"To want
what I have,
and take
what I am
given
with grace..."
- D. Henley
i want no more
than
this...
and
no list
follows
of
this
and that,
if only
thens,
and sometime
whens,
of wants made
needs,
and needs
not
needed...
only wanted.
I want no
more
of that
i've had
enough
i have
enough
so,
this is
what I want:
to want
no more...
to be at peace
with what is on my
empty
plate
grateful
for the plate
itself that
holds
my hope
my prayer
my peace
contentment
to be satisfied with
all that
is,
and nothing
more,
and
nothing less
only
this
"...for
this
I pray"
~ ibid.
[photo by Katariina Fagering 2012]
I had a garden once...
Her lavender bushes
fat with fragrance,
splaying willowy limbs
well-beyond their beds,
spilling
silver leaves and
redolent spikes of periwinkle
along
a meandering
slate
pathway...
where once
extravagant
armloads of
pale pink
roses
threw themselves with
sacrificial abandon
across the
top of our butter
yellow picket fence
trailing long, slender fingers
dripping with
tiny,
perfectly formed
blossoms
towards
the sidewalk
there,
lovers walking
hand -in-hand
would
brush themselves
against her
perfumed lips and
breathe in
a sacred kiss.
I had a garden once,
and
just before
the break of day
morning glories would
uncurl themselves
from sleep
opening
pale purple
throats
to catch each
drop of
dew
that
fell from heart-shaped leaves
to slake
a nightlong thirst
I would join them
on our wide
porch
-- books in hand --
for
my own first
holy communion
with the
dawn
words
weeping from
sacred leaves…
each page
a cup of cold water --
Love's refreshment
my version of
a morning glory's
awakening
danced to the
music of daybreak
One by one…
marigolds,
dusty miller,
sweet peas,
hydrangea
and
hollyhocks
Shake
the stardust from their
petals
and rise to
begin their
daily
pilgrimage across the
sky to
chase the
Sun
from east to
west
their heads
turn
so
slowly
I am reminded
of Tibetan
nuns
on temple pillows
made of
green
silk
By evening
the white garden
is ready to
unfurl her
quiet
elegant
display
of Light
reflecting light
where,
from
beneath the arbor gate
I can find the
delicate
Moonflower,
creamy Campanula,
diaphanous heath aster,
and always
the patient
pale Impatient
waiting all day
for her moment
to shine
Even the hearty
Daisy looks
like
a slip of
lace
against
the blue light of
dusk
I had a garden once
Sweet Peas
and tomatoes
sat side-by-side --
tendrils
reaching for one another
through the
picket fence that
held
our summer's bounty
like a disciple's basket…
dinner for
five,
And more than enough to
share
Rich soil
stained
my fingernails,
Lavender oil
stained
my linen apron,
Beads of
perspiration
stained my nightgown
when
weeding
came before
breakfast,
and by noon
small streams
salty sweat and tears
carved pale paths
down
dusty sun-kissed shoulders
and along
a back bent with
purpose
I had a garden once
where the bees
were
colleagues...
and we
waged a
miniature war
with aphids and potato mites,
small greedy
grasshoppers
who thought
my garden
was
a banquet,
a feast,
a table of plenty
I had a garden once
that
filled my heart
with color,
and with beauty,
and
oh, so many firsts
First crop of perennials in their
second season,
First warm tomato
fresh from a vines
I'd seen spring from seeds
pushed into the dark earth by my daughters
tiny fingers,
First bundle of lavender harvested
from
plants I'd cultivated
from the cuttings
she'd passed like precious
antiquities
across our shared
back fence...
First summer spent weeding before
swimming,
First race into the
night air --temperatures falling
quickly,
frost threatening
and
the fruit still warm on the vine...
First sweet-scented
steam from
canning in my own kitchen…
First garden with
my daughter...
I returned in secret
one summer...
long after
we had moved on
to other gardens,
other arbors and
picket fences...
trailing roses
I could barely find her…
but she was there
I had planted her well
and deep
I searched for
the evidence of
out courtship...
and
hidden
were
dry, hard,
darkened
rosehips
formed at the
fingertips of
once supple vines on the
other side of
a peeling picket fence
still,
but only just,
butter yellow
a fence so loved
that a child
spent her
summers nestled against
its ribs
beside her
best friend
sequestered
in
the far corner of the garden
where their worlds
of magic and wonder
met and
the roots of
an old cottonwood
made
natural
earth slings for
them to read in.
I wandered through
the tangled briars,
where neglect and
abandonment screamed I
had left her unprotected
there alone
but
she'd survived
Lavender spires,
deep blue and
fragrant,
sprang from the
out-stretched tips of
scraggly, tired gray-green
crones leaning
frail and un-anchored
along the peeling clapboards
above the crumbling stone foundation
and reaching just beyond the
porch's broken lattice
I dared to
walk back
and forth in
front of the trellised gate --
now free from the weight
of antique roses and
English Ivy --
searching for the
scent of
hyacinth I
knew lived
buried
just beneath
the dusty,
littered,
thirsty soil at
the
sidewalk's edge
I keened
my ears
for the sound
of butterfly wings
hovering over
hollycocks that
once leaned against the
wall of the garden shed
profuse in pinks and
reds and
whites that
shimmered in the
hazy velvet darkness of a
midsummer's twilight
I ached to feel
the rich black soil I
knew was waiting
just inside the
garden gate
where heirloom
tomatoes once
dripped their
rare seeds
at summer's zenith
I had a
garden once
she wrapped herself around a little
yellow cottage with
a wide front porch
where I would rock my
daughter to sleep on
summer evenings that buzzed with
Cicadids,
hummed with
tree frogs, and sparkled with
fireflies
singing lullabies about
a moon that saw us,
and the mother we couldn't
see, who
sat under an African sun
I had a garden once
and now I
see what lays beneath the soil but
was invisible to others
I
walked away
clutching a fistful of
her deep
brown
earth
soil stolen from
just inside the
garden gate
filled with
heirloom seeds
and memories of
summers redolent
with a toddler princess and
a mommy whose dreams had come true,
dreams of a child
a cottage,
a garden, and
a chocolate dog with
deep brown eyes
on a wide porch
dripping morning glories
before dawn.
I had a garden
once...
she lives in me
still
"I am
poured out
like water;
my bones are out of joint:
my heart
is like wax"
~David
in the heat of
His love
ice melts from the
brittle edges of my cold, hard
heart --
sharp with regret,
remorse,
despair...
pride drips like water
off the places where I thought I was the king,
the master of my own universe,
chosen before my birth,
privilege and impropriety
seemed
the salary of a bygone courage,
crowned by prophet,
opposed by none...
like an icicle at midday
it drips with
questions...
what was I thinking,
why,
why,
why...
but here I stand
soul-shattered and weak in the knees,
collapsed before Him
begging for a mercy
not deserved...and
yet, neither was the crown
I wore with early honor
But it is in His arms I have
learned to be a
father,
not how to be a king
I have discovered that He is not a divine
employer --
meting out a salary
earned,
a bonus negotiated,
the promised reward,
perks for a "job well done"
but a Father who loves me
all He desires
is my heart...and my heart alone.
A softened heart...
melted
first,
in the the furnace of my own
stoking,
then tempered
made flawless
by the heat of His persistent mercy
till what remains is
an unearned
unwarranted,
undeserved
grace.
New in His eyes,
and yours.
My son, my son...
He has not forsaken me
His son...
He has taught me
well...
so that you
may be
His servant...
an
understanding king.
"the substance
of a diligent man
is precious..."
~ Solomon (his son)
"When the words stop,
and you can endure
the silence
that
reveals your heart's pain
of emptiness,
or that great wrenching-sweet longing,
then,
that is the time to..."
~Hafiz
the words
have stopped
and in their absence,
I feel frantic for their return.
I remember
when our daughter thought she
was old enough to
say "no"
she thought she could
run away
to her house of
sticks and branches
in
the back yard,
eat
marshmallows
for breakfast,
stay up until the stars fell asleep,
and
wear her pajamas
to school...
backpack
filled with crayons and
a party dress,
she straightened her
shoulders,
tossed her ponytail
and let the
screen door
slam
for punctuation
I wondered if the
silence of
twilight
would bring her
home to me...
but it didn't
I wondered if the rustle of
leaves,
the caw of a crow,
the soft mewing of the
neighbor's cat
would
pull her towards me...
but it didn't
I wondered if
the scent of cinnamon and
sage,
apple cider and
smoke curling from the
gently tilting
chimney would
call her to the
soft light of home --
like a
moth to a
candle...
but it didn't
finally
it called me
to her...
and there she sat
in the dusky silence
eyes closed,
stroking
a small blue feather
between her fingers
"hi mommy,"
she said.
"do you think
bluebirds are invisible
in the almost light
of dinnertime?"
sometimes the
questions of the heart,
silence
the call of
things...
"When the
words stop...
then,
that is the time to try
and listen
to what the Beloved's eyes
most want
to
say."
~ibid.
this is
the
gentle season...
this is the time of
year when something soft
and liquid
whispers through
the downy promise of
this late november twilight
as it waits
in hushed silence
like
a hopeful novitiate
motionless in
prayer
this is a tender time...
the hour
just before
dawn,
a single heartbeat of
a day
shattering the sky with
a hue so innocent
a soft blush
of innocence
that is but a mirror to
the morning
this is a fragile moment...
it sits
in balance on a blade of
prairie grass,
standing on tiptoe
at the edge of tomorrow,
holding its breath,
waiting for
the breeze of yesterday to
move all regret
past the
empty waiting of today
this is sweet immanence...
a touch so infinitely
near,
a whispered
caress
as still as the silence of a hare
just beyond the clearing...
a spectral stroke of divinity
felt
only
in the space
between
heartbeats,
the
magic
season when the
dream
becomes
her
truth...
