Today at the Call To Action conference in Milwaukee some of us did a session “Remembering Lorenzo Rosebaugh”. It is constantly amazing how many lives this simple holy man affected.
“Call to Action” is a Catholic movement working for equality and justice in the Church and society. Since 1976, progressive Catholics have met once a year to hear inspiring speakers and be renewed to their commitment to reform in the Catholic Worker Church.
My wife and I used to go regularly some years ago when it was located in the Chicago area. Now that it is in Milwaukee we seldom attend. Listening to one of the speakers today I was reminded why we stopped going. She said that the movement had been stressing the “Call” for many years and maybe it was now time for action. However, she gave no specifics and on their web site it is clear by “action” they means more talk and discussion on issues such as women’s ordination and married priests. This is not my understanding of action.
Checking the “Call to Action” web site for pictures for this post I really could not find many or even one that was right for this posting. Perhaps the lack of pictures on their web site reflects the lack of imagination of their use of the word “action.”
Besides our workshop I attended a few other talks and met a lot of dear old friends that I have not seen for a while. By the middle of the afternoon I had had enough of the talk and came home to his bright sunny day. They say today broke the records for warmest day. I got home just in time to do some raking of leaves for compost. Now that was an “action”.
The observation on nature today did not come from my little work outside. But it did come in an email from Harvey Taylor. He sent me a word poem/song that paints a real picture. Enjoy:
The Last Grasshopper of Summer
As we spread leaf-mulch on the garden
in early November, after several light frosts,
a grasshopper jumps onto a nearby weathered board,
almost blending with it, and stands motionless.
It’s cool, and drizzly, not much of a day
for solar-recharging, and, guessing the hopper
is low on energy reserves, I bend over
to warm it with a gentle exhalation.
It immediately leaps a tremendous distance,
as if mistaking the gray-bearded gardener,
with pitchfork in hand, for the Grim Reaper,
harvesting one and all with a scythe.
The leaves don’t seem to worry
about such matters, as if understanding
that going into the ground is the way
to reappear on the tree
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