"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...
"The way is
straight and narrow..."
- Mary Baker Eddy
I come to
You
confused,
uncertain,
pleading,
begging You
trusting You
to
give
me direction,
guidance...
please
put my feet
on the clear
path and
show me
the way,
Your way...
dear Father,
You know
that
when I turn my
heart
in Your direction,
I am not
looking for a
broad path,
a meandering road
with
many options...
all I want
is for
You to help me
do what's
right,
to give me precise
directions,
to point out the
obvious
waymarks,
to carve out
a deep
swath of clarity...
a path free
from
the
wandering,
divergent,
tangential,
circuitous
route of
indecision
and choices...
I want direct,
clear,
straight,
narrow...
the path
you have promised
I trust it,
I count on it,
I lean all
my hopes,
the weight of
my desires,
into You
I am tired
of my wondering,
wandering
ways...
broad,
vague,
and indirect
give me
straight and
narrow,
so I can see
beyond myself
and
find
You...
only You,
and
Your plan
for
me...
"...I will
bring the blind
by a way that they knew not;
I will lead them in paths
that they have not known:
I will make darkness
light before them,
and crooked things straight.
These things will I do unto them,
and not forsake them..."
- Isaiah
"My salvation
draweth nigh..."
to be offered the
promise of
mercy,
forgiveness,
no condemnation...
who am I...
that my God has
made this
promise
to me?
I will tell
you who you
are in
My eyes...
you are My child,
My beloved,
My adored and
delighted in...
you are all the gifts
of life,
and joy,
and purpose
that
I have
washed up
onto the sea of
promise...
you are the brightness of
My rising,
the
first glimmer of pink light
along
the eastern horizon,
the dancing spark
of wonder in
a child's eyes...
you are ten thousand
rings radiating through
an ancient sequoia
each leaf that turns towards the
sun,
roots that plumb the depths of
the earth,
the song of a
lark
who sings a song
without words
and never
stops at all...
you are the shimmer of
light on a wind-rippled pond,
the taste of strawberries in June,
the curl of chimney smoke on a crisp
November
night,
the scent of
apples,
a mother's fingers,
a child's
sigh...
you are
an awakening,
the first moment of knowing,
ripened fruit upon the
vine,
a benediction
a prayer...
"there is
therefore,
now,
no condemnation
to them..."
"Love,
never loses
sight of
loveliness..."
- Mary Baker Eddy
he reminds me
from
his place
above my head
and
behind me
at the mirror
really?
never?
no, never
he
says with
conviction...
but,
I wonder
aloud
not even when
my smile
fades...
and
the
softness of my
words
have
become sharp
with
anxious
fear...
no,
he says...
not even then.
but,
what about
when I
forget to remember
that we
were once young, and
in love
won't
the dog days of
too many bills, and
too little
patience,
have
dimmed
the brightness of
my place in
your heart's
constellation...
no,
not
even
then,
he says.
but,
I will grow
crinkled with
time and
my softer places may
grow softer still,
things could droop
or spot
or fade to
a colorless shade of
something
not
like the me
you
fell in love with...
so...
and i wait
so what,
he says
and then
I
know
I really know
he means it
the way
his
Father
means it
everytime I
go to Him
in prayer...
I know
that the
love I feel
is already
mine...
this love
I learned to
trust
as real,
the first time
I looked into
each of my daughters'
faces...
was
mine too
a gift
of grace...
unearned,
unsought,
unbidden
it comes without
pursuit,
it springs from
places
silent and
sure...
"really..."
I ask,
really
he says
and I believe
him
but to feel it
to really feel it,
shining on the
shadow spattered
landscape of
my human-ness,
to feel it
radiating,
reaching,
penetrating the
dim primeval
places
of
doubt
and uncertainty...
lighting
my life
with loveliness
well,
it
surprised
me,
and,
still
takes my
breath
away....
I feel
like
an angel
something
holy and
sacred
in his
sight...
"...its
halo rests
upon its
object..."
- ibid.
"Each succeeding year
unfolds wisdom,
beauty,
and holiness."
- Mary Baker Eddy
Like the leaves
I am
starting to
change
colors
brown to
white,
pale
to something as
mottled as the
fragile shell of a
woodthrush
held softly
beneath a feathered
breast
like the blossoms
I am beginning to
change texture
from firm,
to delicate
plump-lipped,
to lined and
deckled
all along
each petal's
fine edge
unblighted,
and
still ripe with the
fragrant first kiss of that summer,
long after morning's dew
retreats to
touch the
sun
bright days,
busy with the bustling pace
of earlier seasons --
diaper bags,
snacks for soccer,
the hurried meal before
rehearsals,
give way to
shorter days
and longer nights
filled with
quiet gratitude,
reflection,
remembering...
my steps,
once brisk with
self-determination and
sure intent,
have slowed to
a pace
less driven by
a future I can only,
almost,
grasp
less haunted by a
past I
once ran from
If I spend
countless hours
looking out to sea,
it is because the soft
ebb and flow of
timeless days
soothes me with her
rhythmic reliability,
comforts my
fear of endings
with this
promise,
"there is more,
there is more..,"
my branches
once limber and willowy
are
now
strong from
years of holding on
while they
-- like Isis --
reached for the sun
today,
I'm learning the
gift of
self-compassion
of letting go
without pain,
regret,
or sorrow --
I am ready
to give birth to,
yet,
another season's
colors
the
new
blush
of
another
rose...
"...seedtime
has come
to enrich earth
and enrobe man in righteousness;
may its sober-suited autumn
follow with hues of heaven,
ripened sheaves,
and harvest
songs."
- .ibid
"God is light,
and in Him
is no darkness
at all..."
- I John
I think
of a pitch black
night
a darkness so
impenetrable
that the
I cannot see
my hand
before my face,
no pinprick
of starlight,
no
streetlamp
to distract,
no shadows
to dream by...
now,
i try to
think of light
void of its absence,
a light
without
the any darkness
at all...
and it is
almost
unimaginable...
no shadows to
give
texture,
establish distance,
nearness,
the juxtapositioning of
hierarchy...
who's on first,
who's on second...
all things in the
clear,
Light-saturated,
present-tense,
in the
all
Beingness
of
now...
His
I AM
no foreground of
importance,
nothing falling into
the distance...
I try to
to imagine it
but it is
without precedence
on this
timeline of
past,
present,
future...
this bar graph
of good,
better,
best...
I can only
know...
light without
any
darkness
Love without
any
hesitancy
Health without
any fear
of the unknown
Peace without
any
hidden threat
of
chaos
Trust without
any
lingering
doubts
Giving
without
any
expectation of
receiving...
Light without
any
darkness
at
all...
"...no darkness
at all..."
― ibid.
"As a drop of water,
is one with the ocean..."
- Mary Baker Eddy
If a drop of
water is one with
the ocean...
is it also one
with
the cloud?
and if
one with the cloud,
then what of the
mist,
the dew,
the drenching rain,
the steam that
turns raw
dough into
dumplings for the
evening meal,
hard grains of rice
into a
banquet for
the
starving...
two molecules of
hydrogen
bonded to a single
oxygen
molecule
a family
so
small
that what
we see as
"a drop"
is actually a
tiny collective,
a small
community,
a village of
molecular adoption...
individual
elements
coalescing,
uniting,
converging,
cooperatively
working side-by-side to
feed,
cleanse,
sate,
assuage,
refresh,
buoy,
energize,
lift
a
world...
and when they dance
apart
into
a swirl of
vapor
rising from the
boiling pot,
the steaming bamboo...
in its wake there
is another
meal,
a day without
hunger,
an opportunity to
share...
but, where
is the grief?
what of the drop
of water...
no longer round and
heavy,
wet with promise,
cool on the
tongue...
is it lost into
the ether
failed of remaining
fat and liquid,
formless and
forgotten
does density of
mass
define purpose,
beauty,
life...
no...
the eternal cycles of
Being
rise and fall,
and
fall
and rise,
they
gather,
adopt,
condense,
surrender,
fall,
be,
give,
evaporate,
rise...and yet rise, again
to
gather,
adopt...
become
a single
family of three...
two hydrogen
one oxygen
ceaseless cycles of
opportunity for
shared
good...
yet
always rising,
ever rising
to fall
and rise again
what is unseen
is not lost
just different
a vertical horizon,
a change of perspective,
a journey of
grace
no loss...
never lost
just liquid,
to solid,
to liquid,
to gas,
to vapor,
to liquid....
a beautiful lake,
an inspiring cloud,
refreshing rain,
steam that unlocks the
grain of
rice...
each stage
a gift of Love
rising,
and yet rising,
on the
wings of
eternity
only to
fall
"...Life is eternal,
and love is immortal,
and death is only a horizon --
and the horizon is nothing,
save the limit of our sight..."
― Rossiter W. Raymond
I love this Carly Simon version of Raymond's poem, "Life is Eternal" it has invited me to climb higher so that, perhaps, someday, I can see further.
"There was a time
when men were kind.
When their voices were soft
and their words inviting..."
- Alain Boublil
I have dreams that
are my own,
and dreams I share with
men of vision,
women of
charity,
children who refuse to
give in to the
cynicism of
self.
I've heard their
dreams in
speeches,
seen on them placards,
felt them pounding
under the feet of a million
men
marching for liberty,
dreams I've reached into the
heavy air of
a Washington afternoon
and
grasped so tightly
in heart,
that
my pulse became a
pledge to
never let
go
until we
had overcome...
I've dreamed dreams that
seemed but specters on the horizon of
a thousand fallen hopes,
and dreams that
held the lives of countless in
the balance.
I've fought for the right to
dream of freedom
and wept for the
freedom to dream
I've marched and
rallied,
chanted and sung,
I've prayed for the imprisoned
and wept for the ones who died
never knowing
life without chains...
I dreamed that men from different sides
could build bridges of
kindness towards a common
future,
and that mothers would
never forget to remember
that
for every child we
send to war,
there is another mother whose
son,
or daughter,
faces them
across the
great
divide...
I still dream dreams...
but my dreams are simpler now...
I dream that men will be kinder,
that children will not go hungry,
that women can walk safely on the streets at night,
that all are sheltered,
that when we don't agree,
our words are soft,
and our
hearts are open...
to the power of Love.
for this,
I dream...
"... I dreamed
that love would never die.
I dreamed that God would be forgiving..."
― ibid.
I heard this version of "I Dreamed a Dream" -- as sung by Anne Hathaway in the trailer for the new release of Les Miserable -- and found it heart-breakingly beautiful, and hauntingly lovely.
"Make me a channel
for thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me hold love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope..." - St. Francis Assissi
I've been thinking
about this "channel"
I keep asking you to
make
of
me...
a place where
the river of Your pleasures
can flow without
obstruction...
ahhh,
now I see...
that all Your deep carving --
the honing away
of
pride,
self-certainty,
arrogance,
and me, me, me
thinking --
was part of the plan
to
make me
more
useful to You...
only a channel
can carry
waters deep enough to
buoy a sound vessel
towards the sea,
the Source,
the headwaters of
divinity
only a deep and wide
channel can
hold enough water that
one is cleansed in its broad
arms and
not muddied in the shallows
of self-absorbed
churning...
only a broad
channel can bring the
ferried hopeful
home to
"the other side,"
and
navigate the shoals of
time,
memory,
accomplishment,
regret
without
shattering the
keel
so, make me a channel
of your peace,
a fathomless passageway
for your
Love...
carve out all ego-based
debris
I now know
that
Your deepest cuts
make for purer waters...
I am not asking to be
treated gently,
to be pacified or handled with
lavender kid gloves...
remove the
detritus of self-will,
self-love,
self-preservation...
anything that would
obstruct
the pure,
clear,
refreshing,
transparent
selfless
waters of
You...
carve deeply
for
I have
no other purpose...
I
am
Yours...
"...that I may not
so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned..."
― ibid.
"Nearer,
my God, to Thee,
nearer to Thee.
E'en though it be a cross
that raises me..."
- Sarah Adams
I draw
deeper within
the
silence
to
find your voice
a perfect
stillness
that echoes
peace
more
present
than
breath or
beat
and
in this
fathomless
immanence
I am held so closely to
Your heart...
that
I hear the
roaring chorus of a
thousand
angels
whispering
"all is well"
I feel the arms of
a Father under
whose
wings I have come
to
trust...
Entwined
in this
womb of
promise
I can rest
all my hopes
upon
You
Closer,
and closer yet
I wriggle
and burrow
myself
along the length of
your mercy,
I inch myself
into the
niche that
is mine alone
where Father and
perfect
child share a
blessed unity...
the world is
spinning,
leaders run aimlessly
looking for answers
they
hope will feed the
waiting,
the hopeful...
words fly from
the mouths of men...
but beyond their words,
above their
promises,
deeper than their
opinions and
predictions,
there
lies a Truth
so simple,
a
Love so invariable,
a Principle so
changeless...
The kingdom of
heaven
is within...
within...
each of us...
so infinitely
near
so immanently
dear
so profoundly
still,
and
true...
the unsearchable
You
piercing the
lie of
distance
transcending
the illusion of
separation
so that
we
find
we are One...
and
within,
us
all...
impartially
universally
is the
All-in-allness
of
an
infinite
You
so tender,
so strong,
so deeply
near
to Thee
""The immanent sense of Mind-power
enhances the glory of Mind.
Nearness,
not distance,
lends enchantment to this view."
― M. B. Eddy
"The counsel of the Lord
standeth for ever,
the thoughts of his heart
to all generations....."
- Psalms
when I think
like Him...
when I think
like Love...
when I think with
my heart...
I have noticed
that I
am actually
feeling
the thoughts
and ideas...
there is
a visceral
immanence to
what I know...
sometimes
it is like
a rock lying
on my heart
and I feel the weight of
a thousand
holy
moments of
repentance
and other times
it feels like the fluttering
wings of
a hundred million
butterflies
taking flight
under my breastbone...
and I know
without
a
doubt
that
this
is "of the heart"
and the words that come
are not my own...
I am as surprised by their
color
form
shape
sound
texture...
as I was that
first time
I felt the
shudder of
wonder
as
her infant
fist
moved beneath
my ribs,
and tasted
the savory
wine
of an unbidden
tear
along my
lips
True thoughts
are not "of the head"
but
of the heart
the sanctuary of
Soul
where feelings
take flight
and
become
actions...
oh dear Father
reach deeply into
that space
and
awaken
the
winged
creature
of
Love
that she may flutter
against
my
hope-strings
and
play a
song
You
"God is Mind
and holy thought is sending;
Man, His image, hears His voice.
Every heart may understand His message,
In His kindness may rejoice....."
― A. Rutgers
