. I know I had been tempted to do that very thing.

What was the rationale for their selection of seating? Was it better to go with a sure thing, to grab what was in plain sight because it was a safe choice? Or to dare disappointment, risk the loss of sure seating for the possibility of something even better?

It made me think about how many times we go for the quick fixes, the tried and true, the safe route instead of getting out of our comfort zones.  How often we grumble and complain, keep our heads down instead of looking up, or ahead, or in a different direction that might offer us a better view. Or experience.

How often do we stay in relationships that no longer speak to our hearts? How long do we say in homes, cities, our spirits have outgrown? How often do we stay in careers that feel safe, that offer security but might keep us from growing or experiencing something new, something richer?

But I get it. In a world that’s gone wackadoo, many of us crave the security of the known. But maybe, just maybe, a little wackadoo is the impetus for growth, for enlightenment, even.

And maybe we start small, make new choices that don’t uproot our lives, but create a little sweet tension that serves as a catalyst for creativity, for something new and unexpected.

I thought about this as we pushed past the lines at the front door, with me clutching a souvenir my beloved bought to appease me while waiting in line to order our food. It was a t-shirt that read, Eat Bar-Be-Que for World Peace.

Now that’s an enlightening thought. Maybe Nashville and Martin’s are on to something after all.

(If you are interested in more of my work, check out my book, Tao Flashes, available on Amazon. Or visit my page on Facebook. )