I need some
quiet...
the kind of
silence
that
penetrates
deep
beneath the
self
beneath
the one you see,
beyond
the one
that
screams and claws
for
a voice,
attention,
recognition...
I need to put her
in time out
to edge her into the
penumbral shadows of
a softer light,
to gently hold
her there,
and
not give in...
because the
true me,
the me that knows there
is no
real answer
but the
one that comes
from within...
from within
the
silence of a silent
heart....
needs...
not wants,
wishes for,
imagines,
or hopes...but needs
to be quiet
needs to
cast off from
the
familiarity of
her own
"voice"
and drift into
the middle,
the core,
the center of
her stillness...
she needs to
be quiet...
really,
really
quiet...
sshh....
you can do this...
"seek My face.
continually..."
- God
but who are You?
I just need to know...
really,
who are You...
to me?
here in this
moment, where
i feel so
small and human,
so pushed around by
the ego's
taunting,
who are You?
how will I know You,
where should i find You,
what does Your face look like?
just tell me, and I will
never sleep
I will spend every moment,
of every day
seeking You,
celebrating You,
calling attention to You -
Your power,
Your beauty,
Your glory...
but where?
where are You...
my dear child:
I am first,
and foremost,
within your good heart...
the place where you
question your motives,
step right over your fears to
help a stranger,
leap at the call of Love to
chart a new course...
My face is his face, and
her face,
and the face of those you have
yet to meet...
The child who sits quietly
with one
who no longer remembers where
she lives, or what year it is...
only that she loves the sea, and
wants fresh, warm blueberries for
dinner.
My face is the face of
a father who tosses newspapers from the
window of an old station wagon
before dawn,
before going in to work at his "real job,"
so that his children
have shoes,
and his wife can
meet them
at the
door at the end of
the school day
My face is in the
face of the water,
at the edge of the Ganges River
where thousands
gather to pray,
to wash saris,
to bathe their babes amidst the
ashes of saints
and the
hopes for their
children...
My face is in the face of
the murderer,
a prostititute,
the poor and the weary,
the rich and the
disillusioned....
all those
who hope to find
in your face,
My face...
the face
of
mercy,
the face of
forgiveness...
eyes full
of compassion
the
tenderness that
comes,
of
grace...
today...
"I am,
that I am..."
― God
"I want nothing,
I long for nothing,
I hum gently
the sounds of childhood..."
- H. Hesse
there was a time...
before we
rushed to
close our windows
to the sweltering
heat
of dog day
afternoons...
a time
when summer
had a
sound...
you could hear the
end of spring
as clearly
as
the call of a loon
or the
voice of
angels
on night of
a Savior's
birth...
there was a time when
summer was
noisy with the
thwack of a screen door
and the laughter of
children punctuating the easy
staccato
rhythm of
a lawn sprinkler
cycling back and forth
across the back
yard
just beyond the
kitchen
window
where mother
stood
listening
for the
first "i'm hungry"
from the lips of
grass-stained
babes
ready for
an
afternoon
nap
summer sounded like
the whirr of an oscillating fan,
the tinkle of ice cubes
melting in a
tall glass of sweet tea,
the soft whisper of
a butterfly's
wings against
the petals
of a
rose
evenings were
rich with a sound as
heavy as honey
falling from the comb
and as
gentle as the breathing of a
younger
child in the
arms of her sister
stretched out lazily
on the old porch swing,
while
the little boys
chased fireflies
under the
sliver of moonlight,
living lightning
that bumped against the
glass of a
mason jars,
till
dawn
breaks like
silence
in the
east...
remember when
summer had a sound
and windows were
open to the
buzzing of flies,
the hum of a lawn mower,
the song of whippoorwills,
and the lapping of
water against
a wooden sailboat
as it bumped into the
weathered dock at the
water's edge...
remember
when summer
had
a
sound that
softened the
lines between morning and
evening and
sweetened our memories
with the
music of yesterday...
today...
To think nothing,
to know nothing,
only to breathe,
only to feel...”
― H. Hesse
"Tell me,
what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
- M. Oliver
so where
will you go
when you have this
imagined
freedom,
those elusive resources,
that opportunity...
the
"if only..."
whatever
you believe
you
have been
waiting for?
who do
you think you
will be?
where will you go...
what spot
on the
map of your
dreaming
will you
be free to
slip
away
to?
will it be the place you have
imagined
for so long...
so long
that the once-freshly painted
and squarely-hung shutters are
dripping from the
peeling clapboards,
and
the porch
steps sagging against the
crumbling foundation of
your
dreams
where will you go,
and who
will you be
once
you
get
"there"
and
with
all your
wishing,
your getting,
your
finally...at lasts
will
you have
lost the ones
who could
have joined you in the dance...
will they
have
left the room
while you
stared out the window
gazing into the far off
distance
of "someday when"
would they still be
with you,
if only you
hadn't been
hiding behind the gray
veil of
your wanting,
the dark clouds of
your despair over
what you did not
get to be,
where you did not get to live,
who you think
did
not love
you
quite
enough,
when
"if only"
occupies more space
than the
children you
could
have played with,
the sunrises you would have
greeted,
the laughter you
might have
shared...
where will you be when this freedom
finally comes?
will you
be wishing
you could
return to that
time
before
regret
return
to bygone days
when your
babies' hands were pudgy, and
sticky with
the sweetness of
summer days,
and popsicles
dripping from
soft,
dimpled elbows,
pink cheeks stained with
the sun's kisses...
will
you wish you could
return to
the nights when
dreaming
wasn't an escape from
what you
thought you did not
have...
perhaps it
is time to ask
a different
question:
what will you do with
the freedom
you
have
to
live
fully,
today...
"“I wish
I could freeze this moment,
right here,
right now,
and live in it forever.”
― S. Collins
“Disturb us, Lord,
to dare more boldly,
to venture on wider seas,
where storms will show Your mastery,
where losing sight of land,
we shall find the stars. ..."
-F. Drake
I thought I
was making
headway in the
vastness of
it all
when a wave of
sorrow,
a swell of doubt
broke over
the bow of my
calm
and threatened to capsize
my peace...
but I am
a salt-soaked
wayfarer
on this roiling ocean
I call
my life
I am a woman with
sea-legs,
ready to adapt
to the
shifting
angles and
slippery security
of a
creative life,
a day of wonder,
a moment's
pause to capture
serenity at
the expense of
knowing how deep the keel,
or just where the
next
harbor lies...
I am a sea child,
a mermaid,
a sun-leathered
wind-whipped
siren of the deep...
my eyes have
taken on the color of
a slice sky between the cracking sheets...
the shade of blue,
and slate,
and something deeper than
the night...the color of the sea
just before
a nor'easter sends
curtains of
rain
sideways
into
the face of uncertainty,
and I roar with
pleasure,
as saltwater
pools in the creases of
my oilskins
and I stare into the
eyes of
Neptune's
fury
off the bow...
i will bow only to
the One who
holds the tiller of
my life
I will take
orders only from the
Captain of
my
days
I will navigate this
storm at
His command,
listening only
for His
voice
rising above
the shrieking voices
of
despair....
I am a sea-worthy
vessel,
a captain's daughter,
a fearless
mate,
a girl who
roars in
the face of
fear,
a child
who's kisses taste of salt
and sun,
a woman who tightens the
halyards
with
eager
hands...
"Oh Captain,
my Captain..."
- W. Whitman
“Nothing could have prepared
your heart to open like this...
Once it began,
you were no longer your own.
Never
have you traveled
farther inward..."
- J. O'Donohue
my mother likes to
type everything in
all
CAPS
she is the queen of
mixed metaphors and
double entendres
she can be infuriating,
endearing,
complex,
subtle, and
silly...all-at-once
she is funny, but
not because she tries to be...
but just because
she is
my mother can
arrange
a toddler-gathered,
fist-weary
bouquet of
weeds and wildflowers
into something
a bride would
love to
carry
and she never
remembers
that I
am not the
last name in the
list of eight
she chose
so carefully
as each of
us were
a
promise
waiting
to
be seen...
my mother loves the color blue...but
only the "right" shades
of blue...
the ones that
remind you of the ocean,
sea glass,
storm clouds over
the mountains in Colorado,
a deep lake,
bottles dug from the ancient dust and
red rocks of a ghost town,
Antero-mined
aquamarines...
a baby's eyes
my mother
is too embarrassed to
sing out loud
in public,
because she never noticed
that her voice
was always our favorite sound...
my mother
likes pickle and peanut butter
sandwiches,
strong English tea,
and anything
made of
mud,
sprinkled with
grass, and
served
on
child-sized plates
by our
"own two hands"
my mother
covers her mouth
when she
smiles,
crosses her arms
across her
chest,
and deflects
compliments with the
stealth of
a
navy seal...
my mother
is peculiarly,
oddly,
strangely,
so
like
me....
except for the
peanut butter and pickles...
and the
CAPS...
"In search
of my mother's garden,
I found my own..."
- Alice Walker
[photos: Lila June Jones 2012 and 2008]
“Did you ever
walk through a room
that's packed with people,
and feel so lonely
you can hardly take
the
next
step?”
- J. P.
she was
small and
frail...
like a baby bird with
tufts instead of
feathers,
the new girl in the class,
her dress spotless,
crisply ironed
with the scent of
scorched cotton
softly lingering
like
perfume...
her shoes polished,
but sole-weary
the rest of the class
had gone
to recess
and she'd remained
hanging back
blindly searching for a
thin coat with frayed
cuffs,
mis-matched buttons,
and a worn collar...
"miss..."
she whispered
as I gathered my things
and dreamed of
the few moments of
quiet I'd now
have...
"miss..."
was all she could get out
before tears as
hot and
heavy as honey
pooled above
her lashes
"i am that girl,
the one in the book,
the one
who has no friends..."
she barely
lisped before
wracking sobs
shook her thin shoulders and
she slipped
within herself again...
i silently crossed
the room...
as
both the teacher,
and
the once-upon-a-time
new girl
who
was never "there"
long enough to
make a
friend...
I slid to the floor
beside her,
and let us cry
a bit...
then we played
chess...
while I
gave thanks,
that
i understood,
and
and
didn't say
I did..
“I wish I could show you
when you are lonely
or in darkness
the astonishing light
of your own being.”
― Hafiz
"My heart is capable of every form:
a pasture for gazelles,
a monastery for monks,
an abode for idols,
and a holy shrine for pilgrims.
In my heart,
both the tablets of the Torah,
and the Holy Qur'an are to be found.
My faith and religion is Love...
wherever it beckons me,
I follow."
- ibn al-'Arabi
i bow myself to
the ground where
his
dust-caked feet,
walked
between villages
his tender fingers,
wrote a blessing
his
hot tears,
fell in
"silent benediction"
i lift my hands
to the heavens where
clouds dance and
shift
along a soft
horizon,
rain peppers a blue canvas
with the translucent
tears of
angels
and
the air sounds like
a sacred sigh
exhaled in
child pose...
I stretch my arm
and bend my heart,
twist myself
into an underlying,
overlying,
and encompassing
spiral of
surrender...
and still I long to
know
my shape,
find my purpose,
reach my potential,
discover my voice...
when all along
I am a
pasture for
gazelle
and a temple
for the
holy
ghost...
"There are
hundreds of ways
to kneel,
and kiss the ground..."
― Rumi
"Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt...
that I had a beehive here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs and sweet honey
from my old failures...."
- A. Machado
there is a constant
humming
a thrumming,
a strumming
i feel
within me
it is
Life asserting itself
reminding me
that I am never
in stasis,
never on hold,
always animated by
a divine
resonance
as true to my tuning
as the
sound of a
queen's
calling to
the body of her colony...
it is a droning
a rhythm
a collective pulsing of
purpose,
vision,
art...
the drumming
that
moves
me involuntarily
towards
the steps of
a dance,
the words of a
song,
the lines of a
poem...
the voicing of
grace...
poised
for a bee dance
within
"Last night as I slept,
I dreamt...
that it was God I had
here inside my heart..."
― A. Machado
“In the beginning, God..."
― Genesis
how many times
do I
need to begin...
once a lifetime?
once a day?
once every morning?
or
do I need to
begin
again,
and again,
each time
the mist of self rises
from
the dust another
story
and
I am confused about
what role to play,
who to be,
whom to trust,
and
why...
why my Father,
who
I know
loves me,
and has all the power
in the universe....
would ever
create good and evil
and then
leave me to my
own
devices...
it doesn't make
sense
i know...
I have children
and I love them,
and
I would never put good and evil
in front of them
and then turn my back and
leave them to decide...
and neither does He...
it is a lie
and
it isn't a lie about a truth,
or a truth about a lie
it is just a lie...
period.
so,
I start
again,
at the beginning...
over,
and over
and over
again...
I start
where
there is only God...
and
at the end of
each activity,
at the close of each
thought,
at the summation of
each argument,
at the conclusion
of each
story....
there is
nothing else
only
God...
and
every thing in
the middle
is a story
where,
if do it right
and
start correctly,
I will
end correctly
in his story...
He's always,
the
main
character,
the
protagonist,
the
Hero...
shattering the
darkness,
like dawn breaking through
the mist...
a story
that starts
and
ends
and always
starts again,
with Him
in this story there is
no other might...
possibility
or power
there is nothing else
that might
happen
only Him
always Him...
"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
I need some
