The wind chimes
Hang outside my window
And when the breeze is low
I can barely hear them.
My ears are deaf
But my heart is held
By their quiet, soft, round tone.
They melt into that hollow.
Before the world begins its clamor
And the responsibilities click in place
I am held by unspoken beauty.
Even at noon
When the wind is still
And the chimes hang limp
The beauty of hope remains.
And in the evening
When the cool and breeze return
My heart is reminded.
I find I am held, still.
Praise to God, to God, to God
Praise to God, my soul!
I can wiggle my toes into the edges of the ocean,
but never plumb its depths.
I can tickle the skirt of the sky,
and let it wrap me round
and let it enter in at every breath,
but even imagination cannot examine its bounds.
I can lean me back in your love,
and wake my soul to ever-new delights,
but it is more, is more, is more
than I can grasp.
Instead, it grasps me
and holds me
and stirs me to praise.
The edges of wonder dust my days.
and in the praising, stretch my soul
to gather wonder’s dust in sheer delight of you.
9 29 11
[photo is my own]
Thank you for the morning quiet.
Thank you for a fuzzy robe, pulled round my frame.
Thank you for a cup of coffee, warm inside me.
Thank you for a long deep breath.
Thank you for the words that rise in my heart when I am quiet.
Thank you for the words of others that stir my thoughts and tilt my soul.
Thank you for plants that grow, for life that sings.
Thank you for beauty, and for beauty’s call to my heart.
Thank you for your abundant grace, for your quiet peace.
Thank you, O Holy One,
For pulling the world into your embrace each morning,
For calling the future to a new awakening in you.
Quicken my soul.
Energize my work.
Let me be a conduit of grace into this day.
Thank you, Holy One.
[photo by Kristina Alexanderson per cc 2.0]
The single and true purpose of mature religion is to allow you to experience your True Self–who you are in God and who God is in you–and to live a generous life from that Infinite Source. If religion does not do this, it is junk religion. – Richard Rohr
The seed of my very being
Is your infinite heart.
I want to watch the seedling break the soil
And unfurl its tiny leaves to the sun.
I want to feel the itch of growth within me.
I want to hold the dew drop of grace
That gathers, slowly, in the fold of green
And then, with growing fullness,
Quivers at the edge of hope
And falls into your waiting joy.
Praise to the Lord
whose specialty is
a lame man’s legs,
and a basket lunch.
I think I can find hope
in such a One.
[Reflections on Luke 1:46, ‘Mary’s song. Image cropped from photo by Steve Cadman per cc 2.0]
The Holy One has need of nothing,
Not even me.
(No great surprise to anyone but me.)
Yet . . . the Holy One desires my love.
It isn’t needed.
It adds nothing to that Holy fullness.
Yet, She yearns for my gift of love.
And when I give it,
And sometimes I do,
I am more.
This dance always seems so unfamiliar
until the very end,
when I know
that I have danced it always.
[photo by Julie Pimentel per cc 2.0]
I gather myself for a moment’s centering.
I wait upon the edge of quiet
Letting my soul seep in.
Each breath draws in.
Each breath empties out.
The quiet deepens.
I release my fluttering thoughts into the void.
I refuse to ride my thoughts away.
I let them go, without me
And am surprised to see that I remain.
They do not hold the deepest me.
I do not know why that is a surprise
But I smile as I snuggle down into your lap.
I rest my heart upon your whisper
And turn my cheek to your caress.
Your lullaby is a wordless melody
Sung in the quiet forever
Only audible in stillness
But ever there.
I rouse myself enough to wonder
If my bliss seems boring to the more adventurous souls.
You croon and hold me close
And my heart beats with excitement.
This quiet moment is, indeed, but foreplay …
[the photo is my own]