Void

How punishing the silence,
a presence of its own, that
battens down the corners
of my soul, binds my heart
unto itself, steers me into
emptiness, sharpens stillness
to the point where I wait for
the smallest of sounds...
a pin to drop or a needle
to rise through the cotton
of my shirt, prick the darkness
like a bell, tolling, rolling,
ringing news.

Illumination

I had been taught
to love the light,
the way it crisps color,
casts shape in my
sight, throws
shadows like
dancers on the
wind. I had been
taught to love
the light and
despise darkness
as if it only harbored
sin. What did I know
about the way light
lies, leads me
to think I know
the path to tread.
Darkness should
be, I was told,
a thing to dread
but as it goes
I'm steadied in it,
stilled, sculpted
into a magnet for
sound, a silent
one who's wise
to wait,
listen,
be
found.

More poetry at the High Calling: RAP: Nepotist's Delight

Midnight's Gift

Tender is the night
that covers wounds
of day. Edges frayed

and split, now under
gleam of silver moon
do newer, softer seem.

Tender is the night
when stars do whisper
sing, and sparkle past

our pain, while Venus
steady shines and fawns
like velvet over chastened

skin. Tender is the night,
'bove broken world a-spin.


More poetry here: RAP: Christmas Lament

Dark Night

I hear that Teresa of Avila stopped praying for two years— years of struggle. She backed into a quiet corner and closed her mouth.

These days, I feel a little like Teresa. Silenced by a dark night of the soul. Dark night. I always thought that meant a time of suffering or depression, but I learned differently not too long ago. It can be just this... a fog, a confusion, obscurity, change, travel in the dark, unknowing. All because the journey has shifted. It is not always painful or negative, but clarity escapes us. Which I suppose could be painful if we fight it.

In the darkness— I'm talking real darkness, like on some night in my back yard— I realize I become a magnet for sound and fragrance. The rain tip, tip, tips or the tree branches crackle, crackle. Things blur. Water sounds like fire, ice like the opening of a wrapper. Unknowing descends. Visions of alternate realities push in... maybe I am sitting under a giant toffee and some night creatures are nibbling through paper to lick and bite sticky candy.

The smells of earth drift past... death, new life, openings, disintegrations, bloomings, fallings. My senses come alive to... I'm not sure what. And in these moments I feel the purity of experience. The illusion of control slips away. Things come to me as they will, not as I will.

In the darkness of the soul, I do not see God, but I hear and smell God. I cannot reach out and touch God, for I know not which bush He hides behind. I am left to myself. I touch my neck, trace my finger out towards my shoulder. I feel how very real I am. I am asked to grow up just a little more, like the way a baby is asked to begin to comfort itself in its own bed. The baby is not turned out of the house... shelter still comes from parents; there is deep watchfulness, provision. But...

So I am a baby in the darkness, asked to find that I can do a few things for myself, even as I trust that God is in the yard somewhere, loving me as tenderly as ever. And as I open my mouth to sing a little lullaby for me, it becomes a prayer that moves out into the night, into the heart of God.

Teresa regretted those two years of silence so much that, for the rest of her life, she strongly counseled people to never stop praying. For any reason. Teresa, thank you, for reminding me to sing. A lullaby, even, especially, in the darkness.