Consumed

The woods are aflame with autumn. Lemon yellows, burnt oranges, luminescent reds glazed with pink. Grasses bend amber, wave gold. Leaves drift and swirl on invisible eddies of warm air.

I search for words of praise, but find I am speechless. Instead, I close my eyes and become a wisp on the wind. Diving past the neighbor's dog, a near collision, then on again over the grey house... now flying with sparrows. Something inside me feels like fire, a sure melting, a merging with Spirit I sense in beauty. All this beauty.

Setting the world afire.

Alteration Found

Let me now admit that the marriage of two minds
came without impediment, much. Who knows
exactly why it was such, except that the neurons
seemed to know exactly where they wanted

to go, past stars and tempests. Beyond brief
hours and weeks, until by now there is little
relief from the dendritic march. I cannot, want not
to roll up the surprising sacred pathways,

retrace, erase this hopeless tangle,
these rivulet reaches of love.


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Untracked

I'm at the corner when my neighbor spots me. He is in some kind of convertible, midnight blue, that looks like a modern version of a Model-T. I am in old baggy orange running shorts, gray and white sport top. Mismatched. Not the way I'd wish to see my neighbor. "You should run down at the track!" he yells. I give some lame excuse about why I can't, don't. He pulls away, shouting, "I just saw a skunk and a racoon around the corner!"

I run on, under a sky that is the kind of deep, glassy blue that if you could touch it, you might fall up, in, get swallowed by the universe and not care. Never come home. The moon is half, a white face playing peekaboo beyond the trees. White clover bob in crowds at the sidewalk's edge. And there are white roses spilling through a weathered, grey wood fence. The tiniest clusters of white flowers look like trumpets and smell like the sweet edge of God, as they hang temptingly above poison ivy.

A quiet Tudor with simply one white light (the round glowing button of a doorbell) and another Tudor with lights all bright that say "Come, come in!" Splashing water from some hose that has been abundantly left to run all over someone's driveway. One lone white terrier barking furiously. Everywhere, earthen fragrance and rustling leaves and twists and turns. This is running, off the track.

And then I think of it. This is how I like my running. This too is how, mismatched as I am, I like encountering You. Fragrant, sprawling, shy, bold, dangerous, sweet, enthralling, untracked You.

Seed

Out in my secret place this cool morning, the sun comes slant and soft, plays upon my skin and the myriad leaves that tremble. The yard is wild— tall grass, field grass thick with seed and the edges of the place flecked with purple spike flowers, pert buttercups. Forsythia bend, unruly, and dandelions puff with seeds waiting for the wind. Raspberries have overtaken the raised beds and blueberries in flower are pushing towards sweet seed.

On every side, there is birdsong and the rustle of leaves. The swing hangs empty, moved only by the breeze. And somehow I feel like a child again, ready to lie down on my belly, look at the world through grass arches, ready to open my soul to Your seed and your Spirit which waits, poised. A seed head on a slim, smooth stem.

Reaching

The other night, I ran through the neighborhood, just as the sky was entering that lovely stage of cobalt blue... when the clouds were still barely visible. The atmosphere looked wrinkled, as if someone had dropped a veil over the earth.

And against the cobalt sky, I could see the branches of old trees. Black and serpentine, reaching, sprawling, curving, turning in on themselves and outward toward the dome of the heavens. I stopped. My heart beating fast, my mind open, reaching.

I thought of what it is like to learn to love You. Some see it as a path, straight and narrow, simple to follow; growth is a formula from a book, a set of rules. And maybe I see it this way sometimes too. But this night I felt like one of those old trees in Your presence... my heart sometimes dark and serpentine... reaching, sprawling, curving, turning in on itself then outward towards You.

For a long time I stood there, looking up at the branches painted black against the blackening sky. The trees were beautiful, still growing, even as night fell... then I set my feet again to running.

Sides

Sometimes, before dawn, it is like You and I are "this close",
eyes to blinking eyes, lips a bare whisper apart,
I can almost feel your teeth beneath my tongue,
touch the thrumming of your heart.

Sometimes.

Then morning rouses me, the moment flees. There comes again
the truth: a sheet of glass, a pane pure and almost imperceptible,
achingly thin, rising up between us...You stand on one side, I lean
on the other, looking, silent.

Still, I raise my finger, tremble, reach. For one brief moment,
I am magic or maybe it is You resurrecting a Cistine sky. We touch,
fingertip to fingertip, a quick light touch defying reality of space
and matter. As if, in that small place, all had turned to
empty air between us.

On my side of the glass, the touch has been
enough. And not enough.


"For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then we shall see face to face.” (1 Cor. 13:12) Newer translations are "mirror dimly", but the old image is perfect for this prayer.

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Yet

Thank You for this little gift. A given-prayer, found tucked between two nondescript sentences in my journal...


"Yet"

I remember

our walks,

when I was

a child.


On no-moon

nights,

there were

yet

stars.

Shut

Sometimes I have no words to say to You. My soul is shut up tight like the buds which set in Fall. Set, layer upon layer in a tight knob of overlapping cloaks, against advancing winter. Layer upon layer.

And so I sit, as if upon a barren branch, waiting for words.

The snows play at my edges, the winds toss and howl. The world is full of sound and fury, but my soul is wrapped in darkness, layer upon layer, silent, waiting.

Cling

When I went to the sea, I saw those golden anemones. They were so like me, little ivory tentacles that wave freely when the water washes through. Soft. Inviting. Tingly.

I cannot forget that they clung to the rocks, the sharp, dangerous rocks. And, in this clinging, they found anchor. I feel like the golden anemones... needing anchor in You.

Cling to the Rock, my instinct tells me.

I cling, Dearheart, I do. But it is not the sweet solace of sunbaked creek stones I've known before. No. This clinging makes me mold my softness to Your sharp edges. I must push out all the air bubbles, press fully up against You, kiss my wounds to your salt-slicked surface.

Cling to the Rock and live.

A Dappled Presence

Today, I found this. Wrote it last May. And it feels like a breath of hope...

Now that the leaves are full and present, the trees have a softer sound, a whisper instead of clacking, and the woods are filled with dancing shadows, a tenderness, a gliding of dappled presence.

A little brown bird is in the prickle pines. Climbing sideways up the tree, pecking. Life out here... travels upside down and sideways, pure vertical and horizontal, under the darkness of a needle blanket. It seems there is no direction that is off-limits in this place.

The mourning dove flutters in with her chirruping. What used to surprise and awe me has turned to the sweet comfort of familiar sounds — I find a deeper rest in the stability of this place and its attendant characters.

Two dark gray birds just "kissed" — a peck from beak to beak... I could lie here all day and never be bored or restless.

"Give me your lantern and compass, give me a map...So I can find my way to the sacred mountain, to the place of your presence." Psalm 43, The Message translation

Under a Milk-White Sky

Feeling sad today. Out in this moist little woods, that is newly slicked with the rains. All is fragrant, revived. But I come and cannot take it in. Bells chime in the distance and a light breeze tickles my chin. My tea is warm, peachy in fragrance. I have everything I need. But I feel empty. A bit lost. Swung off in the opposite direction, outside the orb of the Dance, just beyond the electric feel of Your fingertips. The sky is milk-white. Opaque. The pine trembles. The ivy holds, yet, some remnants of the rain's passing. Who am I, and where am I? It was good, really good to talk to T. last night. I felt, in those short hours, that I knew who I was and where. A gift! The tenor of Your Voice easing through the voice of a too-long-forgotten friend.

We have sought the LORD our God; we have sought him, and he has given us peace on every side. 2 Chronicles 14:7

Irreparable

On days like this, when two guys from two different companies stand in my garage and declare the spring that lifts that old, heavy door, irreparable. When one good friend weeps inconsolably to me about all that is irreparable in her life. And when I think of all those sick and dying and fighting...

and the whole world

seems irreparable...

I ache for You. Close my eyes
to the wind. Listen to the scritch scratch
of dry oak leaves and little thsk thsk
sounds of squirrel's feet
and a soft chrr chrr in the pine
and the rush of air
against the landscape.

And I remember that dark place
when the earth was formless
and void and Your Spirit
was a wind blowing across
the waters, whispering to the
chaos your deep conviction

that it was not

irreparable.

Under the Cistine Umbrella

It is raining in my little woods today. I huddle on the red plastic sled, under my Cistine umbrella (a plain black model on the outside, it opens to reveal a ceiling of Cistine art). The rain "tap, tap, taps" on waterproof black, while I look up at fleshy, holy figures.

A breeze shakes the pine and "tap, taps" come in a fast, hard sheet, insistent. I sip green tea. Watch the steam rise. Look out at the bare forsythia, jeweled in strings of liquid pearls. The thorn bush drips with crimson teardrop berries. Snow in and around the English ivy is pocked from falling rain.

Above me, the finger of God reaches for Adam's hand. I remove my glove, slip my palm beyond umbrella shelter, wait. Remarkable how long it takes. For a drop to splash onto my skin.

At last You reach down, touch me. I sip Your bounty, a quick, tiny cold drink. And sigh. Under the Cistine umbrella.

Comes the Fog

So many people speak
of being visited by You
as light,
or enlightenment or a
moment of clarity
and truth...

Have they never run
through a foggy night
and seen the dense
smoke, the haze where
heat and cold collided,
only to slow, to almost halt
the soul?

Route 9 and Chadeayne Road

On route 9, at sixty miles per hour, my Eldest made the observation that some buildings invite us to be silent. Like the ones in Washington D.C. or old churches, she said. Why is that?

I could not give her adequate answer. Is it because we feel small in those places? Or because beauty demands a hush?

I could not say, but when I walked into the night on Chadeayne Road two days later, and the Big Dipper was pouring out its loveliness, and the arrow of Orion was pointing across the vast and sparkling night, then I just knew she was on to something.

Night's cathedral stilled my soul, and I was silenced. Silenced and small. Overcome with awe of You.

Lean

Here in the little woods, as I lie back and sigh, I see a fallen pine branch to my right. Its needles are brittle, hanging, dry. The once-smooth bark is lifting like scales, or tiny teeth, breaking by small degrees.

The branch is an arm, or seems to be, draped and limp, weak. Fallen, leaning onto the forsythia, which is yet supple in mid-winter...curved, buoyant even in the bitter cold, its leaves yet hanging on.

And I feel suddenly that this is me with You. Me, leaning in a breathless swoon. You, a curve of strength beneath my soul. So I lean. Lean in. To the comfort of You.

Dare

The sky is indigo blue. Deep. Velvet. The air, a cold slap upon my face. Still, I run into the night.

Everywhere, things are bent, fallen.

The snow family in their airy globe... mama, papa, junior... are bent to grass that's stiff with ice. Fir trees tossed on sidewalks, bare of garland and crystal, languish in the biting air. A Santa holds his gut, doubled over, face angled down. And the snowman and snowwoman in their blue snow world are fainting towards the ground.

Everywhere, things are bent, fallen.

Hidden beneath two woolen hats, I run. My neck behind zips and snaps. My blue sweats blend with the night. And my muscles push against the cold that burns. Your Glory blazes, sharp. A strong embrace. A dare.

I wonder... should I, dare I? Then I raise my eyes and catch my breath, at the sheer, icy glory... of You.

Becoming Mary

I watch my Littlest ascend the platform, graceful in cranberry satin and black velvet, her tiny violin tucked beneath one arm. She waits. Looks at the director. The piano plays an introduction. She lifts the violin, dark eyes steady, fingers poised.

The director nods, and she begins. This song she has played every day for weeks. This song that is second nature and must visit in her dreams. But the notes do not fit. She looks at the director as the piano plays on. Her fingers search the strings for notes. Any notes that will fit this moment. My Littlest stands very straight, dark eyes steady, even as my throat begins to tighten, my mind race.

The pianist suddenly remembers what key she should be playing in and switches to G. Too late, for now the director is whispering to my Littlest. "Can you play it in D?" Dark eyes steady, my Littlest fumbles to a new string and searches for notes to fit this moment. She finds the tune, but still the notes do not fit. I am sinking into the back of my chair. Breathing quickly. Choking back tears.

After what seems an eternity, the piano and violin come together in the key of D. My Littlest stares, quietly plays this song she has played every day for weeks. This song that is second nature and must visit in her dreams. But who knows any of this? My Littlest looks to be a child who couldn't find the right notes to fit this moment.

And suddenly, in some small, very small way, I think of how Your mother Mary must have felt. As you walked into a world ready to share a grace that You had known forever. But so many people could not see this. Could not hear the beauty of Your song.

Speak

I look at my Littlest across the table, in our sunset golden dining room.

"I love you," I say.

"I know."

"You know? How do you know? Is it only because I tell you I love you?"

"I don't think so."

"How do you know?"

"You hug me. And you kiss me. You're kind to me..." she smiles.

"Most of the time I'm kind to you."

"Most of the time," she says and moves into my lap. Her head is on my shoulder.

"Except when I'm crabby."

"Except when you're crabby."

"And tired. Sometimes when I'm tired, I'm not kind. Or when I'm just crabby."

"Or when you're in a hurry," she smiles.

"When I'm in a hurry?" I pause. She is looking at me straight on, not blinking, not turning. Looking at me straight on. "When I'm in a hurry... I should work on that, I guess..."

"Maybe if you want to," she touches my arm, kisses my cheek.

Out of the mouths of babes, You speak to me. Out of the mouths of babes, you ordain not only praise, but also truth, to silence the enemy and the avenger. Out of the mouths of babes, my Child, you speak. And touch my soul.

Crossed

At last the snow stops. I step out into the night, bundled. To shovel. Breathe deep. Look up at the sky. It is a strange peachy color.

Dip. Shove. Toss. Dip. Shove. Toss.

Down the stairs, I make my way. At the sidewalk, I see that someone has dumped all the snow off his car, and off the street, onto my sidewalk, where I must now shovel. "You're kidding," I say out loud. I am angry. Shove the snow back where it came from. Later, repent a little and put some near the edge of my driveway.

When I am finally finished, my heart is pounding. I make my way 'round the side of the house. A startled bird "chrr, chrr's" and takes flight. I fetch the sled and walk up the side of the yard, leaving a blank palette of snow for my Elder Daughter. ("Don't step on it!" she always cries.) Under the pine tree, I lie down. Quiet.

The wood-winged bushes are little crosses against the peachy sky. Crosses upon crosses upon crosses. I am SO not You. Sacrificing for the ones who crossed you with worse than a little snow upon your sidewalk. I am SO not You.

I turn over and put my tongue in the snow. Four licks. I turn back over, sit up, stand. The licks have made a little flame shape. And when I lift the sled, there is no snow angel. Just a sort of wedge.

I walk out of my little, little woods, back to the hill, slide. Glide down the edge of the blank palette lawn with a whoosh. Snow goes into my left boot. And I laugh. You make me laugh! Even when I'm cross.