CLIQUE

Sound bites

Snap shots

Snapchat

We summarize one another

Instantly

With laser precision

So graphic

To pin one another

On X

Life in caricature

Neighbors by category

Left

Right

White

(Is she my neighbor

After that visa oversight?)

“Who are you?”

We ask

Barely listening

For a reply—

We simply need

A label—

Membership applies

“You are not like us!”

We insist

Too liberal

Too CIS

So many colors

Can’t coexist

“Do you live by our creed?”

Assimilation is required 

If only, like a drug

To soothe our need—

A tribe

A band of brothers

Becomes our high

But is it brotherhood

Or is the bond

A brand

We seek to blaze

Regardless

Of the scar it makes?

Kathryn Yingst

10.04.25

Image: Melanie Kyer

“Behold the birds of the heaven, that they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; and your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are not ye of much more value than they?  And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit unto the measure of his life?” –  Matthew 6: 26-27 

When you get older, you start paying more attention to the birds. You just do. But children love them too, why else would so many childhood crafts involve making birdhouses or little feeders out of pinecones? When I was little, I loved to watch the chickadees with my grandfather, who was crazy over them. He had a trough feeder right next to the window in his sunroom and they’d gather in droves there. An artist friend of his once offered him money to kill one for him so he could examine it in more detail for his paintings. Although my grandfather was a hunter, he refused. He could never kill one of his beloved chickadees. 

Chickadees are by far my favorite birds, too. Not bright and colorful like the bold cardinal, or elusive and cheery like the bluebird, nor boisterous and aggressive like the woodpecker, their ubiquitous monochrome is consistent and unassuming. They are not the bird you search longingly for on your birding bingo card, but I love them. They are the perfect bird for our home state of Maine, hardy and just a bit cheeky. They know the winter is coming, but they are unafraid and do not flee– they just persist.

There is a lot to be anxious about these days, but as I spend a quiet golden hour enjoying the beauty of the trees and the birds on my deck, I hope I can summon their peace, lose some anxiety and practice persistence. 

-Melanie Kyer

September 20, 2025

Wings

No one tells you

When you move your child to college

About the next day

When the house is quiet

And her room lies empty

But the door is closed

So you pretend

For a moment

She is still there

Laughing

Talking on the phone 

Leaving crumbs

How will they see her?

Will they see her beautiful wings

Glossy and new

How they love the light

Iridescent with promise?

Will they throw shadows

And break her heart?

Or will they become co-conspirators 

Of joy

Kindred journeyers

Seeking pizza and movies

And friendship?

Yes.

The day after

You feel it in your bones.

The beginning

Of the shift.

When the wind rises

Gathering her

To the nest’s edge

And she learns

For the first time

How it feels

To fly.

Kathryn Yingst

08.18.25

Image: Barbara Ryther

Moored

Image: Sudie Blanchard

Lord, you provide the strong warp threads of our lives–
Family, friends, love, trust…anchors that support us.
Each day, we weave the varied weft threads…
Rainbows of color and texture:
Shades of gold and red–bright colors of joy and gladness
Darker hues of gray and black for sorrows and sadnesses
Steady strands of blue and green for more ordinary times…
All woven together, day by day.
At the end of our days, our fabric finished,
May all our patterns please you.

Image:Barb Kautz

About Teenagers, With and Without Feathers

In the early spring a pair of birds built a nest in an old gray, bike helmet hanging on the wall of our garage. Next to it hangs another bike helmet, this one with a pink visor, too old, and too small for my 17 year old granddaughter to use.

A few days later the female bird lay four eggs. The pair took turns searching for meals  while the other bird sat on the eggs. About two weeks later three of the four eggs hatched. When the birds seemed to have flown the nest the mother laid a second foursome of eggs. Meanwhile, more birds—or was it the original pair?—built a second nest in the second helmet.

One afternoon, I sat in the garage waiting for Jim so we could go out to dinner. While I waited, I was entertained by a bird I thought was not yet fully grown hovering on the edge of the gray helmet. It jumped back and forth between the two helmets, flew out of the garage, back into it, then from one helmet to another. Over and over again. I wasn’t sure whether or not there were still babies in the gray helmet. It seemed as though the bird would not return to its nest.

The bird reminded me of teenagers. Testing  their wings then flying home, not quite ready or able to fly. Ready to leave school. Or not. I’d been living with a new high school graduate and raised her mother, aunt, and uncle. So whether or not I was correct about the bird’s age it made me laugh.

When I was a young parent I knew enough about growth and development not to be overly concerned by my teenagers’ testing of wings. I wonder, though, about Joseph and Mary. Luke’s Gospel describes Jesus chiding his parents for not understanding why they thought he was lost when they left Jerusalem. He wasn’t concerned. Accounts of Jerusalem under Roman rule rightfully give credence to Mary and Joseph’s fears. Jesus’s reply, asking them why they didn’t understand he was in his father’s house has always seemed a little cheeky to me. Just like that of a teenager.

And like most of us,  Joseph and Mary, forgive and forget their son. Or should it be, that we like Joseph and Mary, most of us forgive and forget our teenagers, hoping they’ll fly at the proper time. 

Barb Kautz

August, 2025

Image: Melanie Kyer

Moonlight Prayer

Never forget: 

There is light in the darkness.

There is sun after rain.

There is morning after night.

God will not let the darkness last.

God’s rainbow promises the rain will stop.

God’s hand spins dusk into the dawn.

But also know:

The God who numbers stars has made your hands

To hold a torch against the dark we see,

To bring a rainbow to the gray of pain,

To light a fire of hope to warm cold hearts.

God grant in us the courage and the strength

To rise with new resolve when morning dawns,

To feel your universe awake in us,

And through our hearts and hands your light be done.

Melanie Kyer

Image: Kathryn Yingst

A Prayer For Hunt, Texas 

Raise your voices

Through the trees

Around each curve

Of limbs

Of water

That every space

Is found

Is filled

With presence

Persistent

Until each Mystic child

Is reunited

Into the arms

Of her beloveds

Though mothers

Wear their grief

Like crowns of thorns

At least

At last

May they hold their daughters

Like a meadow

Holds flowers

Vastly

Deeply

And devastatingly beholden

To their fierce

And fragile

Glory. 

-Kathryn Yingst

July 2025

Image: Barbara Ryther

Waiting

Far below the canopy

beneath the understory

the fern waits

Liquid blue reflections

hint enigmatically at

the bright sky above

Hidden lakes of lily-of-the-valley

scent the heavy shadows

that weave around it

Until for a fraction of an hour

the sun breaks through

and pours down light

A halo of life giving energy

a blaze of bright green

deep within the forest

Then the sun moves on

but the fern remains

savoring the blessed feast

And far below the canopy

beneath the understory

the fern waits again

-Barbara Ryther

Image: Barbara Ryther

 Spring

Image:Staff 

THE TELLING OF THE RESURRECTION

I subscribe to a writing organization whose aim is to encourage members to write about memories that might otherwise not be shared with family or friends. One week the suggested topic was to describe what your mother was like when you were a child. After I’d written down three things, I decided to ask my two sisters to text me their answers to that question. Of the nine descriptors, only one appeared on all three lists: Mum’s love of singing. Others were listening to classical music, dancing around the kitchen when she cooked, and her willingness to partner with our dad in making some of his schemes come to life. Taken as a whole, we wrote about her kindness, how she made almost all her daughters’ clothes, pasteurizing milk from a local farm. Her willingness to forgive and forget and to laugh at herself. 

I wasn’t surprised by any of the answers because they were my memories, too. But as our text messaging continued, I realized that the details of exactly what we remembered weren’t.  Once, when I was a teen, Daddy convinced Mom to fashion a plastic swimming pool cover in an effort to extend our Western Pennsylvania’s September swimming season.  Once in place, Daddy turned the cover into a “pool house,” keeping it air-filled with an industrial blower. I remembered that it sorta worked. But I’d forgotten how after the first thunderstorm “the bubble” escaped its brick moorings and  blew  into our neighbor’s yard 50 feet away. But my sisters did not, even though their memories were not precisely the same.

And so, it is with the Resurrection story. It used to bother me that the four Gospels tell slightly different versions of what happened that first Easter morning. Shouldn’t they be completely alike? But when I started writing Memoir, I realized just how much the same event seen through different eyes can vary. Just like my sisters’ and mine did. 

The more I read about writing memoir versus biography, the more I learned that variations in the telling of a story give it credence and not the other way around. If all four Gospel stories of the Resurrection, whether it’s who got to the tomb first or the appearance of  angels were told verbatim it would make the Easter story more like a memorized poem than a real event. Something that often bothers unbelievers, as it once did me.

Scholars may argue for many more centuries over who was first on the scene. That’s not the important part. What is, is He is Risen.

Indeed.

 Barbara Kautz

Image: Melanie Kyer

How does Lent work in Australia

When the days are getting dark?

When the promise of new life

Is still seasons away?

How does Lent provide its promise

For the unjustly detained

Who sit wondering if Jesus

Died to set them free, too?

How does Lent make sense to mourners

With nothing more to give up?

For whom Easter joy and rebirth

Is purely theoretical?

It’s easy to see hope in tulips

To have faith in greening buds

To endure the momentary dark

Secure that it’s only 40 days.

But even when the tulips fail to bloom,

And news brings only never ending dread.

The call to us is clear: Believe! Persist!

His day will come. Light always follows dark.

Melanie Kyer

March 2025

Image: Barbara Ryther

Adventures in Weaving

I have recently begun teaching myself to weave.

I had hoped it would be a meditative process – the soothing repetition of gently guiding yarn over and under the warp threads on a loom, the concentration of trying more complicated patterns, the creative glow of experimenting with different materials.  The ultimate meditative practice of emptying your head of everyday thoughts and being in the present.  A suitable journey for Lent.

It. Is. Not. Going. Well.

Granted, any creative process can involve a certain amount of chaos, in the best sense of discovering the unexpected.  And of course learning anything takes time and mistakes before you can even begin to consider that you might possibly know what you are doing.

But this experience has been less a creative artisan at work and more a fretful toddler who stubbornly insists that she DOES NOT NEED A NAP!

The chaos that climbed from the world into my head has fractured my already fleeting attention span, and my thoughts whiplash so rapidly that I choose and abandon my assortment of materials before they even begin to form a pattern.

The tension that moved from my head to my shoulders crawls down to my hands, making them tense and twitchy.  Warp threads cringe at my touch, abandoning their orderly vertical alignment and tightening into a stranglehold on the weft.

This is the opposite of meditation.  It’s more like possession.  Rather than clearing my mind it is exposing it for the swirling repository of worry and anxiety that it has become.

And yet, I have hope.  Hope and – dare I say it? – patience.  Perhaps it’s good to expose what is possessing me, to see it in all its three dimensional messiness, to bring it into the light.  To name it for what it is, or rather what it isn’t.  It isn’t me.  It’s something I have let live in my head and affect the rest of my body.  I can’t do calm in the midst of chaos, so one of them has to go.  The chaos can no longer be given that much space in my head or my life.

So I’m trying to let it go, one twitchy thread at a time.  Slowly but surely I will make space for calm.  I will re-warp my loom.  I will pick up one type of weft material at a time, and feel it in my hands as I gently weave it over and under the warp threads, letting the warp and weft gently mesh until they create something more than either of them alone.  Something I can’t see yet, even in my mind, but something that will be new and unique.  And me. 

-Barbara Ryther

Image: Nina Bisognani

Soup for the Soul

During the winter months

Images of steamy soups fill my mind.

A lovingly prepared hot soup brings warmth to cold, stormy days

And cheer to simple meals shared with others. 

Beef stew was a favorite during my childhood.

But there is nothing that warms my heart

Like my husband’s homemade chicken soup.

Made every fall and kept in the freezer in small batches;

We heat it up it for dinner throughout the winter, 

Whenever colds and flu threaten our health.

I believe it has healing power.

The healing power of warm soup in winter 

Reminds me of an even greater source of strength

That can help us through the difficult times we face

In our world today, as well as troubles in our personal lives.

It is the spiritual soup that fills our souls when we pray together. 

In spiritual soup, music is a main ingredient. 

We sing songs of thankfulness and praise.

One hymn, composed by Christian songwriter Lanny Wolfe in 1977

Was inspired by Matthew, 18:20, “Where two or three are gathered

together in my name, there I am in their midst.”

The well-loved song, “Surely the Presence of the Lord” (is in this place),

Is sung by the entire congregation in a church I often attend during winter months.

Like a warm soup, it lifts our hearts and sustains us through the days to come.

Perhaps we could create our own spiritual soups in these dark times, when our

Inner selves most need nourishment. Lift our voices to God in song. Spiritual soup has 

Healing power.

-Nina Bisognani

Come to the Table

Dear One,

Every day since the inauguration has brought distressing news: illegal firings, humanitarian aid withheld, trade wars with allies issued, family separations unleashed, Treasury Department data handed to private citizens, DEI protections cancelled…

It’s exhausting. Breathe.

You will feel all the things. Grieve the losses—it’s what steels your compassion. Take the time to hold the shards of every precious thing in your heart after your country has crushed it beneath its heel. Even the memory of what is beautiful is spiritual fire.

Do something with your inevitable rage. Every day, if necessary. Pound the treadmill, take up kickboxing, recruit a friend willing to dip beneath the frigid sea with you to reset your control panel. You are angry because you believe in goodness, and it’s painful to witness the unleashing of cruelty. Anger needs an outlet, or it will consume you. Take time to Let.It.Go. When the anger returns, let it go again. 

Find peace in nature. Walk into the woods and lean against the trunk of a great oak; feel its unmovable strength against your back. Listen to the gentle lapping of water; trace the smoothness of a river rock in your palm. Notice the insuppressible joy of songbirds. Consider moon wisdom. Let balsam fill your lungs.

Pray often. Perhaps with words. Or let your body be a prayer: hold the hand of one who suffers, lend your ear to the unheard, and let your gaze rest on those who have become invisible so that they become seen. Prayer is often action. Also, sometimes prayer is listening. Practice both.

Find ways to be a helper. You know, that whole Mr. Rogers thing. Be the good you so desperately want in the world. Each of us has the ability to impact those we come in contact with. When you can, widen your impact. Find organizations that do good work and support them with your time or resources. Call your representatives to let them know where you stand. When there is opportunity to elect officials with dignity, support them. Consider working locally to help good people become community leaders.

Don’t let resentment become a thing. Maintain healthy relationships, and release the ones that cause you harm. We cannot convince others of what is honorable. Each of us is defined by the beliefs we live out in our daily lives. Do not concern yourself with someone else’s progress. Use your energy wisely.

Surround yourself with good friends. Rest often. Find a creative outlet. Actively nurture your wellbeing. 

There are still lights in this darkness. You are one of them. 

You will feel all the things. Don’t give up.

Image: Melanie Kyer

Rebel in the Manger

My mother did a lot of ceramic painting in the 1970s, the most extensive of which was our treasured nativity set, complete with nearly two dozen pieces including camels and even goats. I was allowed to carefully unwrap them in December and place them meticulously in a tableau on the bay window. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned there were “rules”: the baby Jesus must not go in the manger until Christmas and the wise men should under no circumstances appear until Epiphany.

Perhaps my mother was unaware of “the rules” or perhaps she just didn’t want to trust that setting the figures aside wouldn’t end up in their being broken. But here’s my hot take: display the whole story at once if you want to. The only “manger police” are self-appointed. In a world where we retell the Christmas story year after sacred year, Jesus is at once born and yet-to-be-born at the same time. The Magi have been and gone and will come again. The two sheep in my nativity scene are just placeholders, both for the sheep that may have been at the birth and the sheep who are…us.  It is only common Western custom that there are three wise men anyway– Eastern Christianity numbers them at twelve.

Taken as a set, the scene allows us to look with new eyes on it every time we see it. Maybe the weary eyes of the camel shine under the Christmas lights and tell their story when I need to hear it, even if that’s not on January 6th.

My mother’s nativity set now has pride of place in my home and continues to represent not only the nativity story in all its aspects, but the years of care she put into painting them and the tradition of placing them every year which engraved that story on my heart.

May the story continue to live in you this Epiphany and always

Photo by : Barbara Ryther 

Witness

As I approach the entrance to my favorite walking beach, I notice something new – a small evergreen tree planted firmly in the sand, with what looks like Christmas decorations.  Drawing closer I see that the tree is crowned by a lobster claw, and hanging from its branches are garlands of seaweed, curled strips of birch bark, fragments of driftwood… and dog toys.  

A large tag flutters in the stiff breeze coming off the breaking surf.  It reads “Gratitude and Remembrance Tree” and encourages passers by to add something to the tree to remember loved ones.  Whatever the original intent, the tree has become a memorial to dogs – presumably dogs that once spent joyous time on this beach.

This time of year dogs sometimes outnumber people here.  I love watching them and their individual reactions to both the beach and the ocean.  There are the ones who love nothing more than being in the water, no matter how cold it gets.  I watched someone once stand by the edge of the breaking waves for 20 minutes, throwing a ball over and over again into the surf as a large dog hurled himself headlong into the water to retrieve it over and over again.  A great contrast to a dog I once introduced to the ocean at that very spot, and watched him trot curiously toward the edge of an outgoing wave, only to retreat frantically as the edge of the water turned and swirled back toward him.

I have seen dogs demanding to be carried after only a few steps on the sand, and others who seemed to be shot out of canons the minute they were let off their leashes.  Other dogs will spend their time carefully sniffing out every small little pile of seaweed, or rolling luxuriously in them.  One winter day I watched a dog gleefully roll down the steep, snow covered lawn of one of the beach houses, only to gallup back up and do it again. And again. And again. Some dogs are too caught up in beachy things to pay attention to strangers, while others have seemingly developed a knack for spotting me as someone who is almost sure to be able to find just the right spot on their back or behind their ear to scratch

I don’t have any dog toys to put on the remembrance tree, so I search out a lacy bit of seaweed to gently tuck it into the branches.  I look at the pictures of dogs who have passed away this year, and imagine the dogs that once loved the toys that are hanging there.  Although none of these dogs were mine, I am grateful to remember them, and their witness to joy.

My wish is that we may all be witnesses to joy in whatever way we can this Christmas and in the coming year.

Barbara Ryther

Image: Melanie Kyer

Memories of Christmas

Each year during Advent, many homes and businesses in York begin preparing for Christmas, the most celebrated holiday of the year. The Christmas tree, which spiritually represents the birth of Baby Jesus, is carefully decorated as a symbol of our anticipation of His coming. 

When I was a child, my father cut an evergreen from the woods behind our house during the second week of December. He fit the tree in a sturdy stand and arranged a long string of multi-colored light bulbs around her branches. My three sisters and I loaded the tree with tinsel.

Our mother added gold braid and ornaments her own parents saved from earlier times.

In the weeks before Christmas, we made new ornaments from styrofoam balls, pipe cleaners,pieces of felt, and paper cut-outs we collected throughout the year. The ornaments represented special qualities such as peace, love and joy. To create the appearance of snow on our tree we gathered pine cones, painted their scales white and placed them on the tree with wire hangers. It was our way of sharing the value of nature at this special time.

On Christmas Eve my family and I attended Midnight Mass at Saint George’s Episcopal Church in York Harbor.. My three sisters and I sang in the choir. The church was lovely; adorned with rich red poinsettias and fresh balsam wreaths. During one of the darkest days of the year, the beauty filled our hearts with light.

We prayed together and gave thanks as we sang “Silent Night” by candlelight. The magic of Christmas had begun..

Nina Bisognani

Image: Kathryn Yingst

November

gray and moody

with its dusty shadows

like a crypt

opening

At least

that is my sentiment

at 5:35

when I am mercilessly awakened

by the alarm

Morning is heavy

on my back

as it bends

beneath the weight

of dreams interrupted

What happens now?

And by that

I mean

to the beauty—

to the tendrils of grace

and the soft hues

of compassion

On the table

my Schlumbergera

stretches her fuchsia blooms

the ones that appear

precisely

when all else goes dormant

Her blatant tenderness

ever defiant

Kathryn Yingst

CHOOSE JOY

2024 has not been an easy year for me. Among other things I wound up in Northeast Rehab for 10 days after I fell in April. I was doing something stupid, but then isn’t that why most falls happen?

A month later I celebrated my 77th birthday, which also fell on Mother’s Day this year. I had high hopes that it would be the day I could celebrate a return to better health. While that may have been true it was also a day marred by a truly ridiculous argument between two of my children that left me in tears for much of the afternoon.

I could have found myself sinking into a depression. Instead, about 10 days later I woke up truly happy for the first time in months and with the words choose joy my awakening thought. In choosing joy, I was able to reach my goal of going to Denmark in September to visit “My Danes.”

 Once home, I was inspired by a beloved cousin and a friend to do something I’ve never done before: volunteer to work on a presidential campaign. My contribution was small, but it filled me with hope and joy. Today, I am still choosing joy.

But mostly I am choosing to remember words Father Ryan said at the very end of his sermon last week, Nov 3rd . It went something like this: “Trust that next Sunday we will be here as a community.”

Not just a congregation, but a community. And that’s a really good reason to choose joy.

Barbara Kautz

Nov 7, 2024

Images: Melanie Kyer

The Long Goodbye

My mother has Alzheimer’s disease. Actually, we aren’t completely sure that it is Alzheimer’s, although her doctor has said that’s the most likely culprit for her memory loss, but I just hate the word dementia. I don’t want to think of my mother as “demented”– it is so much easier to just blame “a disease.”

What it comes down to, however, is that I lost part of my mother a long time ago. She is still in there, she still says she loves me, and she still has that beautiful smile, but the part I can ask for advice, share accomplishments with and reminisce with about childhood memories is gone. It’s not fair, and it sometimes makes me angry. I’m angry at our healthcare system, and at a God who would make the last years of life for such a wonderful woman so needlessly hollow. 

As is my way, however, I do try to find the bright sides:  we have her living closer to us so I spend a lot more time with her. When she was in a less restrictive facility, I would spend time almost every week playing the piano for residents and enjoy seeing how proud she was of me. At her facility now, I play the ukulele and sing hymns and songs for her when I visit. She is less and less aware, but I know part of her hears me. 

Music does that. 

I’m also taking the time to go through old photos and scan them for the family. I show her the highlights. Some she recognizes, like the time I showed her a photo of my dad and she smiled and said “I like that guy.” They remind me of all the wonderful things she did – not only raising great children, but traveling around the world, making dozens of pies for suppers at her church, knitting us mittens every year, and organizing choral concerts at the town museum. 

She may not remember, but I can remember for both of us. 

It can be hard to find God in this long goodbye, but the word “goodbye” itself actually means “God be with you.”  Every time I pray with my mom, I ask God to be with us both. And I know that prayer is answered.

“For the beauty and wonder of your creation, in earth, sky and sea,

Over the past several weeks, the Reflections group asked us to reflect on the blessings of summer and send in pictures that show what in creation has brought us joy this summer.

We are happy to share the results!

The photographers are: 
Jane Goldstein & her grandchildren, Jeff Hart, Karen Cashen,
Rev. Judith Turberg, Joyce Parent, Melanie Kyer, Barbara Ryther