"I am ever with thee,
and all that I have is thine..."
"what are you watching for,"
I ask him from the
chair across the room...
cousins and uncles,
great aunts, and the neighbor
lady with a bundt cake,
are milling about the
drafty farmhouse
sitting at the end a narrow
lane covered with snow...
staring out the a breath-misted
pane of icy glass,
from his perch on the window seat
he doesn't skip a beat...
" i am waiting for my daddy
to come home
for Thanksgiving..."
"oh, honey,
I say...there is a very big
storm where he is, and I don't
know if he is going to be
able to drive all the way home
today...didn't mommy
tell you that?"
"yes," he replies, without
taking his eyes off the driveway,
"but daddies
always keep their word...
my daddy will
be here."
he doesn't move
while we finish savory,
then sweet,
"save a piece of pumpkin
pie for me and dad"
he calls from where he
waits like a
sentry on watch...
his mother never urges
him away from
the window...
she later tells me that
she feels
at peace,
in his hopefulness,
safe in his
unquestioning trust...
he is still sitting there
when I climb the
stairs...and
long after I have gone to
bed I hear
muffled laughter
coming from the kitchen at
the back of the house
I tiptoe
down to see
what I am
missing, and
there,
he and his dad are eating
pie...
slipping quietly
back to bed,
beneath the heavy
quilts, and under the
moonlight coming through the
frosted windows,
I reach out to
my Father, as tears of
gratitude fall
through the hair at
my temples
"thank you,"
I say, in the silence,
"thank you for this reminder
of what a trusting,
faithful,
unshaken,
tenacious,
expectant,
watching, for
a beloved Parent's presence
looks
like..
I won't forget...
I will
watch for You...
because I, too, know
that my
Father
always
keep
His Word...
"the spiritual sense of truth
must be gained,
before Truth can be understood."
Mary Baker Eddy
"i can't believe you said
that," she laughs
nervously, as we walk
across the
lobby
"do you realize that by
telling your story,
you
just admitted to everyone
in the
room that you
are not "all that"
and maybe
even less
i nod silently,
almost inperceptibly,
with
a small fire
beginning to
spread from
somewhere so deep in
my being
it could only
be from
the embers of
an unsought
grace
i know
i say
but it's my truth...
i am not "all that"
and i know it
and you know it
and now,
they know it.
don't you care,
she asks
oh yes, i care
I care very, very
much...
finally
i care
that they know
this truth...my truth
that
i am
not
"all that"
but i am something,
I am
honest
and that is more
wonderful, than being
"all that"
it is freedom,
it is peace
it is liberty
and
beauty
and
joy
and
it is mine...
it is my truth and
since Truth is God,
and God is my only
Cause and Creator,
whatever i am,
"all that"...or not...
a rare heart-shaped
stone,
or a jagged
chip off the old Rock,
it is all I can be,
it is what i am,
today...
according to His
purpose,
a holy "why"
a sacred reason,
a spiritual calling...
perhaps I have been
sent by Him
to be
just this:
"not all that"
so, that said,
i am leaving me in His
hands,
trusting me to His keeping,
surrendering my
story to His telling,
without any interpretation,
pure, clear, transparent.
free of interpolation...
if I am supposed to be
different,
He will let me know
but for now,
this is my truth,
and since I am spiritual
it must be His Truth too...
I'm
His...
and that's all
i need to be
and trust me,
that
is always more wonderful,
more special,
than
being
"all that"
"His greatness is
unsearchable..."
"what are you looking for..."
my mother
asked one afternoon as
I paced the path
between the clothesline...
hung heavy with sheets and towels,
baby diapers and socks of
every size...
and the row of peony bushes
heavy with fragrant blossoms,
heady and overblown
in every shade
from the purest white to
the most
passionate fuschia....
"i am searching for
direction,
for answers,
for a sign....
what should I do?
where should I go?
when should I go there?
who should I listen to?
I am a grown up now
I have reached this
milestone of
maturity...
I have graduated,
but I need direction and
as much as I love you,
you can't tell me
I have to find it
for myself...
And that is what I am
doing, I say,
I am searching
seeking,
pacing...
for direction,
answers,
guidance....
a plan.
"oh," she says,
and
without a pause,
she hoists her
heavy basket of wet
laundry to her hip and
carries it to the
far side of the clothesline
where an empty stretch of
of taut rope waits for
its share of the load she will
hang precisely...each pair of
pajama bottoms sharing
a clothespin with
the t-shirt next to it...
as I watch her, I realize that
if they did not share, she would
quickly run out of clothespins and
someone's blouse or
bermuda shorts would not dry, and
other's would fall to the ground...
and that is when I knew
that my answer was as close
as the familiar
lines of my mother's strong back...arms stretched
above her as she pinned my
nightgown next to my brother's
school shirt...and I stopped
searching,
pacing,
wondering...and joined her
as she unpinned a sun-dried
bed sheet from the closest
line letting me help her..
and as naturally as
the flower turns to the sun, I
took the bottom
end and began to
fold it with her...
the greatness of His
answer was
unsearchable....
it just was...
"And I will set
my tabernacle among you..."
Oh please,
not me...
I am but a girl
a simple temple maid.
I am not ready
for a temple to be set
within me...
I am not ready for a
temple,
a tabernacle,
to be built
among the folds of my day,
my womb, my life,
the ebbing and flowing of my
family,
my community...
I am still only engaged...
please could You wait...
just wait a little while
for me to be married
let my life be better prepared,
more perfectly settled,
a life of honor...of dignity...
and when my life is ready
I will be happy to have
your tabernacle,
set...within me...
But for now...please, just let me
simply serve in your temple...
It will be
holier,
less shocking,
more acceptable,
easier
this way...
I am but a girl
not a rabbi,
or a prophet,
I cannot do this thing
You ask...
I am not the Rabbi's wife..
oh yes,
that's the answer...
choose her.
She would be perfect.
Her life is perfectly prepared
for a temple of this weight.
She would be honored,
thrilled to be chosen
as a vessel
to carry your Son.
me...
I am but a girl...just a girl...
But still,
that said,
I am a temple maid,
your servant,
the handmaid of the Lord...
"be it unto me,
according to Thy Word..."
"blessed art thou...."
"the storm may roar without me,
my heart may low be laid,
but God is round about me,
and can I be dismayed..."
- Anna L. Waring
don't look at the clouds
lowering and
dark,
don't look at the
way the grass shifts and
begins to flatten in
the west...
look at Him
look at our Shepherd...
He knows the way...
He pauses only to turn
and urge us forward,
and for a moment He stands,
so still and calm,
waiting for
us to follow Him...
"fear not, little flock..."
He is leading us to the
where the
there is shelter under
the ledge of
a rock,
beneath the shelf of
cliff face,
into the silent cave of
ceaseless
prayer...a stillness
His entire
posture
draws us towards.....
follow Him
face Him
let Him hold you
close, near...
infinitely near...
closer than
the sound of your own
breathing ,
closer than the beating of
your heart,
closer than the crash of
thunder,
the roar of the winds,
the sirens of
fear....
so near...so infintely
near...that His
peace be
still
is all that
echoes
in
your heart....
the divine lullaby
of a
calm and
wise
Shepherd....
"hmm, hmm, hmm
hmm,
hmm, hmm, hmmm....
oer' the hillside steep...
peace, be still
my children...
peace, be still..."
ah yes, I remember...
David,
the Psalmist
promised...
he leadeth me...
"
"come in,
come in..."
he called from the
doorway as I mounted the
stairs in
winter coat and heavy
boots...
the light pouring through
the windows of
the apartment was
golden at dusk, and the
fire was crackling
and warm...
drawing me to stand in
front of it like an
altar
"come, come...I am
working and I do not want to
lose the light..." he beckoned as he
headed for the kitchen
at the back of the building,
canvases
stacked against the
walls of the
wide
hallway like
bold
wainscoting
on the long, age-burnished maple
counter stood an easel, and a
scattering of
paints, binoculars,
books, journal, and phone...
the sleeves of his dress shirt
were rolled to the
elbow underneath a
chef's apron, and a streak of
cerulean blue
cut across his cheek at a
rakish angle
he was a kitchen pirate
wielding a
paintbrush and a prayer
sectioning grapefruit,
adding a layer of stippled yellow ochre
to a drying canvas,
flipping through scripture for just
the right punctuation to his thoughts,
scribbling notes,
taking calls,
laughing with more
being than I knew a man
could hold...
his office was
the whole wide world,
the Godhead embodied in the vastness
of humanity...a section of grapefruit
as full of meaning as a parable...
divinity in
all its wonder and
pathos,
beauty and
paradox
a bellowing,
joyous living out loud...
a life of
Love, and color,
of music,
books,
flavor...
and God,
always
God at the center,
and circumference...
of His living
always
God at the
heart of
his
laughter...
he savoured
every
pulsing,
throbbing,
heartbreaking
moment of
beauty
and
reminded you
it was
all
God...
it was
all
wonderful...
and we were
always
good...
their paths cross
on the cobbled walk
just outside my office window
and across the
campus
green
his head is down in
contemplation of a theorum,
a recipe,
a law of nature,
the latest story on NPR
still echoing beyond the
"driveway moment"
from his morning
commute
around, and
beyond, the
river's
bend
she is curled in on
herself,
arms crossed,
chin down against the cool dampness
of a late spring day...
until she sees him in her path
and the
sun comes out
in her face...
but he does not
notice..
they do not speak...
their eyes never meet...
he is not aware that she is
hopeful, and so he
walks on,
beyond
her shy gaze
he does not see her
slow her pace
as their footsteps share
an echo
he will not feel longing
as she looks back
over her shoulder,
hoping he will too...
he thinks he is alone
in his reverie,
solitary
in this space of silence
on a damp gray morning
into
night
but she has
joined him
if only for a moment...
and in the space of
that dawning
the clouds have parted
and he has walked
with sunlight on
his back
his life has been
touched...ever so
gently
by the whisper of
her notice,
warmed,
by the love
in
her
eyes...
sitting on the porch
steps tonight,
waiting for everyone to
return from
concerts in the park,
grocery shopping,
a walk with a friend...
the quiet of
an early summer evening's
stillness was
peirced only by the
call of
tree frogs and cicadas
rising from
their long nap below
the roots of
dogwood,
magnolia,
and tall sweet gum trees...
the whirr and whisper of their
song seemed like a
vintage memory from
childhood...
without air-conditioning,
summer had
a sound that was as
unique as
a symphony
screendoors slamming,
the sound of ice cream trucks drifted closer,
and children calling
"all outs in on free"
rippled through neighborhoods as
fireflies appeared and bedtimes stories
were told to those who slept
on summer porches while the blades of
table fans sliced the humid air
and glasses of sweet tea dripped
while ice melted next to
wilting mint leaves
sitting on our porch tonight
I could almost hear my
sister asking me to draw pictures
on her back while we listened
to the neighbors talk
on their front porch
through the
window screens above
our bed....
summer had a sound...
and tonight
I could almost hear it
in the song of
the cicadas
a divine reminder of
innocence,
childhood,
purity,
simplicity...
the things that
never
change...
and grace.
"I am confused..."
I say in a
voice tinged with both
weariness and
exasperation
"how will I know...
what kind of peace
is the good kind of peace
is it the peace I feel
when I pull back from a hard won position,
feel the happiness of having
achieved my goals,
and then sense a
kind of release...
the surface tension
yielding
to the fullness of
what I have
accomplished,
done,
finished,
decided,
demonstrated...
or is it the sort of peace that comes when
I give up a dream...right before it is realized...
surrendering to the kind of self cross-questioning
that assures me, "if it were right it
wouldn't feel so full of uncertainty,
unsettledness, resistance..."
and then, in letting go,
in giving up,
I feel relief?
how will I know it is
real peace?
Will I feel a rush of peace when I make the
right choice, or is that
just as distracting as the peace I
feel when I make the wrong
choice....
any choice...
peace is not an outcome
he says,
it is not the result of
your human decision-making...
right or wrong...
peace is what you feel when you
walk up to the mirror of uncertainty,
and look
your "not knowing"
right in the eyes
and greet her with compassion
and love...
so much love
she wants
what you have
the
peace that passeth all
understanding,
all knowing,
certainty,
assurances,
guarantees,
achievement,
timetables,
outcomes....
the peace that is peace
even when you lose,
fail,
aren't so sure,
can't decide,
have no idea,
feel empty...and still
you are
at peace...
yes, this is
the peace
that is
not a
false
convenient
peace
but the
peace that
floweth as a river...
fron the
eternal
Source
alone...
*born of a conversation with Sandy Wilder of Educare the Unlearning Institute
"a pearl of great price..."
the Comforter...
but you are not at all
comfortable...
a grain of sand,
a little yeast,
salt that stings
and keeps the wound from closing
over before it is truly
thoroughly
healed...
an
irritant,
a little
leaven,
change agent,
catalyst,
savour...
saviour
you do not leave me at
peace with my complacency,
that familiar place of
stasis...
you do not come to pour the balm
upon what feels
open, raw, tender
and sore...
but send a grain of rough
sand into my softest
most vulnerable place
urging me to
wrestle,
tumble,
roll around with it
in the darkness of a restless
night crowded with
strange angelic bedfellows...
and do they bring me a message of
comfort
in that wilderness,
that Peniel of my longing...
no, only a grain of sand
to get under my skin causing me to
overturn, and overturn until
what emerges
is something so luminous with
vision,
purity,
compassion, humility...
layer after layer of light
upon a
single grain of sand
until
all that's
left is
light...
a luminous
pearl of wisdom
the understanding that
whatever causess you to
return
over and over
again to
God for
insight and
inspiration...
is of great price...
a luminous pearl
of great
price...
kiss our mountains
for me,
and sprinkle a sweet,
sacred blessing over our river...
this river...
she carries my heart
in the sound of her song...
the murmur and hush of her voice
as she eddies
and flows through the valley...
aspens quiver
at the
sound of
her mighty rush,
lodgepole pines
serve as sentinels
along her journey south...
and we...
ah, we
sweet sister...
we bathe
in her baptismal waters,
drink from her palms,
dance in her shallows,
and are carried on her song...
she is the chord...
the true north,
the centering voice we share...
we are
sisters of the Arkansas Valley...
we know her touch,
her song,
her colors...
as familiar to us
as the
color of our
baby's
eyes...
steel gray on
a stormy summer afternoon,
her lace-like
whitewater
the palest
ice blue
in the morning...
as dark and
green as a forest
when daylight
turns to
night...
and because she loves us,
the river paints the color
of our eyes upon sky
and in the hollow of a boulder's
sun-washed cheek,
and sings our names
through the rock-ribbed canyons
of our native home...
we are the indigenous ones...
we are the ones
whose hearts were born
in the waters of the Arkansas...
we are sisters of the valley
and we know
when we
are home...
[photo credit: Todd Herzer 2009]
"...and the voice of the turtle
is heard in our land..."
- Song of Solomon
have you ever imagined
the voice of the turtle
how softly she must speak
what kind of quiet,
what collective stillness would
be needed for us to actually
hear
her voice...
could the world cease it's rash spinning,
become unhurried... holding its breath,
leaning towards her,
listening with such intense
interest that there is
nothing but
the breathing of the Holy Spirit
setting a universal cadence through
her song
or...
does she live in another dimension
at a pace so deliberate and
thoughtful that
what we believe to be silence,
is but the space between her
words
each one
thoughtfully pondered
and carefully chosen
does she dance to music that
sings a
melody so lovely, restrained,
and slow,
that to hear her voice we must
reduce our pace
to match her steps
is this the message of solomon's
song?
be still,
be still,
be still
and listen
in the silence
and
the
next
word
will
come...
lean in,
be still,
and listen
There are birds singing
outside my window
I cannot see them
but their song tells me
they are birds,
morning doves in fact
and I know
they are there
muted, softly-hued, and
feathered.
How do I know this is
true?
I know, because I know the
voice of birds,
I have studied their calls,
I have listened in the lavender light of dusk
and have waited in the stillness of the dawn...
I know the dove's song, its
character and syntax,
I know the nature of its sound,
the deep-throated cooing, the tone
the authenticity of message...
no magpie or
mockingbird can
fool me...
I have an ear for birdsongs
and I wait in stillness
for their true voicing...
So when my heart
hears Love's song...
it's tone
strong
sweet
clear
pure
its character consistent
with its Source,
its message carrying within
its coding the
name and nature of
its Author...
I am not confused or
doubtful...
I have studied the voice of
Love...
Love's voice is within me
guiding my heart,
directing my footsteps,
enriching my affections,
filtering my words,
illumining my way...
When I know the character of
the Messenger,
the message is unquestioned.
Because like the morning dove,
Love only sings her
own song...
and I know it by heart...
time sinks behind
the lines of sand like surf foam
with the rising tide...
of now, and
then,
and sometime
when
i wait, and in the
breathing of the sea
I lose myself
in wondering if
now is then,
or now is yet to be.
when it occurs to
ask:
am I not thinking in the
present tense of
conscious thought, right
here and now
and when I imagine
what will be
am I not contemplating
right here,
in this moment
of my living
walking down the
beach today
I watch my footsteps
dissapear behind
me with each
ebb and flow of salt and sea
and
wonder:
did I ever really touched the
the sand over my shoulder,
or was the memory
of what had been only
never more than what I feel, right now, underneath
my
feet,
not dreams remembered, or imaginations
coming
true....
if time is
neither linear, inflexible, or set in stone...
...a taunting or a haunting,
but simply a perspective...one way of managing
a string of mortal measurements, placed
like wooden beads on a long red string,
then let me
lose that thread
and hold the colors in my
hand like a child
building
rainbows out of
wood
or castles out of
sand...
the blade sings a
red wail across
her wrist and "finally..."
she thinks as
she sinks to the tile
floor of a lonely
room,
"...finally, i feel..."
This is all she
wants...
this dark waif with
hollow eyes...
She longs to feel something,
anything
beyond the emptiness,
the blindness of a
sorrow so overwhelming that it seeps from
the cold echo
of her
entombed heart.
She strains to hear
a sound
above the silent
scream that is
lodged in her tight throat...
it aches with the effort
to hold back tears of
anguished
despair
A red wail
escapes her arm and
for too brief a moment,
she hears herself
in
the throbbing,
pulsing
music of her pain.
"oh, blessed pain," she
weeps,
"i am alive,
i feel..."
But sweet
girl,
gentle
boy,
quiet
woman...
longing
soul...
don't you
see that the
very aching
which makes you
hungry for the
blade
is a feeling,
in and of itself....
This hunger to feel...something,
anything...
to be alive to your self,
to expereince even a single moment of
your living
is evidence that
you are not alone,
empty,
dead to the sound of
your own singing...
There is a voice in you
more insistent
than that secret,
silent scream
it says,
"be,
be you...
feel,
feel Me..."
hear this voice
of your
being
feel your
oneness with Her
feel the divinity
within
you...
it is God singing to Herself...
and She never
asks you to
settle
for a single moment of
pain
in order to feel...
She offers you the sword of Truth,
that reaches beyond flesh or blood to
the heart of grace...where
a persistent
peace,
a lasting joy,
an enduring
love...
flows unbidden
feel Her heartbeat,
coursing
within
you....
it pulses with
promise
a kingdom of heaven
a river of love,
a seamless joy
always within...
a crusty loaf of heavy bread
stoneground grains that sift between
his fingers like water through
the locks of a dam....
each ingredient a simple, sacred offering
flour, salt, water, millet, flaxseed, yeast...
a leavened loaf to feed his own family..
the sweet scent of rising dough from
heated stones within the fire's belly
calls to them in a voice that satisfies
but first, they will climb the hill to hear the
message of the teacher..the one they are all talking about...
the one who speaks of love, of giving, of service to
others, of blessing one's neighbor before
one's self, of loving your enemies....
the father's hidden loaf sings from beneath his robe
a scent that promises to fill his children with bread,
but the Master's bread offers something more...
a sense of purpose...a selfless loves that satisfies
the greater hunger...the longing to give, to be generous,
to be something more than they have ever been before...
and when the basket is passed, instead of taking from
the boy's meager fare, each father reaches beneath his robe
and pulls from its hiding place his loaf to share
and this bread of life...the life that is love...
fills the basket
and all are fed...
her sighs come
heavy in the night
she is sleeping, but I cannot
is she hot, or just restless,
dancing in a rainbow tutu on the lip of a rosebud,
running from bears through a starless forest,
or riding carousel horses that have leapt from
their tether.
I kiss her forehead and tell myself that
I am not really testing to see if she is
still warm....i am only kissing her
as I pray
and in my praying I remember that
"there is no fear in Love"
I love her...
of this I am more sure
than any other one thing in the universe
I love her
I am not afraid...
I am not afraid,
I am filled with Love, and
I know that this Love will override
any fear-based action or reaction, and
I will,
I can only make wise choices because of this love
"there is no fear in Love'
and I am
not afraid...
because
I love.
it helps me stay
focused and
clear
Father,
what would Thou
have me to do....
I have no pride,
I have no agenda,
no fear-based will...
I will do the right thing for
her, beause loving her is
always the right thing...
I will make the right call,
give her the right care,
provide her with whatever is right for her...
song,
sermon,
science...
I have no
other mission...only love,
only love...
"and he called her woman
because she was taken
out of man..."
i was not made of bits and
parts
something taken from
someone else
a broken piece of what
was his
I am not a hand me down,
a remnant,
a stolen rib,
a snatched piece of what
he did not
give me of his own free will
if I need strength,
give me my own,
and give it freely to me...Your
daughter.
courage,
integrity,
honor,
i do not want a piece of his,
a portion of what was given someone else,
I want my own...
wholeness
and what of me?
am I not a man who
deserves to be complete?
if womanhood was part of my being
do not take it out of me...
leave me intact...
gentle,
tender,
intuitive,
graceful...
my womanhood is
not a commodity to be traded and
removed
it is my right to be whole-ly whole,
womanhood
and all
let there be no
division of assets
no community property
split in two...
but two natures wedded in
one individual
in each of us...
male and female
...whole and
completely Your child
"and God said,
let us make man in our image
in the image of God,
created He him...male and female
created He them..."
and each were whole.
complete,
undivided
in the
Father-Motherhood
of God
i was filling my
pitcher at the well
Jacob's well...
where we have drawn water
from since the time of times...
since Jacob met Rachel
and fell in love
as a girl I would come here
and remember the
story and hope for my own
jacob
but those were empty dreams
five husbands later
and this last one, not really
my husband...
i returned to the well
for water only
stale dreams bitter with regret on
my tongue the
bile of sorrow in my throat
silly stories,
folktale really...
one true love...a stranger asking
for water,
a girl who has a pitcher,
love that endures betrayal,
love that brings healing,
love that surrenders being best, or first,
love that knows no bounds...
the truest kind of love...
just a tale told by silly girls and
old women at a well...
i am tired of wanting
it all
can't "this" just be enough?
can't it just be a well for
drawing tepid water....
not really a compromise,
a concession...
it doesn't have to be the spring-cool
waters of inspiration and refreshment...
a pitcher for washing dishes
is all I need today...
or even tomorrow
I am only a Samaritan woman
why should I expect more...
oh, but i do
each time I come here,
my heart leaps with hope....
the well speaks to my girlish dreams
of that "one, true Love..."
yet who am I to dream,
a woman with five husbands and this
one...not really....
oh no,
it is a man of Jerusalem
what does he want of
me, a woman of Samaria...
does he expect me to bow and scrape
because he is
one of the "chosen people"
I don't have time for this I
have dishes, and laundry and....
but....
he is a stranger....
this is the well,
could this be the one true
love...
the One true Love...
that Rachel found
with Jacob
in a place
called Peniel...
the promise...
and placing my
pitcher on the table I
run to let them know that the
story of the well is true...
"Come, see a man,
which told me all things that ever I did:
is not this
the Christ?"
My one true Love....
is not this the Christ?
*this poem references John 4, and a statement by Mary Baker Eddy on page 85 of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures.
before she was born I dreamed of
her in pink tulle and toe shoes
but those were my dreams
hers were filled with grass stains and
soccer balls, wrestling puppies and
riding horses...
not in velvet helmets and
jodhpurs, but cowboy boots and
faded jeans.
sometimes we bring our children
forth into a world of fantasy...
of satin ribbons and
shirley temple curls, football jerseys
and ivy league diplomas,
when all they want is to be loved...
to be loved for who they are and what
their own dreams may be...without the soft
lens of our out of focus lives lived
vicariously through their accomplishments
when she was just a toddler, I gave her tutus
and fairy wands, be-ribboned crowns
and princess shoes covered in glitter,
shoes that promised to make all your
dreams come true if only you
clicked your heels and turned round twice...
One afternoon I found her in the garden
turning and clicking...hoping I would stop
dreaming her life away...
the chinese
believe
that there is an
unbreakable
red thread
that connects a
mother
to her child...
across the wide
pacific
beyond the
great wall
a fine thread of
love...
if this is true,
then the universe is
a massive,
intricately strung,
radiant
matrix of red threads
all reaching from
one infinte
Mother God...to
each idea
She
gives birth to...
and it is
a most precisely
designed
and choreographed
dance of
silken
relationships...
never tangled
in jealousy,
never knotted with
fear,
never twisted
or snarled,
possessive or
negligent...
a direct
tenacious
thread
of
love...
from here to
there,
from the infinitesimal
to infinity,
from Her to
each of
us....
and them...
a silken
chrysalis
holding us,
touching us,
stretching
us
forward
like
tendrils of
love into
the immensity of
being...
painting by Duane Kaiser
he is in there,
behind the door he
closed on us
but what does he think he
can do...now
maybe if he'd hurried,
not stopped for that Centurion,
gotten here in time...
but now,
she is gone
he is too late.
we told him, but
he insisted on seeing for himself
and he was
very particular about taking those "others"
in with him
what was he thinking
they don't even
know her
and what of her parents,
why would he put them through
this...
give them hope
but of what...
that she will wake up,
smile,
ask for her cousins,
eat pomegranates and sing to
her father while he works
no it is too much
for them to bear...
she is gone and they need to
be able to mourn
to rend their robes,
to sit shiva,
and to honor her memory...
be cared for,
wept with...
that is their right
but,
what is that...
what is that sound..
that is her laughter
as pure as a bell
as light as air
it is her,
she is laughing
it is true
it is a miracle
we must celebrate,
God has visited us,
praise
the God of Israel...
in the music of her laughter,
our mourning has
turned into dancing...
praise Him.
i tap a mental
toe and
wonder
when will this end...
or start.
when will I finally
realize the
healing,
find the job,
finish the renovation,
be inspired,
understand the message,
discover my
purpose,
see the fruition...
I am poised
perfectly on the
moment
but I'd like to
drop
into the pool,
puddle,
river,
stream...
of
whatever I am
supposed to
do,
be,
have,
understand....
soon.
but
what if
this is it..
what if this moment of
precise poise on
the edge of
a leaf,
a branch,
a canyon's rim,
a moment....
is the very "thing" of
beauty and wonder
I think I am
searching for...
what if hanigng from
the branch
for just a second
is exactly where
i need to
be
in order
for the photographer
to capture something so
lovely it
inspires
a poet to
consider her
place in
the world....
and how to be
content
while
poised on a
moment
what if
I could let go of
my story
what if I could just be
brand new today and not remember
all that human
history that,
I think,
makes me
who I
think I am
what if I understood my
wholeness
without the baggage of
process
the two plus two of
"I am like this...
because I went through
that...."
what if
I am compassionate,
forgiving,
kind,
non-judgmental
because
it is who I am
not what
I have been made to be
by a history
that I think informed
my sentiments
what if I am
creative,
intelligent,
reflective,
inspired,
not because of the
world I have seen,
the books I have read,
or the
sounds I have heard...
what if I were to
forget it all
and
woke up tomorrow
as a me
who has no story,
no trajectory,
no destination...
to show up complete
without
the building
blocks of a linear
experience...
I am whole,
complete,
perfect....
just because...
that's the way He
makes me
new
every morning
brand new
a perfectly innocent,
freeborn
ageless
child
of
God...
*based on a question my husband asked himself this morning.
"my daughter
master,
won't you help my daughter..."
i have come so far to
ask for your
compassion...please
help
her...please
help me.....
"but you are not
of the lost sheep of the
house of Israel
don't you know
that it is
a messiah's role to
save the chosen people
the children of his own tribe
to secure the promised land
to be a nationalistic leader...
you are not one of us
you are an "other"
I cannot help you
I have a mission,
an office,
a part to play in my
people's history, their
legacy, their future....
but,
she asks,
are not even the dogs
deserving of
the crumbs that fall
from the masters
table
and within
a moment's breath
a single beat
of his heart....
he gives up the ghost
of who he
thought he was
destined to be...for
the message
he'd been sent to
deliver
"the kingdom of God is
within you..."
not within the children of
Israel,
the chosen ones,
the ones who know, or think
they know
but within you...
and you
and you
and you
and you
and he knew
he would not be their
messiah...
he would be
her Saviour...
and his
and theirs
and mine....
and when the
greeks and romans
came seeking him at the
feast, he knew he would
have to
give up the
Messiah-ghost
again...
and again...
and again...
in exchange
for the impartial,
and universal
Christ-message
he was
sent to
share,
broadcast,
spread
abroad...
* This poem references a story from the 15th Chapter of Matthew and the 7th Chapter of Mark.
my friend,
susan,
wrote a song...
it is keeping me from
weeping today...
and
it makes me weep...
it starts with:
"When my heart is
lost in sorrow,
and light seems far and dim...
...there's a tender prayer I can
always pray, simply praising
him..."
I am singing this line over, and over
again in my prayers
as I sit here staring
into the
voidless beauty of
silence
it gives me a place to start...
and to finish.
To "simply praise Him..."
It is enough.
My heart is singing:
"Praise the Creator..."
and I am flooded with
memories...
memories
that are as present,
and real,
as my thinking of them...right now.
I can actually re-feel,
re-experience,
be re-moved from the
cacophony of
fear by the
re-calling
of healings that came
tiptoeing in
on the breath of
Spirit --
as gentle as the silken air
of summer...
Of anger..and hatred... that dissolved in
sweet waters of defenseless Love
of disappointments that were
displaced by
the divine reminder that
what He appoints,
He annoints...
and nothing can displace us from
our holy commission
of self-forged chains...
...the shackling heaviness of
fear and doubt...
which always
"fall at Love's all power"
of want supplanted
by
gratitude,
of pride washed clean by
humility,
despair
dislodged by trust....
and of hopes re-anchored in
the calm, still
waters of a Shekinah sea...
Today,
I am "simply praising Him..."
and since
"that's what I am
made to do..."
I can let my tears
flow in
an endless song
of
praise...
over His feet,
through my fingers
a baptism of
praise...and
of redemption...
and of
re-proving
that with Love,
all things are
always
new.
*this poem references the hymn, "Simply Praising Hymn," written by Susan Mack, and recorded by The Solo Committee.
also referenced is Hymn 297 from the Christian Science Hymnal authored by R.B.L.
Come in old man...
He is
gone.
Left
long ago
with his
portion...
I send your meals
to you as
you sit here
waiting...why?
You have a son...
a faithful son,
a good boy,
one who works beside you,
and asks for nothing
Can't you see how
he
waits for your
attention,
a place in your heart...
while you
wait at the end of the road
searching the
horizon
for
some sign of
the errant one.
Let him go.
Let him be a feckless
child...
wasting
his
substance on
wine, and women,
and games of chance in the
town square.
I cannot let him go.
He is
precious in my sight.
He is
a prince...to me..and, I know,
to you.
He is fighting for his
life...
for his right to
live with
passion...and
personal vision.
I know he may have
made mistakes,
but he is trying
to make us
proud of him
by doing it all
himself,
all that
he thinks
we believe
he
could not do without
our help.
We taught him to
trust his heart...
and our God.
Now, we need to trust
our God
and His love for him
completely.
Yes, you are right,
he does not
choose my fields today.
He does not
want to stand beside me
in rows
of
barley
counting
ephah of grain.
But he only asked for
the portion he thought was
his birthright,
and the freedom to
explore his
talents
without
our
oversight,
or his brother
weighing in.
I may not understand
his path,
but
he is still
our son.
He is still the boy
you sang to sleep.
He is still the boy
whose laughter I love to hear
as it dances
in the wind, and swirls around
me as I work...making my
day lighter, and my
heart smile.
He is still our son's
brother.
I
know you,
wait for him,
too.
I see you standing by the well,
shielding your eyes from the
sun,
as you scan the horizon
for a sign.
We can trust
that
the Father of us all
has
a plan,
a reason,
a purpose for him...
is teaching him grand lessons...
humility,
courage,
grace...and will
guide him
safely
home.
I will be watching.
I will be waiting.
I want to hear his story.
I want to
see his face
Hear his voice
Watch him weep in your arms.
Hug his brother.
Share his story....
so others will
not be afraid
to come home.
to be loved,
is to be waited for...
"Not all who wander
are
lost."
"the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien and Nancy Wallace are referenced briefly at the end of this poem.
