About celia

I write because I love the windows created by words. I write as a way to think, to share, to connect. I write to test ideas and to clear my mind. I write in response to the small "i am" that echoes the greater "I AM."

new

beautiful day.jpg

it’s not the turning of a clock
but the turning of my heart
that makes for a new year

some days are just one more
of the days that went before
until I stop to notice

so, this year
is less about resolutions to break
and more about attention and appreciation

the nice thing about this frame
is that as soon as I remember my intention
it’s already accomplished

What a delight
to face the new year
without anticipated guilt

I’m smiling when write ’19’

[photo by jesuscm_Huawei P20 series per cc 2.0]

in the image

mirror image

I keep trying to make you in my image:
Liking what I like,
Rejecting what I reject …

But then I remember that I got it backwards, again.
You ask me to love what you love
Leaving your fingerprints on all I touch.
Becoming a small aperture of grace.

Open me to this possibility – that you might
Live through me, in this small corner of the new reality,
Giving light to my light; life to my life.

[image by John&Fish per cc 2.0]

deep wood

dark wood

I am in a dark wood, trying to find my way. All the trees look the same. What seems to be a path will disappear in a tangle of brush after just a few steps. The moon has not come up. The sounds of the night wear a menacing edge.

I try to keep from panicking. I tell myself to breathe. How did I get here? How can I find my way home? It is as if I suddenly came to consciousness in this place. It seems I’ve been here quite a while, but unaware. Which means, unfortunately, that I can’t retrace my steps.

There is no visible threat, but my heart is beating in my ears. I can hardly think. I’ve heard the stories of terror and all of them are breathing down my neck at once. My imagination fuels my fear.

As I cast to the right and to the left, I see the dark form of a large tree. I make my way there and, circling the bulk, I push aside a low branch, and crawl inside the canopy. I find a place where there is a bit of room and I lean myself against the trunk.

With my back to the tree and a large branch on either side, I feel my panic begin to subside. Here, at least for a moment, I can breathe and take stock of my surroundings. Here, cuddled up against the bulk of the tree, I release my frantic wanderings and whisper a prayer.

Then, to my surprise, I begin to notice other things. I feel the slightest breeze and it carries the scent of pine upon its breath. I notice that the ground beneath me is covered with a blanket of pine needles, softening its surface. The branches on either side are full of life, earning their monicker of ever-green. I raise my eyes to see the stars through the highest branches, punctuating the night sky with hope.

The moon sneaks out from behind a cloud. It had been there all along. It’s face wears a craggy smile as it sends its shimmering light upon the grasses down the hill. Turns out, this tree is at the edge of a clearing. From it, I watch a cautious doe lead her fawn out into the open space. She lifts her head at a sharp sound and sniffs the air. Then she resumes her grazing.

The wood is full of undeniable danger, but it is also filled with beauty. Now my prayer has turned from desperation to gratitude. For a moment I am in a wood that is deep with wonder. It is the same wood – mysterious, and whispering grace.

 

[photo by ShinyPhotoScotland per cc 2.0]

Anticipatory Gratitude

thanksgiving dinner.jpg

Looking forward to giving thanks.
It is an interesting exercise.
It holds blessings
And hidden challenges.

There is a grace in preparing food
In anticipating the laughter and hugs
In remembering the favorite delicacies
And simple dishes of past years.

Making the cookies that grandma made;
Fixing the ‘right’ dressing
Or the green bean casserole
These are all are a kind of sacrament.

They honor family
And weave a tapestry of memory
And help to keep the place at the table
For those who no longer attend.

But we must remember
In the remembering
To actually be at the meal
With those who actually come.

There is no confection,
There is no perfection
(Even if perfection were possible)
That is better than presence.

So, I pray that I will remember
To attend to the family
More than the meal.
To let the mess become a miracle.

For that is the way of grace.

[photo by terren in Virginia per cc 2.0]

lost

a lost compass.jpg

Where did I put myself?
Surely, if I run around
Peeking under every thought or action
Second guessing every move,
Surely, I will uncover my true self.

But, no,
Instead, the empty box remains empty.
All the busyness is just a desperate attempt
To fill the void and distract the mind.
There is still no substance, there.

The more I fuss and fuddle
The more I do and do
The more I hide behind the masks of effort
The less my heart is sure
The less my soul is true.

So, finally, I fall exhausted in a heap.
Relieved, at least, there is a me to fall.
(At least, I think so … let me look.)
Have I managed to erase myself
Instead of just hiding my mistakes?

The perfect me is a fiction.
Even the efforts to be a better me
Fall useless to the ground.
Only this befuddled, messy me is left.
Yet, turns out, that is the me you love.

It is the real me
The one I keep losing under the mess
The one that I try to deny or fix
That is the one you hold within your heart.
And in that holding I am made whole.

Thank you.
Thank you.
If you love me
Maybe I can love me, too.
And then true transformation can begin.

[photo by Observe The Banana per cc 2.0]