"tears like a river..."

"Tears are a river that takes you somewhere…
Tears lift your boat off the rocks, off dry ground,
carrying it downriver to someplace better."
— Clarissa Pinkola Estés


Weep me forward...

I will cry until i
am blinded
by salt and
sorrow

if that is all it
takes to
move on from this
place
where clouds
lower, and
the thundering of
regret and
self cross-questioning
loom like an
ancient
Goliath spitting,
spewing,
taunting
diatribes of
"what if"

lift me over the jagged
rocks of
"what could I have
done differently,
better,
or not at all..."

carry me downstream
where
the water is
clearer and the
muck of confusion
does not cloud
today in
the purging of
the past.

cry me a river
rush through me,
with
Your healing, purifying,
cleansing
streams of  mercy
forgiveness
that twists, and winds, and rises,
and
falls, and carries me well
beyond the looking back..
the last bend,
the
retrospect of a backward
glance

spill me over
waterfalls of acceptance
where
the pounding,
insistent voice of God
repeats...and repeats:
I am that I AM...

I am
I am
I am

I am holy,
I am good,
I am sent by God into
this day.

Weep me forward,
cry me along,
spill me out...
a river of
tears

a river so pure it will
wash away the
sediment of
sorrow,
the strangling vines of self-doubt,
the roots of regret...

lift me above my
self,
away from the ego's
self-circling

lift me into His
arms where
I am
new...

then let me
eddy
in the
quiet
of His
reflection

willing,
ready,
paitently waiting
to
carry
someone
else
to the
banks of their
own
river...
where
the waters of
Meribah
flow from
within..

.

"No fear in love..."

"Let me not see
the death of the child,"
Hagar begged

and she sat,
"as it were
a bowshot away"
and lifted up
her voice...and wept.

And God said,
"Fear not..."
and God heard the
voice of the
lad...where he was.

Two thousand years,
about two thousand years....

between Hagar and
John...

for two thousand years
the message
echoed...and echoes
still.

"There is no fear in love..."

They cannot exist
together...
fear
and
love...

you love him...
you are not afraid.

or...

you are afraid...
you do not love him.

I think you know...

know, with all your being,
which of these
options
lives,
and moves,
and breathes in you,
as you,
...

love,
or fear?

If, as I suspect,
it is your love,
your mother-love,
divinely bestowed
and heaven-bestowing
then, the annointing comes
with the appointing...

the mantle of fearlessness
comes as the
unconditional,
impersonal,
impartial, 
unsheddable
garment
of motherhood.

and dear, sweet mother
you can rest upon this
timeless Truth:

"There is no fear in love..."

Do not let that slithering snake
of doubt
even
try to convince you
of its wicked,
hissing lie:

"because you love him, you are afraid."

God's promise is reliable,
dependable,
applicable,
vital.

"There is no fear in love."

Be constitutionally
fearless in this love,
be fierce in this love,
be constant,
courageous,
certain in this love
of Love.

"There is no fear in love..."

and because you are
"the image of Love,"
there is no fear in you...

This is the message of messages
from the Lord of lords...

This is the promise that reclaims
redeems,
restores
those feelings...

the ones we have been
told by that slippery,
conniving,
hissing
snake,
must be fear...

reclaims them...those
heart-celnching feelings...for Love.

Intense love,
transfixed love,
completely absorbing love,
love that has us in its
Life-grip....

Oh mother,
precious mother,
fearless mother,

"God hath heard the voice
of the lad where he is,
take up the lad
hold him in thine hand..."

In His hand he is whole, well,
perfect, safe...
a great nation

in your hand he is
fearlessly,
confidently,
tenderly
loved....

and the angel
comes and ministers
unto each of
us:

"There is no fear in Love"

This timeless promise
reaches us
in blaze of day,
dark of night...

in the wilderness or
a palace,

the temple or
a war zone....

a desert cave
or a nursery....

"There is no fear in love."

Rest mother-love
oh,
rest...

upon this
Truth,

not from
your
fear...

fear is
never
yours

love is.

.

"behold, a new thing..."

"Behold, I will do a new thing;...
I will even make a way in the wilderness,
and rivers in the desert."
- Isaiah 43:19

A new thing...

not better...

just new. 

Did the wilderness have a purpose before it
had "a way"...

Was the desert not a useful place
for mounting an
exodus?

a new thing....

How often have I missed out
on the beauty of the
wilderness,
waiting for the way....

or not seen the
loveliness of a desert
while fretting over the absence
of a river....

A new thing...

not a better thing...just new.

To everything there
is a season
and a time for every purpose
under heaven....

is there a season for
the wilderness?

is there a time for enjoying the
desert before
it buds and blossoms
as the rose....

Does loneliness carve out a
space for
holding love more deeply

Does the arid ground
appreciate the river more than
a swamp?

Are my empty days
just as vital as
"the fullness thereof"

Is the silence just a prelude to the
song...or is it
the real reason for 
our singing...

"behold,
I will do a new thing..."

but I created
the old
thing
too...

both are good....

each according
to its
season...

for
a
holy
purpose....

a wilderness
for a
Messiah...

and

a river
for My
pleasures

"answers in the spray..."

I walked
beside the sea
today

unceasing answers
in the spray

but not of
who,
or what,
or when...

for those I'll
need to walk again

but for the
how

the answers came

relentless
gifts in sea
and spray...

be kind to every
one you meet

be gentle, humble
quiet, sweet

be one with all
of nature's lay

be grateful for each
thought-filled day,

be ready for the call
to love

to seek your answers
from above,

just write what's on your heart
today

in song, and poem, in
how you pray...

be mine
be always mine...right now

and trust that I will
show you how

it's in the how...

not when or who

embrace the now
I'm holding
you...

Prairie winds...

you draw your hand
across my
hip as
we
watch the billowing
of sun-bleached cotton
sheets whipping in the
wind on
a tightly strung clothesline
just beyond the
hope of
peonies at edge of a vegetable 
garden we dream of
filled with colors
foreign in
the dry beige of
a prairie august

the air crackles
with its threat of the storm we watch
move closer
and closer
from miles away
across the vast
gray sky
of a
kansas
summer afternoon

cottonwoods
near the
dry creek bed
turn the underbellies
of their dusty leaves
toward the
sky to catch what
little moisture will fall...
first gently...and then with a vengence...
between the veins
that line 
their fingers
reaching up to touch the
sun
now hidden behind black clouds

we stand calloused
hand in
calloused hand
listening for the
first rustlings of
a prairie wind to
touch the grasses
just beyond the
fence line
and watch a wave of
golden
grain
roll towards our ankles

it comes in like the foam
of the sea we
left
far behind
in the wake of
ruts from our wagon
wheels
through mud and
dust and
rain-soaked
passes

i hear it now
the soft
breeze that will soon
grow to roar
through
the cracks in
our sod house where
grasses grow above our
heads and
crickets and beetles
share the dirt
floor with
toddlers and
bare-footed boys who
whoop and
holler like the injuns
they only think they wish
to see
on the ridge above the
lean-to where
our one milk cow
finds the only shade
on this treeless sea of
grass and
dust

you are here
until you
go
to town

i watch the wagon
until all
i can see is the dust
your wheels
kick up
along the rutted
path that
takes you
where I cannot see ....
even farther than
beyond the
horizon that sits so close to
the setting sun
that I am sure
you will return
as purple as the
sky she
casts her
light upon

you will bring me
ribbons as
blue and pink
as sky and
clouds
sugar for
cakes and
sweet tea that never
gets colder than the
earthen tomb I keep
the crock in below the
roots of
a once upon a tree
that now lies ancient and
stoic near the back
door
her trunk and branches
the only shade the old
yellow dog can
find when
the sun is in the west and
the house no longer
casts her
shadow on the
ground

you will bring
a canary
this time
one that will sing
when the
winds stop blowing and
there is no sound
to protect me from the
madness that comes
from
never hearing
anything but your
own voice

come home across the
treeless
sea of
grassses taller
than our
almost grown
boy with
eyes as
green as new hay
and
hair the color
of the
wheat
you
drive our
wagon through

come home
and
hold me
in the hollow of
the night
silent
as the eye
of a storm

come home and
I will watch
your brown back
bent over
plow and
hoe
and
water trough
I will weep
tears
of
gratitude
that
you
have
found your way through
the grasses
along the
hot breath of
prairie
winds
to
lay your hand
along my
hip
and watch 
sheets and
clouds
and
grasses
billow and blow
beneath
a
canopy of sky as
blue
as
your eyes

"I have seen thy tears..."

thus saith
the Lord, thy God,

"I have heard thy prayer,
I have seen
thy tears..."

You have seen my tears...
and hers,
and his,
and theirs?

You have heard our prayers?

What do they look like to
you?

What is the sound of a prayer
when it reaches your
heart of hearts...

Do my tears sparkle
with a glisten  of hope
are they
awash in longing,
a patina
worried
soft with dreaming,
and praying,
and wishing on a star..

Does my prayer have
a tone,
a pitch,
is there a harmony line
that
sings in
subtle
undercurrents,
a descant of
uncertainty

Does it keen with anguish
or sob silently into
the folds of my
Savior's
grave clothes?

What do prayers sound like
as they echo back
to reach the One who
sings them into our souls?

What is the temperature of a
tear falling on
the palm of
Him who wrings it from
the deep well of
Love within us
to cleanse and heal
our brokenness?

You have heard our prayers.

You have seen our tears.

Have you tasted our
heartbreak and
felt our joy,
caught the scent of our
fear and
followed us into the lair of
darkness with  a
ray of light?

To be known by You,
of You,
through You....

it is more than
I could
have
hoped

and yet,
it is
what
You
bring
to
touch
me
in the
sanctuary of
Your
Love
.

"sing sweet hope..."

If
hope,
as
Miss Emily* avers,

"... is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all..."

then regret is
the snake
that
would
pull her from the
branch and
feed upon
her
fledglings...

and doubt,

oh cunning
conspirator,
doubt
is
the darkness that
allows regret
to hide
until
he strikes without
warning
to
paralyze all that hope
would
give flight to

so what of hope's
defender,
who is her advocate

it is Truth.

Truth,
ever awake
within
herself
carries sickle and
scythe to clear the underbrush
of confusion and
perseverative self-distrust

she exposes
not the earth-bound...
barren ruts  of doubt and fear...
but
the
un-cluttered
ground,
rudiment,
foundation,
reason for hope's
relentless song...

it
is
solid
Love
she rests her
promise
on.

Whatever hope
dreams
is rooted in Love's rich
soil.

Sing sweet bird of hope
your wings are
strong...you are not tethered to
the earth,
your are grounded in Love. 

You cannot fly without the
balance of pull and
loft,
without the movement of air...
as it dances
along the valley

the singing,
undulating breath of
Spirit's
grace-notes
taking their course
building and retreating,
ebb and flow, 
through the trees and boulders,
up, over the hills...
sweeping
down the canyon and
beyond the ridge
to whisper and
laugh along
a brooklet of purest
Truth

fly and sing
sweet hope

do not linger on
shaken
branch or
nest

fly far
sweet hope
your
dreams are lifted
on the wings
of
Spirit's
dance
with
her partner,
Truth...

rising
from
the
holy,
sacred
ground of 
Love.


* Emily Dickinson

"miracle in the dunes..."

she beckoned me
to follow
her
skittering along
the sand
just below the dunes
on delicate legs
that matched
the willowy seagrass
just ahead
of us

I thought
that perhaps I
was mistaken

even though I'd
spoken to her
from the
silence of
my heart's hunger
for something
unheard,

had she
really
answered with
cock of her head, and 
a flick of
her slender beak
and a
gently whispered
"follow
me.."

She didn't fly
she wasn't afraid
she waited for me
whenever I lagged
behind
only
trying to give her
space

just
in case I was
wrong and
she was
only
returning to
somewhere I was
not invited.

but she urged me
along
behind her
like a conspiratoral
friend on an
adventure into the
dunes.

when she disappeared behind
a shelf of
sand and broken shells
I thought I'd lost
her...

but there it was again,
"follow me....
even where you cannot see"

So I followed her delicate
footprints in the
soft dry sand.

and as I rounded a
tall mound of
crushed shells and
tall grass I saw her
waiting
for me next to a
small
nest of
tiny eggs and
one small
chick...

and I knew

I had seen
a
miracle
in
the dunes...

"a tapestry of acceptance..."

If I...

from the platform
of my own
cultural,
political,
religious,
personal
self-certainty...

believe that
you are
wrong and
I am right...

haven't I broken the
first cardinal rule of my
own faith mentor
to "judge not?"

have I not banished
myself to
a hell-on-earth
where there
are "others"

others
who can
think,
reason,
act
and react
out from
a position that I
intrinsically feel
is wrong...
opposed to
my
own
dearly
held,
and somewhat
intractible,
inflexible,
unchallenged
sense of
right...
or wrong

what
a hell
this is...

to believe that I live amongst
others
who can think and act
contrary to
the law of omnipotent,
omnipresent,
omniscient
good...

because if I am right
and right is good
and you don't think like me,
you are wrong and
if wrong is not right...
it is not good...right?

my right
your wrong

this is a lonely place,
this land of
me
versus
you.....

an island of
tribal
defensiveness and
"what if"
strategies that leave us
camped upon the
shoreline
waiting for the
next assault
on our
pristine rightness,
our fenced in values,
our shored up
resolve to
never
be
second best,
equally right,
just another option
another path....

If I say that
you are wrong
and I
am right
who is it
that lives on
this hell-fire
island of
intolerance and
fear?

is it you...or is it
me?

But...

what if
I say that
we are
both right
for
ourselves...

what if I say that
there is a
power
impelling each,
and every one of us
to
think,
and reason,
and act
according to a divine
design...

weaving many colors
in all directions
into a tapestry so strong
and beautiful
that
reds and blues,
black and whites,
pinks and lavenders,
tie-dyed rainbow threads  of
every hue and
subtle earth-toned
raffia and twine
leap,
and walk
and pray
a
tapestry
of acceptance
that
holds,
and covers
and comforts us all
with
love...
impartially
and
universally...

"the blessing of radiancy..."

I am taking them back...
radiation,
radiancy,
God-bestowed
and God-reflecting...
flickering,
throbbing,
pulsing,
glowing,
suffusive,
radiant
light...

reclaiming all that
demonstrates,
illustrates,
illuminates
articluates the activity
of light

taking them back
for
God...

In the beginning
it says...

in the beginning
there was
light and the
light was good...very good...

so where,
when,
how
did we get it so
wrong

light that harms?

radiation that burns?

a nucleus other than good?

light that glows with anything but
blessing?

impossible. 

the sun will not harm thee neither
smite thee....

Life is not reactive...it is
redolent,
resplendent
reflective,
resonant,
radiant...

the pale petals of a poppy,
the delicate fillaments of a seed's awakening,
the tender herb,
the eyelashes of a fawn,
the diaphanous wings of
butterfly,
dragonfly,
hummingbird...
none of these are scorched,
pained,
crippled by the sun's light...

They thrive in her
shining,
drawn towards the heat of
her beating heart,
the spill of her radiant light

she causes them
to burst with color,
dance through the air,
stretch into new space...
unfurling young
sprouts and
blossoms for her 
annointing
with
her
tender
touch

she dances on water
and trickles
through the canopy of
the rainforest
a gentle
stippling...
pooling on the backs of
tiny treefrogs and
glinting off the feathers of
a quetzel in
flight

radiant light
harmful?

sun burn,

sun stroke

no!

sunburst of laughter,
sunsweet peaches
sunkissed cheeks
sun
moon,
photon
electron
radiant,
resplendent,
transformative
light

a blessing...

only,
ever
a blessing...

"The kingdoms of this world
are become the kingdoms of our
God...."

Reclaim it
take it back
give it to Him...

Light...

it is His...

and it is good,
very
very
very
good...

its
power
is generated
by a
full-orbed,
infinitely
benevolent
nucleus of
Love
that
radiates
only
peace
and
joy
and
power....

the
radiant,
regenerative
power
of
Love...

"to write a well-stitched poem..."

ah,
to write a
well-stitched
poem

to thread words together
in a fashion that
takes my breath away,
and  causes the
draping of
my inner landscape to
rustle and
flow
creating new canyons from
soft folds
and
wedding gowns from
vintage
pillowslips

to press into pleats the
soft lines of
round letters and
gather small syllables into
long words that
flounce off the tongue like
a young girl's petticoat
peeking coyly out from
beneath more
serious
skirts of brown
linen and above
riding boots
of saddle leather
so scuffed they
can no longer
hold a
shine.

to write a poem
that surprises and delights,
angers and
causes a grown man to weep and
women to dance like forest nymphs
under moonlit nights heavy with
sweet tea and
magnolia.

to thread an adverb so
deftly that
its companion
cannot find the seam between
their cleaving

to stitch a line of words so
straightforward and
true that
carpenters
use it to
find plumb and
sea captains
set their course by
its rule.

I long to write a
well-stitched
poem
one that will
stand the test of
time and
gather dust
between
her
stanzas

"Impossible to conceive..."

it's funny how
we look at things
through the lens of our
own
mottled pain,
and then,
arrested by the
sharp intake of
breath,
we look away
again
and again
without seeing what
is really there.

I had this happen one winter night
some time ago when the wind howled through my
empty womb and the nursery held a small cradle
but the cradle held no one...

my eyes landed on
this fragment of a statement
about two-thirds of the
way down the
page...

"and it is
impossible to conceive..."

my heart sank
low
"turn away,
turn away,
please...
turn away," it begged

"impossible to conceive"
like
"failure to carry"
tiny phrases that
begin to spin, and swirl,
and tug at my
heart's
tethering,

it's fragile
anchor in
the sea of hope..

"do not let those words
suck you into the
quicksand of
regret and
despair..."
my heart cries out,
"just turn
away...turn the page...do not
read anymore

there are more encouraging
pages,
paragraphs,
long sentences you can
take apart and parse out in
syllables of metaphor and meaning...

there are other words you can
wrap around yourself,
snuggle up with
in a softly-worn patchwork quilt of
dictionary and thesaurus...etymology and
synonym.
find your
peace in
their beauty and meaning...but
not this..

do not linger with this one
it will make you sick with sorrow and
regret...turn away...

but tonight I am tired of
turning away....

"bring it on.."
i think with a David-like
ardor.

bring me your Goliath-sized
helping of words that wound and pierce
and pull me under where I will
gasp for love, and another chance to start
again

So I steel myself with five smooth stones of
innocent resolve:

"be it unto me according to Thy will..."

Okay, not five...eight...
eight small word-stones...
but
I am not a shepherd boy who had faced
bears and lions
I need three more stones
to get the job done.
these eight will do...
they worked for
her.

Three more stones to cast at the Goliath of
regret and sorrow...

"I have never said no..." I thought,

"...she was so small,
and was gone before I could see
the flutter of her eyelids
or feel the suckle of her tiny
lips..."

But, I have always given You my body,
my mind, my heart...
I have always said "yes" to You...
to love and motherhood and
most of all,
to being your handmaid.

And then I steel myself with this truth, my Truth:
 
"be it unto me according to Thy will"

..and so I find the courage to
read the whole sentence...again:

"He fills all space, and it is impossible to conceive
of such omnipresence and individuality except as infinite
Spirit or Mind.  Hence all is Spirit and spiritual."

Oh my goodness.  It was there all the time. 

He fills me.  I am pregnant, round, full,
expectant, conceived and conceiving, content, satisfied,
willing...so willing...always so willing...

yes,
it is impossible to conceive of anything but the
fullness of His love for me, and
mine,
and
all.

and I am able to conceive
that...

His love
fills me

I am pregnant with
peace....


* referenced statements are from the Bible (Luke 1:38) and  Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy, page 331.

"a keel for your wishes..."

reflection upon
reflection
upon reflection...

sun on the face of
the moon,
moon on the face of the
sea...


a tidepool
filled with moonlight and
wishes
on a summer's night

dip your toe
into the light and
it will pull you
in

buoyed by
dreams that will
seep into your
being
and color a
sapphire velvet sky
with
rock candy stars and
a marshmallow
moon.

lower yourself
slowly
feel its cool light
rise over your ankles
knees
ribs
shoulders...sending
a shiver of
fireflies
into the night air
like sparks from
a bonfire
on the beach

let them drift
on the whisper of
a midnight breeze
like stanzas of
poetry
bursting from
every pore
of the
poet
within...

lie back
and float in a
bowl of
stars
the moon
will be a keel
for your
wishes and
give your desires
full sail...

God in the face
of Christ,
Christ in the
heart of man...

reflection,
upon reflection...

"bathing in moonbeams..."

heather says
that
there will be a
supermoon
tonight

it will venture
as close to
the earth as
a moon can come
without
falling into the sea

I will be there
watching her
inch her way
towards my
pulsing,
waiting,
hoping,
child
heart.

I've always hoped that
somehow
the
moon was mine
to curl against.

She is softer than
the sun...

She likes the dark as much as
I do and
never complains that
in her light
the world is not quite as
exuberant and filled
with laughter.

She is content with her
place behind
the stars
where she
snuggles in a quilt of
silence and
infinity

She likes
that she can
hide sometimes, disappear
behind a cloud,
a meteor shower,
permission to live in phases,
showing only a piece,
just a sliver of,
what
she is....
at any given moment...

she is at peace with
touching gently
coming and going without
leaving tan lines, or
the lingering imprint of
her presence...

it is enough for her
to fill the quiet with a
gentle glow that
sugggests a
world of
magic and
whimsy,
wonder
and mystery,
reflection
and
transendence.

"there will be a super moon
tonight,"
heather says,

and something in my
heart catches
like a child discovering that
they'd forgotten snowflakes,
and candy canes, 
December and
caroling,

only just
remembering that tomorrow is
Christmas morning and
that there will be
treasures
under trees and
stockings filled with
promise.

but I am sooo
ready for this

I am near the sea
where She will
spill herself
in large
pools of endless
light

I will take a moon bath tonight
I will drop all my
coverings,
leave white linen
and old lace on the sand...

I will be an old woman
with long white
hair
and I will slip
between the
ebb and
flow
of her cool sheets

I will dance under a
shower of
moonbeams

I will run into the phosperous
she casts over
the sea's
surface

I will
float in
the soft dusting of
her lavender
breath upon
a midnight sea

her light will
paint a
stippling of
gold and silver along my
skin...

I will be awash in
her beauty
like she is
in the Sun's

"There will be a super moon
tonight," Heather says.

"Won't you come dance with
me in her
soft light like
sister-
faeries
under
their mother's wing,"
I call back in
a conspiratoral
whisper
through the
ether of
our
common
song...

the
harmonic
convergence of
self-acceptance
beneath
moonbeams of
Love....

please...

"tides of divinity..."

they
came in
like the sea

an endless
tide
of
questions and
answers

questions
and
answers,

questions and
answers...

breaking upon the
sands of
time
casting treasures
along the
moments like

a scattering of
soft glass
and
transparent stones
of alabaster in
pinks and
whites so luminous,
that
I thought bits of a
full-orbed and
throbbing
moon had
tumbled to the
sea

"God is
my
Life"

"the Lord is with
Kate"

"let the angels
tell her"

"The starting point
of divine Science
is that God, Spirit,
is All-in-all,

All-in-all

All
in
all..."

these small words weave
a line of
treasures along
my days
like
snippets of kelp and
seagrass,
moonshells and
argonauta...

woven
through the
edge
foam
leading me
foward...
step-by-step
treasure-to-treasure
searching
for
more...

"who am I..."
the heart-
shaped
moon
asks...

a question
thrown out
in
soft beams across
the stillness

"you are Mine..."
the surf
whispered back
through the
tide's
hungry,
eager,
grasping
at my ankles....

and
with Her pull
the
sand
shifts beneath my
toes
and I am
on new
ground...

"i am Hers.."

that is
who I am ...

I am the object
of Her
affection...

that is who I am...

I let Her
speak to me
in the
ebb and flow...
over and over again
as I make my
way
along the
shoreline
without
destination

who am i

you are Mine

who am i

you are Mine

who am i

you are Mine....

softly She
whispers
a lullaby,
a sea
song
of
the
simplest
words

like
moon
light
pulling
me
into
divine
alignment....

"the language of Love..."

Love wanders
the earth
like light

wherever She goes
there she is...

radiant,
suffusive,
expansive,
illuminative
light...

there is no
darkness in Her path,
in Her periphery,
in where she has been,
in where she
is going...

search as She
might for what she
has never seen

she cannot find
the absence of
Herself..

there is only the
Light
that
She is.

She speaks,
but her words are filled with
softness and
strength,
tenderness and
flexibility.

She has no words for
what she is not.

How could she describe
what She has never
seen,
felt,
heard,
known...

Love speaks
in a language of
kindness,
Her fingers dance,
and weave letters
and syllables that are
never sharp or
dismissive,

Her syntax is
full of comfort,
like the reliable rhythm of
the sea's ebbing and
flowing...
ebbing and flowing

kindness begetting
kindness,

love,
giving way to
more love.

Love's language can
only describe
what Love sees
and Love
sees
only
the radiant light of
her own
being.

Let
me walk
in the light of
Love's
radiance...

and speak only
Her
words..

let them
fill my
mouth with
blessings...

and my
heart with
light.

"hopes...."

hopes...

we must
hold them
gently,
tenderly,
with a soft
hand...

they are as
delicate as the
chantilly
lace edges of
an ice flow on the
mighty
Mississippi

and yet...

they are as
resilient
and tenacious
as a mother's
love for her
child

these hopes that
we hold in
our heart...to
love,
to make a difference in the world,
to live peacefully within
ourselves, to
wake with wonder,
to rest in the arms of
God...

they are as innocent as
the first breath of
an infant
hummingbird
waking to the
whirr of her mother's wings...
and as
wise as
the ancient of days.

they are
a young girls dreams...
motherhood and
white picket fences,
law degrees and
sailing through the stars
on the bow of a
tall ship
navigating by the
Southern Cross.

they are a grandfather's
boyhood
that never
dies,
a  young man's
desire
for a life of meaning,
a father's tears on the
day of his daughter's
birth...and
the weight of her feet on his
while they waltz
at her
wedding.

they are Life
calling
us to
the dance,
and Love inviting us
to trust again...

when you hear them on the
lips of a child,
on the sweet breath of
the morning,
in the words of a
lullaby,
as the first peck from within
a fragile shell,
the silent shaking of the
chrysalis,
in the song of the sea...

hush,
be very still,
allow yourself to
be filled with wonder,

then
say a prayer
of thanks....

you are
hearing the
voice of
God...

divinity
singing...

humanity....

"We return..."

They walk
ahead of me
by twenty yards
or so, and
I follow
in their footsteps
like an
adoring,
obedient
child.

Two sets
of footprints
one with a deep high arch
and the lightest
heel impressions in the wet sand,
the other...each foot
firmly, and carefully,
planted.

they are so alike
and yet
not at all...

No longer tiny versions
of the women they
will  one day be,
it is
now
who they are.

Ever
confident and
strong,
yet with a dash
of the
sassy
silliness,
and sparkly
light,
that
glints off the sand
beneath their sun-scorched
feet,
and catches in
their hair,
their eyes,
their laughter...
like sugar dust
on madelines...

suddenly they
turn,
running back
with treasures from
the sea.

one with a small
moon
shell as
tiny as an infants
fingernail

the other with a bit of
seaweed in the shape of
a sponge.

"here mommy,"
they say in
unison
and then giggle
as if on cue...

We are "us"
again...

Mother,
daughters,
sea,
treasures,
sand,
salt,
tears...of
joy...

"looking for mommy's heart..."

"What are
we searching for?"
my daughters
asked
as we walked
and walked
and walked
along
a spit of
sand
that ran beside
the sea foam
as far
as the
eye
could see.

"Nothing...
and everything..."
I sighed.

Alabaster stones
as
transluscent
as the
face of
an
angel.


soft-hued
bits of
colored
glass
you cannot
see through...
honed by the
surf so
small children
will
not cut their fingers...

tiny branches of
gray
wood
burnished and
bleached
by sand
and salt....like
my
hair...

they giggle...

and mommy's
heart...
I sigh to myself,
we
are looking for
mommy's heart...


and then
I look
down
at them...
two small
sea creatures with
ocean eyes
and driftwood hair...

and
right there,
as amazing as
grace...

what was as
lost,
shattered,
and
broken...
as the
sharp shards of
an old
wine
bottle - carelessly
thrown
from the
bow of a
yacht on a pleasure
cruise...

was
found...

and whole.

Bending to
retrieve
a small
polished
stone
a tear falls
to the
sand
and
disappears.

"nests of ribbon..."

she said that
i could smell
lilacs
long before
the last snow of
winter
had melted from
their sleeping
lavender buds

she told me I was a
child with
a taste for lemons
and lavender
and
tiny bits of diaphanous
ribbon in
shades of sky and
sea...

she saved
word slivers I'd
woven into
a birdsnest of
poetry and
songs

strings of letters
and phrases,
twigs and long
strands of seagrass
twisted into
a home for
my memories
of sun-drenched
days and
firefly nights when
the sky was
a bowl of
stars
above a
dreaming
child
filled with
lace-edged
lullabies and
songs of
silk

a sylph
who
danced upon
a moonbeam
in a
slipdress
made
of
a butterflies
wings....

I was a girl
with dreams
too big
to
hold in
small hands

dreams that
lived in
tents of taffeta and
tulle 

dreams that spent their
afternoons
sipping
tea with
tiny
faeiries
who
sang
in
gaellic
and spoke
in
song...

"Who would I be..."

...and where
would I be
if not
here with You...

how would  I
know to
plant one
foot
in front
of me,
before
laying down the next step...

like cobbled pavers
along a pathway
through
English rose
gardens
near the Thames...

if You hadn't
held out
Your hands
to lead
me
in the
way...


how would I
have known
that music
was beautiful,
that the blue light of
dawn was
magical,
or that fireflies
were summer's miracle
if not for You?

when would I
have discovered
that
falling in love feels
a lot like
swallowing butterflies,
that laughter
is the best way to
break the spell
of fear,
or that sadness is
only as deep
the joy you once felt
if You hadn't
sat with me
in the dark silence,
and let
me cry.

who would I
be if
I hadn't grown
up under the shadow
of Your
wing,
in the bosom of Your
love,
between the
lines of poetry
You spoke into the
hearts...and minds...of
great thinkers.

Your hand
has
lifted me
above myself
into purer
desires...
even into
spiritual power
and
good-will
to man*.

Who
would I be?

I would be
who
I am...

I am Yours.



*from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy (page 407)

"The sound of her voice..."

She has
a
language
but not
as I
know
words...

Her voice speaks clearly
from the
depths of her
eyes,
in the
tender prodding of her
paws,
with the cock of her
head,
the lift of her ears at
the sound of my
sighing from
the other side of
the room.

it is love
that is her
language.

it is
the
language that
speaks so
precisely,
accurately,
clearly,
and articulately...

I hear its message
in the
place
where my
heart feels most
unheard

I hear it.

I hear it when
she 
curls against
my back
or lays her
muzzle
over my neck
as I
sleep

the sound of
her voice
is
felt
in the
weight of
her
heart
against my
own...

[photo credit: Samantha Demarest King Hopple 2010]

A sycamore tree...

the view from
here is
perfect...

if I lean just
enough to
the left
I might catch
a glimpse
of this king
of kings
i've heard so much
about

but a
sycamore tree...
really
Zaccheus?

we feed sycamore pods
to swine
and this is the
tree you would
choose...

a sycamore tree...
really?

oh yes,
you
have much, but
no amount of
money can compensate for
alll you have
done to
get where you
are

do you really
think that he will
notice you,
a sinner...

we
can see you
there

in your sycamore tree...

but really?

a sycamore tree...

sycamore,
oak,
olive,
elm,
cedar,
maple...

I will go wherever I
need to go,
I will scale the bark of this
mottled tree,
I will cling to her branches
and hang from
her limbs
if only....

what little man...

what do you
wish for
from this
king of kings

I wish to be
a better man...
to be new,
for a clean slate
a fresh start
a way to begin again...

a sycamore tree though...
really?

anything,
anywhere,
any type of tree...the more
humbling
the better...

and so I climb
and cling
and wait...

for Him
to see me
to call me to him
to ask me to
do
whatever he will
ask me to do

better yet,
I will offer
half of my goods,
return what I
have taken...

fourfold...

Here he comes
I will
wait...

not for him...

but on him...

I will wait on him
hand and
foot...

oh yes,
and heart...

from a sycamore
tree. 


Thanks to Jeff Clark who shared this insight from the Easton Bible Dictionary of 1897:

"The sycamore tree, climbed by Zacchaeus, was considered "unclean" because it bore a fruit that was fed to pigs. In the culture of the time it was humiliating for Zacchaeus to climb that tree."

And here is a link to The Solo Committee's song: Zaccheus 

"Ideas are tangible..."

"All the objects
of God's creation
reflect one Mind."
- Mary Baker Eddy

objects
reflect?

ponder,
consider,
wonder,
think deeply about
the One Mind.

Is this true?

Does the
blade of grass,
the star...

whose identity is
maintained
by this divine mentality...

ponder God?

Does my hand,
the cells of my heart,
the neural pathways that
connect my
desires to
my actions,

ponder,
think,
reflect,
consider

this one and only
divine
mentality...

"Ideas
are tangible..."
she says.

tangible!

Are you saying
that I can feel them,
touch them,
use them?

Do they move me?

why yes,
all the time...

They are substance..

This had me
at hello...

sigh.

"Where do I begin..."

"I can only
handle
so much
devastation,"
she sighed
through
tears of
exasperated
grief.

"a hurricane
off some far away
uninhabited
coast

an empty trailer park
along tornado alley

natural disasters
with no
loss of life...

those I can pray about.

But how do I pray
about
cities swept to sea,
tens of thousands
of children
dying in Africa from
starvation

I can pray about
tribalism
annihilism
extremism...

i'm good at
isms

but a country teeming with
disease and fear,
cities full
of mothers without
clean  water for their babies,
nations
of children whose
future seems only as
promising as
a dictator's
mood swings...

this...sigh...
I don't know...
I just don't know...

"But my child,
it is all
the same,"
He
whispers from the
sanctuary of the
closet,
the silence of the
temple,
the stillness of a
mosque,
the quiet of
a chapel on the edge of
a mountain village...

It is all the
same
pointless
lie.

A lie that says I AM
absent.

But,
be still for
a moment...
do you feel that love
bursting,
singing,
weeping
in
your heart?

Did you create it?

Could you have ever even
begun
to figure out
how to create it?

No?

But it is there...yes?

Then it of Me.

I am the only One
who could be the
Cause and Creator of that
Love in your heart.

And if that love is there at all,
then it is ALL there....
I am all, and only all. 

And if I am at all there...in your heart...
then I am all everywhere,
in everyone,
at all times. 

I am only All-in-all. 
There is no other measure of my
goodness
than Infinite,
All.

I,
the Lord,
am the "portion of
thine inheritance"
and the only portion of
Me,
is
All.

All-in-all.

Stay focused on these
"first, faint morning
beams"
the shining of my life in your
heart....even if it
feels like tears of
compassion.

keep your heart
trained,
transfixed,
keenly focused
on
each tiny,
pinprick,
each soft,
faint
point of light
that indicates
My
presence.

Do not let go of that
focus.

Do not be distracted.

Any indication of
my presence,
implies the All-presence
All-power,
All-knowing,
All-acting
of My goodness.

I am God.

I am Love.

I am All.

Start* here.
End here.

It is enough.

It is 
All
in
all...


*The starting point of divine Science is that God, Spirit, is All-in-all and there is no other might, nor Mind..."   - Mary Baker Eddy (Science and Health page 275)

"a tsunami of love..."

what do I
believe is
rippling across the
pacific
floor...

what do I think
is reaching --
in waves of
unrelenting power
and might --
throughout the
pacifc rim
beyond coastal villages,
sweeping into its waiting
arms
the
children of God...

lifting them

"ayont hate's thrall"

what do I think
is echoing,
ebbing and
flowing in
endless tides of
rushing,
swirling,
"living waters"

what do I
know is pushing
its way into
homes,
hearts,
lives..

pushing,
asserting,
sweeping its way
over and over
again in
aftershocks of
persistent
grace-filled
energy...

what do I believe is
rising,
swelling,
expanding,
reaching
beyond the shores of
nationalism,
history,
geography,
or time....

it is Love

Love is
the only
power,
the only energy,
the only
"thing" that
is broadcasting,
spreading,
echoing,
surging
in currents of
humanity and love...

over the land...

currents of Love
currents of Love
currents of Love...

relentless
persistent
enduring

a tsunami
of Love....

and each of us
a single drop*


this Truth
is the ground,
the rock,
the foundation
I will stand on...
where
"winds and waves
can shock,
oh nevermore..."



Many of the phrases in this poem are from the poetic, and prose writings, of Mary Baker Eddy. The reference asterisked is shared below:



*Perchance some one of you may say, "The evidence of spiritual verity in me is so small that I am afraid. I feel so far from victory over the flesh that to reach out for a present realization of my hope savors of temerity. Because of my own unfitness for such a spiritual animus my strength is naught and my faith fails." O thou "weak and infirm of purpose." Jesus said, "Be not afraid"!

"What if the little rain should say,
'So small a drop as I
Can ne'er refresh a drooping earth,
I'll tarry in the sky.'"

Is not a man metaphysically and mathematically number one, a unit, and therefore whole number, governed and protected by his divine Principle, God? You have simply to preserve a scientific, positive sense of unity with your divine source, and daily demonstrate this. Then you will find that one is as important a factor as duodecillions in being and doing right, and thus demonstrating deific Principle. A dewdrop reflects the sun. Each of Christ's little ones reflects the infinite One, and therefore is the seer's declaration true, that "one on God's side is a majority."

A single drop of water may help to hide the stars, or crown the tree with blossoms. Who lives in good, lives also in God, — lives in all Life, through all space. His is an individual kingdom, his diadem a crown of crowns. His existence is deathless, forever unfolding its eternal Principle. Wait patiently on illimitable Love, the lord and giver of Life. Reflect this Life, and with it cometh the full power of being."

- Mary Baker Eddy
Pulpit and Press 3: 26

falling into grace...

GRACE. 

"the divine influence on the heart,
and its reflection in
the life."

"to trust in the unseen,
more than the seen"


"put your
heels down
sweetie,"
they tell her
when
she tippy-toes
along
the hardwood floors
barely making
contact with
the
solid
ground
beneath her feet,
the certain proof of
being here on
earth.

put your heels down,
stop leaning back on your chair,
don't let go of the handlebars,
don't swing too high,
hold on tight,
remember to
bring a coat,
a hat,

connect to
this,

and reach for
that,

the things that will
hold you fast
upon
the earth and
will not let
you fall
into
grace...

where there
is only
the
substance of
Spirit
to
stand
upon
and catch you
in its
Allness...

"but my
feet are on
something
...I feel it"
she
says
to us,
as she whisps
along
the sun-spattered
wood

she is on her way...

walking on
sunshine
and dust motes
and the
substance of
Spirit....

It is a practice
that will
serve her
well ... later....
when
she begins
flying through the
air...
a grande
jette
into the arms of
the divine...

where there is
nothing to
feel,
but the
fall
into
grace....

"Borne of the spirit..."

My life is
His,
and only
His.

Each changing scene,
each fleeting
moment,
each turn of leaf,
and bloom of
flower
is His.

The winds of Spirit
carry me
from moment
to moment
through my
spiritual journey...
and you,
through yours.

Neither of us is
a victim
of chance
or luck
of nature,
or nuture...

we are do not
win or lose
at our
own hand or
the will of
others...

We are His.

He sends us into
those
moments of
grace
so that we
can
discover
what it means
to be
borne,
not born,
of the
Spirit...

Not of water,
but of
wind...

"Speechless with love..."

"smaller than
a
breadbox,"
I heard her say
to the
voice at the
other end of the line.

"no, not a pair of
shoes, or a purse,
or a new
ipad...
you will have to wait
until we get there
to find out...

bye mom...we'll
be there
before you
know it."

she smiles at the tiny
infant in
her arms, hums a bit,
sways inperceptibly in her
seat, and
squeezes the hand of
the young
squared-jawed
staff seargeant
sitting
next to her
with tears
in his
eyes.

"I've surprised
them both,"
she says 
turning to me,
while tenderly
holding her
biggest
surprise
in young,
but very confident,
arms.

"He didn't know,
and i didn't want to worry
him...or her."

She goes on to tell me
that she got her
GED at the base
high school after
her new
husband deployed.

She greeted him with
a diploma and
a baby...and now they
are taking
both boys...hers,
and his mothers's
firstborn...and only son...
home to her.

"What do you think
she will say?" she asks me
after both boys have
drifted off to sleep.

"I don't think she will say
anything," I reply, "I think she will
be
rendered
speechless
with love..."

"The apple of her eye..."

I'm sure she
said it
lightly,
without
the kind of
meaning that
a young girl
attaches to
a simple string
of
words shared by a
beautiful grandmother
who she loves
more than
the small woman
with sparkling eyes
and gentle voice
imagines.

But I did.

I took it and
held on
to its promise
with all
my being.

A little girl
who thought
just perhaps
she was larger than
she'd always
assumed,
if,
in fact,
she really was...

the apple of her eye...

year
after
year...

a vision
to believe in,
a hope so full of
promise,

a promise full of
hope.

could she really be
the fruit of
her vision.

Could she really
be the seed
within itself.
bursting from
her grandmother's
love for
others and
a world
so in need of
love.

"You,
my sweet girl,
are,
the apple of my eye."

"the
apple
of
my
eye."

Oh, grandmother
I want to be
who you have
always
thought I could be

I want to make a difference...

to
feed a world
with something nourishing,
to nurture
peace,
to
sweeten moments of
despair,
and
to salvage what
seems to
have dropped
from
the branches of
its high
estate
among the
heavens
and for
your
glory...

to be
"the apple of
your eye."

so if you
didn't really mean it

I don't really want to
know...

your words
gave a young
girl,
a
reason
to
be...

...to be
me.

the apple of
my grandmother's
eye.

[photo credit: Hollister Thomas 2009]