Can I even do this?
Can I jump from work to meditation in a heartbeat?
What besides a heartbeat can hold room for meditation?
Yet, it is a challenge to get inside a heartbeat – to hold the moment open.
That infinite, small space; that timeless time; that inward journey toward the universe
It does not bend to my command, and yet it is, somehow, within my reach.
The rain today is a slow drizzle
The kind that sinks gently into your soul
Filling the deep cracks that have yearned for its coming
Drawing the broken pieces whole
As I go about my day
Doing the dailyness; tidying and futzing with the debris of my week
The rain is there, in the background
Filling my holes.
What persistent grace you give
Working its way when I notice, and when I do not
Seeping down between each grain of sand
To firm it up, to allow it to hold its shape
You are the rain of my soul
The filler of my holes
The holder of my tiny fragments of self
The moisture that feeds the dry with hope
The tiny wildflowers that sprout across the pasture in delight of drizzle
Give testament to that persistent grace
And to the seeds of gifts within my frame
That you call forth within the quiet patter of an afternoon.
[photo by jenny downing per cc 2.0]
There was once a tiny flower
Peaking up through a crack in the sidewalk
Seeking both sun and the modicum of soil that such a space provides.
My roots are cramped in this small space.
I am, like all rooted beings, unable to move into the sun.
I must wait its coming, turning toward its grace at the moment of its arrival.
I am planted here by the breath of the wind
That carried my seed to this place and time.
My DNA has opened deep blue petals to the day.
There is little ‘me’ of my own making
But there is this:
The grateful tilt of my heart,
The addition of my blue to the gray of the sidewalk,
And, yes, a bit of nectar for that small bee.
I am glad to rest in grace within this small space and span of life.
I am glad to feel the sun upon my face.
I am glad for the fragrance of your joy, unfurled upon my petals.
I am glad for the whisper of the breeze
And for this small bit of soil that feeds my soul
And holds me tight, in you.
[photo by anastasiaphotography per cc 2.0]
I want to be Rumi or Julian of Norwich.
You want me to be me.
I don’t want to settle.
You smile, thanking me for agreeing with you. Continue reading
Quiet, quiet, quiet
Quiet as a mouse
I am the quietest
One in the house!
Our old patterns sneak back into our lives with unyielding persistence. We can’t keep them quiet. We don’t even see them coming till they are shrieking in our ears and we find ourselves back in the same old conundrums.
Sometimes it seems that when I turn toward you, I must first unclench the muscles of my soul. I must tell my heart to put down its shield, and open, just a bit, to your music.
I suddenly realize that I have been straining to hold the quiet at bay.
Why would I do that?
Is it because I cannot be open without also being at risk? Until I remember that you love me, the risk is far too great.
Every time I turn toward you, it seems I must push aside the dogma of the world – a dogma that pits me against all others, in a fight I’m sure to lose. The messages in the litany of the world are deeply imprinted on my soul. I cannot easily shake them off.
It is as if, in that moment of turning toward you, I cross into another world, another culture, where everything works by different rules. Where things seem upside down, and I have to listen hard to understand even the simplest things.
Yet, even with its strangeness, I am more at home in this space than in the world of my daily existence. My old clothes no longer fit. Nor do my old excuses. Yet, somehow, I do fit. Somehow this is my soul’s true home.
Is that what ‘salvation’ really means: finding my true self, suddenly at home in you?
[photo by Crystian Cruz per cc 2.0]
I push open the door, slowly.
It seems dark inside and quiet, and somehow holy.
I hope that it is holy – for it is You I seek.
My fingers tremble on the frame.
My eyes strain to see, my ears to hear.
All is quiet and dark.
But still … that faint sense of the holy keeps me here.
‘Please come,’ I whisper.
‘Please come.’ I hear in reply. Continue reading
I love the gift of words.
They romp and cavort around reality, giving me a tool to see its form.
They light the crevices and illuminate the vastness of truth, stretching my mind to new horizons.
True words, words of life, bring me closer to the wonder of what is. Continue reading
Quiet Hope 