My hands are dirty
My heart is muddled
My gift, impure.
And yet …
My space within the world could use a little kindness,
And so, I give my broken offering.
Not perfect, but still a contribution.
My piece, with yours.
Evoking more.
The space between us,
Bridged with light.
[photo by Leonie per cc 2.0, with a nod to Lenard Cohen]
So, here is my quandary:
I want to come to you in honest embrace,
But honesty is so hard.
My nakedness is far too embarrassing.
Yet only naked honesty is worthy of your time … or mine.
It is not your mask I desire, but your dear face.
And your touch, not upon a fancied-up painting of myself,
But on my very soul.
I cannot send a proxy to encounter you.
I must come, myself.
And that is my deepest hope and greatest fear.
If I really come, will you embrace?
If you were to turn aside, my soul would die.
Yet, if I do not come … I’ll starve.
Holy one, you can see the mess I’m in.
What shall I do?
Shhh, my little one. Shhh.
I can see the mess, it’s true.
But I have embraced your naked soul from the moment I called it forth.
Never has it left my loving gaze.
Never have I turned away.
Never have I felt disgust or even mild disdain,
For you are precious to me.
Sometimes, though, I must admit, the silly costumes you try on
Can make me shake my head in wonder.
Know this – though the world may object –
You are my creation and bear the imprint of my love.
Relax in my embrace, and even the things within yourself that make you cringe,
Even those … can be redeemed, renewed, and reconciled.
All, all, all can grow luminous in my love –
And in that light, all will seem as a gift.
I do love you.
You, you, very you, I do love.
My love is the very essence of who I am –
the ground of your own creation –
and the undeniable reality of our every encounter.
It cannot be otherwise.
8 21 13
I stand on the hill beside the oak, arms across my chest, a little cocky. I warn myself to be careful about cockiness but I feel good – not defeated, not tired, not discouraged: good. I am ready for the day, pleased to be alive. That’s a surprise – no dread, no sigh. My head is buzzing from this feeling and it is strange enough that I feel wary about it. I drop my hands to my sides and stride off toward the well.
As I approach, my heart, still singing a light tune, feels the sense of awe in the amphitheater, and welcomes it. Awe and confidence at once. I come and seat myself quietly on one of the stone benches that surround the well. I watch the congregation gather. Angels, apostles, even animals come forward and find a place around the well. Everyone is quiet but there is a unsung song of joy on the hearts and faces of the crowd. On my face, too.
The well begins to overflow. The water rises slowly and flows over the edge in a clear smooth sheet. It gathers at the base and then flows off in a stream toward the edge of the meadow. One by one the members of the crowd go forward to the well and touch the surface of the water as it streams quietly over the edge.
Each one touches the well. Each one begins to glow with a soft light – it enters the fingertips and flows through the whole being of the one who is at the well. One comes and touches the water and then touches his own forehead. Another touches the water and touches her lips. A third touches the water and touches her heart. All, in turn, anointing themselves with the water and the energy that radiates from the well. All return to the congregation, take a seat and offer their hands to those seated next to them. Soon the whole congregation is holding hands and is surrounded by a faint glow.
Then the sun above the meadow breaks through a cloud. I had not missed it until it appeared, but now it’s brilliance shoots down and gleams off the surface of the well.
Suddenly the whole congregation bursts into song. It is a glorious, highly complicated melody where each member sings what seems to be a separate song, but, sung together, they make a whole of woven tunes so rich and yet so complex that the ear, not even the heart can really receive it all.
An angel on the other side of the well stands. He is seven or eight feet tall and towers over the congregation in great strength and beauty.. His face is both stern and soft, young and old, joyful and sorrowful. It is as if he holds the complexity and fullness of all of humanity in his features. He says, simply, “Today we take the time to rejoice, for it renews and completes us all.” He lifts his hands, as does the whole congregation, and they are pulled toward the sun and are gone.
I alone, am left on the benches. I still feel confident and strong, but I realize that my own piece in this complex web of life is very small. Humility and confidence have never sat so comfortably within me as they do now.
What a pleasant morning. What a blessing to be a part of the greater web of life.
3 10 95
[photo by Norm Smith per cc 2.0]
quiet
still
in the silence hope is born
peace finds its home
all within the warmth of your embrace
amen
[photo by Hans Griep per cc 2.0]
One day, this day, lies before me. One step, the next step, is to be taken. I have strength for only one. I have manna for one day only. If I try to grasp at more, it rots within my hands. One day, one step, one piece of grace to give me strength to face it.
I kneel at an oaken table, deep within the woods, deep within a clearing where the large stump forms that table and where the brightness of the day is obscured by the heavy canopy of trees. Only one shaft of light finds its way through and hits the surface of the table with a clear, bright beam. In the spotlight of that beam, centered within its ray, is the simple meal of manna, which is spread for me this day. A cake of bread, a glass of wine, a napkin unfolded underneath as a cloth for the meal to rest upon. Nothing beside these simple provisions.
I say my grace before the meal… my grace, my prayer for grace, sets my heart in tune with the meal itself, to receive its nourishment. “Oh, Holy One, open my heart to receive your blessing for this day. Open my eyes to see your will, my hands to carry it out.” I reach and take the bread, break it and hold it for a moment in my hands. “This strength of yours I eat. I ask that you help me to spend it in your service and on your priorities. Help me to know what I must do, and to separate that from what others would like for me to do, from what I sense as urgent, but do not have the wisdom to also sense as hollow – an empty, busy bluster with no lasting value. Feed me on wisdom today, my Holy Friend, and let its essence creep into my soul.”
One step, one beam of light to guide, one hand to hold. For as my meal is ended, you join me here and offer me your hand. I take that hand of love and rise to meet the day. My own shallow wisdom is not enough, but the love and the wisdom that you offer is more than enough.
Isn’t that, after all, the promise of the manna? Enough for one day. Enough.
3 28 95
[photo by Jaroslav Kuba per cc 2.0]
My mind is pretty muddy lately
I wander in circles and find myself nowhere
Where did I put that bit of wisdom that I thought I held?
I need eyes that see – that clear the fog around me and pierce through to hope.
And yet, I have no secret in my heart to take me there.
I am bereft.
Is this where it ends?
Or where it begins?
It seems my impotent soul must make a choice –
The only power left to me –
The power to give up
Or the power to let go.
It seems the same choice, but it is not.
One leads to despair,
The other plants a seed for hope.
One leads only to ashes,
The other looks for a phoenix from the fire.
The idea of giving up
Sits on the edge of my awareness and grins it’s cruel grin,
Telling me that I might as well accept the truth of futility.
Why struggle anymore against the inevitable?
Why sacrifice if it leads to naught?
Better to hunker down and protect, as best I can,
What is still within my grasp.
It is the easy choice – requiring only the merest nod of agreement –
And the abdication of my faith.
But there is a false bluster in that specter’s grin.
It is not so confident as it seems.
It’s eyes are never smiling.
The upturned lips are really a scowl –
A mask it wears to fool the world,
Hoping to convince itself, as well.
If I am to die – and we all do –
Then I would rather die an open soul, held in relationship.
Than one curled tight around fear and despair.
And so, I release my small nothing into your grace.
And decide against despair.
I turn away from the hard, empty scowl of discouragement.
And seek the warm smile of friendship and of hope.
It is the best that I can do, today.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
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.
Thank you.
Thank you.
[photo by Kristina Alexanderson per cc 2.0]
My true self –
The self I long to meet
The one where I fit nicely in my own skin
And equally well in my community,
As if we are suited to one another
The one where goodness is not fake
But a natural expression of a maturing soul,
And where continuing growth is the sure future
The one where I can embrace the flawed reality
That is both where I live and who I am,
And still find peace and beauty … and firm hope
The one where I dare to join the dance
That is the world’s becoming,
The very echo and response to the Holy Three.
This is the self you call me to be.
This is the self I will become.
This is the dance of life.
[photo by Karl-Ludwig Poggemann per cc 2.0]
[thanks to Richard Rohr’s daily meditations]
Beauty is to the spirit what food is to the flesh. – Frederick Buechner
Indeed!
All the beauties of this scene sing to my heart:
The imagined rush of wings,
The crisp, cold kiss of snow,
The delicate colors of feather on feather,
The bright eye, focused on flight.
The wonderful balance of it all.
Hurrah for beauty, as it feeds my soul.
[photo by Mike Bizeau from his wonderful blog, Nature has no Boss, used with permission]
Let me count the hints of hope that ring my days:
a new marriage for my daughter – forged from hard lessons and determined love
a new grandchild, looking in wonder at the world and babbling joyfully
a steady hug from my husband, ever ready to comfort, support and tease
friends – so many kind and committed friends – who grace my days with centered wisdom
and, somewhere in the hidden corners of my heart, the whisper of the Holy One.
[photo by Cam Miller per cc 2.0]
Quiet Hope 
