I find myself opening a drawer full of long neglected junk: some trash, some treasure, some pencil numbs and safety pins – small items tucked away instead of cleaned or organized, lost to usefulness by neglect.
This is my soul, oh Holy One, and I am tired of the mess.
Sigh.
Good morning, God.
Sigh.
Too long away,
Too long distracted,
Too little umph.
[photo “Ragged Coneflower 01” by Al per cc 2.0.]
All the elephants plod along, trunk upon tail, slowly flapping their ears – until – somewhere a goad sets them off. Some ill-mannered driver lets her own angst and anger push the prod too hard. It wakes the elephant, who releases the tail in front of her and trumpets her frustration, suddenly waking to the silliness of it all.
Who said that silly driver is worth listening to? Why should her anger determine the course of the elephants? Why do her desires rule? Continue reading
//
//
[The beating of my heart
lub-dub; lub-dub
pulls forth my words.]
Big pit
No hope
No strength
No joy
My fault
Again
I cry
And wait
For you
The first breath of this new day eases out before I wake – grace dusts my pillow.
[photo ‘ana’ by Paulo Magalhães per cc 2.0]
I step over a fallen log as I make my way across the meadow. It is nestled beside a giant oak near the top of a hill and provides a quiet place to rest a bit.
As I sit down, a small brown stone catches my eye and I pick it up. It sits in my palm like a little leaden weight, pressing down – solid, sure, real. I roll it around in my fingers and move it from hand to hand, feeling its substance. Continue reading
Why do I play by the edge of this cliff?
It’s surely a dangerous thing to do …
But, there is really no other place to play.
The question is not danger or no.
It’s play or no.
And sometimes, you just have to play.
Besides, the cliff is beautiful.
You are my cliff, aren’t you?
And you call my heart to play,
knowing the risk – inviting it –
For that is where I fall into love.
And you catch me, whatever else occurs.
It’s not about finding safety.
It’s about finding you . . . and me.
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Thumbing through my photographs,
I stumble upon a sunrise.
Its golden glow of hope
rises again within my heart.
Or was it, perhaps, a sunset?
Same golden glow –
but where’s the hope?
The tenor of my heart is changed.
You read me, don’t you, Holy One?
You see my hopes
You feel my fear
You know the quick intake of breath that opens up my heart.
The thing is …
When you read aloud, as you sometimes do,
I hear the story, new.
It is as if I meet myself
Within those spoken words.
And – this is the mystery –
I like what I hear.
My story held in the timber of your voice,
Turns beautiful.
Amazing.
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Quiet Hope 