Greetings! and Welcome. I hope you enjoy your visit. Stop by often, let yourself slow down, pause and take a few deep breaths. . . and enjoy! Please feel free to share your thoughts, poems, photographs and paintings with me. --Quilla * * * PLEASE NOTE: TO ACCESS A CALENDAR OF ALL POSTINGS, CLIICK THE "ABOUT" BUTTON ( Above, and to the right) AND SCROLL DOWN TO THE CALENDAR. CLICK ON THE MONTH, AND THAT MONTH'S POSTINGS WILL OPEN FOR YOU. THANKS!
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Warm mist blows through the winter trees.
Sensing Spring in the distance, sparrows
and finches are trilling.
Flocks of crows approach from far off,
tossed like torn black scarves of sorrow.
Late-morning sun breaks through, a moment
of silver, opening the heavy clouds.
A rainbow to the darkened north
shimmers like a certain promise in the mist.
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Standing still, on the hillside
just before the cold sun sets,
what are the words
to give you this moment—
how the golden fading light
loves the gnarled trunks
of the apple trees?
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22, 752
–the number of days since
I first entered, just like you
naked and wailing, this beautiful
dangerous and temporary place.
Add another nine months, floating
and bouncing inside Bonnie’s womb
and that brings us to 23,026
since that night in a January room
when I truly began.
yes, 23,026—(includes 15 for leap years)
as of this windy January night
rain ticking the dark windows
and trickling down, not unlike tears.
Staggering, to think how very much
and yet how little, after all
has lived and loved inside those days.
All the dirty socks, lost words, and kernels
of popcorn, didn’t pop.
You might wonder why
I did that curious bit of math.
Perhaps the plea: “Lord, teach us
to number our days aright”
had some say in it.
And ”All the days ordained for me
were written in your book”.
But more likely, we come to realize
the number left is growing smaller
each night we take off our watch.
And we taste more keenly, the honey
and the salt within our days.
We see how quickly, like birds
like summer light, they fly
they fade away.
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–Quilla
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Healing
After her knee surgery
I walk slowly with my mother
and her cane, the gravel path
beside the lake.
The winter sun is already down
into the trees.
Cold wind blows the fountain spray.
Resting on a bench, we talk,
and we are quiet with each other.
The old need to fix and criticize
is gone. Below us, a dead oak limb
drifts into reeds along the bank.
Although we have no feed to give them
the ducks swim in close, gabbing
and preening, as if putting on a show.
Feeding on the muddy bottom
they turn their bottoms to the sky.
We laugh out loud, together.
The brief steam of our laughter floats away,
leaving us a quiet, winter joy.
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–Quilla
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Three Vultures
Sitting in the parking lot
winter evening light
I’m watching three vultures, wheeling
slowly, floating silhouettes
far above a tall black pine.
I walk into the grocery store
and buy some things for supper.
Leaving, at the door I pass by
a woman, once a dear close friend.
Our eyes meet and click, like two shutters.
We almost paused to talk, did not.
That instant, just a second or two
a collage of pictures—years that used to be
rose from the dead,
the fragrance of dead roses.
Our brief greeting, parting glance
said nothing, said everything.
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—Quilla
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We’ve Never Been Here Before
The first light sparkles, new crystals
of thick night-frost, the virgin unlived day.
A tiny wren lifts her jubilations
into the vastness of the morning air.
Strokes of winter sun
touch the opened page of ancient Words.
But the Spirit himself
kindles them: strikes a new fire
laughing in the ashes
of our wintered hearts
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–Quilla
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“Rejoice in every good thing which the LORD your God has given you.”
–Deuteronomy 26: 11
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“In everything give thanks. For this is the Father’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” –1 Thessalonians 5: 18
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The Nuthatch in Winter
Moist wind rustles the ragged curls
of loose bark, the river birch.
Up and down the shreds, a Nuthatch
scritches for winter insects
and their eggs, protein sleeping
in deep crevices, keeping the colder months.
Leafless branches rattle empty fingers.
Somehow things will find their way to spring.
A used tea bag I threw out before Christmas
still dangles from a limb.
Thick clouds are lowering from the southwest.
Blue-gray shadows cover the faded land.
We watch the slow approach,
another day of winter rain.
Somehow Spring will find its way to everything.
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–Quilla
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“Rejoice in the LORD always! Again I will say rejoice!”
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In Meditation
Another storm blows in all morning
clouding the January sun.
Even the large trees roar and bend—
a strong east wind
clangs the chimes beneath the eave.
The woodfire snuffles and snaps
old knots, pockets of summer sap.
The iron kettle hisses and steams.
Like our lives, the wisps of smoke
dissipate, go floating down the gray wind.
I sip strong tea, drink the holy Words.
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–Quilla
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The Junco
This morning early, the hard frozen land
resembled a Wyeth scape—stark
raw hills—their faces scraped with a skift
of salty snow, blown across
the mountains before dawn.
But now the wide brushstrokes
of thin white are gone. Except
little drifts the sun kept hiding,
iron-blue shadow places.
One gray Junco is perched
in the naked red blueberry limbs.
She gathers a few rays of warmth
from the hazy sun
Then flits away to the darkening woods.
Two white feathers in her charcoal tail
flash like scissors in the winter light.
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–Quilla
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Billy Collins’ Life Song?
(with great respect to Mr. Collins)
Notice your life. Love
the host of little things
that paint the colors, textures
the very fragrance of the day:
drops of sun, coffee steam,
the long gray shafts of rain.
Make songs of them.
The pleasure, yes the pain.
Make music of the dear and passing
things you often miss, talking much
always hurrying to the next thing
stumbling on the delicate path
you like to call your day.
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–Quilla
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Two Hands
Thank you Father—these two hands
folded together warmly in the winter sun
smoothness, roughness intertwined.
One lighter, more delicate, the other
heavier, weathered more, deep lines.
The hands are hers, and mine.
Not just hands—two lives, woven
into one worn but sturdy cloth,
strands of cool silk and tangled wool
lying together quietly, enfolded
sharing their separate warmth
in shadows of the winter sun.
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–Quilla
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Winter Morning Impressions
Rising, disappearing like spirits
little fragrant clouds, lifting
from my large blue coffee mug
evanescent, yet so pungent
and real, somehow make me feel
I too have been drawn in
to an alluring commercial
for fresh-roast coffee beans.
And the gentle open hands
of the winter cactus:
emerald fans of living chlorophyll
glowing in that frosted light.
Their Christmas blossoms fallen now
somehow I’m remembering
ancient Eden gardens, flowering
beside warm streams.
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–Quilla
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Starlight and Old Windchimes
Waiting ten minutes—the pizza to cook
I walk into the freezing darkness,
watch the timeless winter stars.
Centuries, this luminescence
radiates through blackest space,
now sparkles in the empty trees.
A faint breeze stirs, it wakes
the old bamboo chimes.
They mutter soft, like cold starlight.
The same crisp air moves the tall bamboo:
Thin leaves whisper something to Orion
softly, like the old wood-chimes.
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–Quilla
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A Gift
The rare January thunderstorm
blusters in—raw wind, cold shadows
darken the thawed fields.
Naked limbs of trees
toss and clatter, grieving
as if wishing they had leaves.
My eyes are mesmerized,
the scudding turbulent skies, a sea
of clouds churning great black ships.
Suddenly, the very nimbus I am watching
right there–a jagged wire of light
strips the darkness, tears it open—
pure electric fire, electrocuting faster
more fierce than any word, its sight
shuts my eyes, a primal fear
and disappears. Silence. . . .then the crash
that cracks the fragile dome of air
to bits, and hits the hollowed ground:
horrific boom, the hallowed bomb
of war. A mush of rain and gusty hailstones
strafes the soft surrendered land.
Like all storms, it’s quickly done.
Now the low sun peeps out to look, and flings
a gleaming fire of colors to the east.
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–Quilla
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After Heavy Rains, the Winter Moon
Gently the Spirit wakes me from my dreams.
The house is asleep. Finally the rains have stopped.
A mild winter night, I sit by an open window.
A soft moonlight shape lies silent on the floor.
Dark hemlock trees are standing very still
out in the bright moon-mist.
Down the hill the small stream rushes
full of winter rain.
A half mile away, the river roars
down dark gorges toward the sea.
A long train rolls upriver slowly
rumbling through the moonlit night.
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–Quilla
With thanks to Farrah G. for assistance w. editing –Quilla
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I woke to gusts of wind roaring in the large trees outside in the predawn dark. Hard rain was lashing the south windows. Mostly a mild winter so far, the earth is yet soft, soaked with recent rains, rivers are running full. With all the snow the last two winters, I don’t hear anyone complaining. The warm and turbulent weather has created some dramatic skies, even rainbows in January. But winter is far from over. . .
Later, putting on water for tea I stood at the kitchen sink, looking out across the ragged garden and rainy woods, steep mountain pastures fading into mist. Big pines soughed in strong wind like heavy surf, long gusts blown inland from the Gulf. The sky was low, roily with clouds scudding just a few hundred feet above the pastured turf.
Suddenly the unexpected: the sun found a small opening in the storm. A shaft of light broke through, instantly glittering everything. Rain kept falling, a billion free diamonds of skywater and blown sunlight. Each bare twig and pine needle, every weed stem, briar thorn and fencewire, thicket, vine and orchard tree was transformed with shining drops of watery light. In those delicate moments of sun, everything was instantly remade, glistening and reborn, fresh-blown molten rainbow glass. Such crystal beauty sparkled with the glory, the innocence of fresh, childlike vision. The world was new, unbroken. If only a few quicksilver minutes of radiance, I was given a glimpse. . .
Squinting into the glassy light, my eyes were scanning the shining fields and caught a shadow-shape not usually there (at least not in daylight). Just to the left of the two-hundred-year-old white oak, a large coyote was crouched among clumps of dead grass. He was perfectly camouflaged, colored smoke and straw. The bright morning sunlight glowed in his rich gold throat fur. I quickly got my binoculars and focused. His head was up and looking keenly about, ears erect, listening for scant movements of field mice scittering in the winter grass. Normally, two donkeys kept coyotes out of the fields, but the windy rain had driven the livestock down the hill into the barn. These wild members of the dog clan are resilient survivors, always sharply aware of their surroundings. They didn’t think anyone was watching.
Very slowly, I opened the door and stepped onto the shaded porch, to get a better view. About a hundred yards away, the coyote immediately saw me and stood up, ready to bolt and run. I stood very still, tense moments watching him watching me. Finally, not perceiving me a threat, he relaxed and stretched, shook the rain from his thick fur, and yawned. Then he sauntered slowly down the hillside, into a grove of walnut trees along the creek.
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–Quilla
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Four Wild Geese
It looks like I’d get used to this…
this frequent parting, saying good-bye
again to one or the other of our daughters—
one last hug, some caring words, an enduring look
to last like a photograph—for months, a year, or ever.
In parting, we know we’re never sure.
I put on coffee for your long ride
back to school. Just as I’m checking
the oil in the car, with my head under the hood
I hear a wild sweet greeting, a yelp above me
in the cloudy winter morning light:
four Canada geese, flying low
over our house. I hear the whistling
of their quivering wings, winging quickly
from the river to the lake in town.
Long low rafts of stratus roll above us
from the west. The last scrap of snow has melted.
You’ll be driving into mountain rain.
Finally the dark blue Crown Vic disappears
into the grey trees. You don’t see my right hand, reaching
to you, a father’s blessing, letting go.
The little dog and I walk back inside.
The sharp sting of coffee steam
lingers in the empty rooms.
Melancholy Uilleann pipes, Enya’s
“Sun in the Stream” is weeping softly—
the way things come to us, and how they go.
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–Quilla
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Frozen cornstalk fields:
shards of ancient pottery
long shadows
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Frozen birdbath
an inch of snowdust
scratched with bird tracks
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Coal
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Three million summers
–a deep fern forest
warms our winter night
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Fierce winter wind
old oaks groan,
remembering
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Making pancakes
and listening: no small thing
to be a father
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How the cold sun
glitters, each needle shines
the great somber pines
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Cold wind, winter sun
tall black pines, tossing
shadows on the page
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snow storm blows in:
rows of stones and buried bones
vanish, into white
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Wrinkled hands
folded, winter dusk
snow stings the windows
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Dawn lit the bare trees
a few moments of gold,
then snowclouds gathered
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Old devotion book—
once more, I open it
to the first page
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Before going inside to the noisy party
food and laughter, chatter and lights
I stand outside a few long moments,
looking up into the indigo darkness
the deep surrounding folds
of silent mountains….
. . . a broken string of tall December stars
sparkles through the breaking clouds.
Living black silhouettes of old poplars
are still dripping with rain:
soft stepping sounds
on the forest floor at night,
like some ancient peaceful Being
larger than sky, smaller than raindrop
who sees, who understands everything
walking with us through the dark.
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–Quilla
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Cardinal alights
on a frozen branch:
flakes of frost sift down
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Pastures of blue frost
horses stand, warming themselves
winter morning sun
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Long rows of grey stones
and silk poinsettias,
moon in a bare tree
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Indian woman, dying—
grandchildren around her bed,
and I. The winter sky….
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Morning dreams vanish—
a slight dusting of night snow
in the winter trees
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Spilled in years past—
morning tea, dried like faded ink
on the winter page
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Late December sun
sparkles the skift of morning snow:
one Wren lifts his joy
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Talking with my daughter
on the phone: a crescent moon
shining through snowclouds
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Across the hard frost
and silence: someone hammering
and the sound of crows
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Indian flute song
soft and low: morning sun
lights the winter land
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December afternoon
long shadows on the hillsides
cries of Coyotes
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(For Farrah and Stephan)
Alone now, a quiet winter morning room. William Ackerman’s guitar deftly strums ‘The Last Day at the Beach’—in those chords I hear the sound of footprints softly washing away, the thirsty little waves always lapping at the watery edge of things. I strike a match to yesterday’s colorful gift-wrapping stoked in the stove. The Christmas paper fire roars and glows like burning rainbows.
An hour before dawn I woke to quickly dress and go downstairs and kiss good-bye, to hug and pray for my daughter and son-in-law, to send them on their way again, a hundred and five feet per second north on the 81, nine hundred miles. They were with us five short days.
Five days: a hundred-some-odd hours, thousands of words and smiles, sharing the gifts of ourselves—these dear moments now enter what we call ‘the past’, the process of becoming compressed into a rich but thin space in our minds. It is like one page of photographs in a much larger album, long shelves of large dusty albums in an ancient cathedral library. Sometimes we open the pages, fondly recall the images, the names and faint voices of those who are gone from us—even our earlier selves.
Now they are gone, I walk into their empty room, stand for a few moments, feeling the absence.
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O Father, how you have made us! And the whole Universe! —minuscule wands of light, galaxies spinning eons like fireflies through this mesh of night, from something and toward something, indeed Someone: infinitely brighter and more intimate than hosts of stars, the wastes of time, the cryptic rhyme of tides.
Surely the pathos of our footprints on this brief shore is precious to You. You watch us leave our gifts, our very selves behind us, how we grieve each love we’ve lost. Everything we’ve held dear both follows and precedes us, like our meager faith and deeds. All these are little lamps flickering before us into the vast dark. We walk in shadows cast by the mystery of perfect Love, unfathomable invisible Light.
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“Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully, just as I am fully known.” 1 Corinthians chapter 13, verse 12.
Christmas Week
The naked bony hills of morning
are brushed with ice—long strokes in the night
from winter stars, sparkling blue.
I woke before the frozen dawn.
The waning Snow Moon
was walking silently through leafless trees.
Saturn and Spica followed, shy maidens
glimmering thin candles.
Charcoal-colored Juncos have flown down to us
again, from highest summer mountaintops
to spend the winter near our door.
They peck for seeds, the heavy frost.
The seasoned sticks of White Oak snap
and chuckle in the stove, making flames—
long-forgotten suns released.
Our chimney spins long threads of smoke, lost
in the crystal stillness.
They weave away, into the patchwork quilt
of Christmases past.
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Waking
It’s being more aware
each day you’re walking closer
to that final door—
the one that opens into something
completely new, beyond
this hall of many doors.
Already that closed room
casts a strange and gentle light
on what we call the “little” things—
flashes of beauty go unnoticed,
scraps of things we leave behind:
This morning, I was putting on water
for tea, when a papery onion skin, fallen
from last night’s festive cooking
scratched the drafty kitchen floor;
Later, I look up from the scriptures
to see the room spinning splinters
of rainbow—a glass snowflake prism
hanging just beyond the window
in bright December sunlight—
pirouetting with the winter wind.
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–Quilla
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Winter garden
neglected stone buddha, lying
face-down in dead weeds
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Hostas in December
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River reflection
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Near McKinney Gap, NC
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Fountain Spray
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December sky
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Sycamore bark
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“And the Light shines in the darkness…..”
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Sycamore and Pines in December
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Another door into Narnia?
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Crepe Myrtles, December
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December Morning
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Beached for the winter
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Farrah and her Mom, devotions together, Daytona, December 07
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Behold!
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Epiphany
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December night
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Gable on Episcopal Chapel, Charlotte St., Asheville NC
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Daytona after Christmas
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Greek Orthodox Chapel
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Leaving
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View from our back porch
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Ready for Snow
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Closeup, 400 year old Cannon, Castillo de San Marcos
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Winter Fields
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Somewhere, on down the line….
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December dawn
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Words of Life
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Down in the Orchard
After all the fruit had fallen, and the last
rotten windfall pears were scavenged
by night-ranging coyotes,
came a few gold weeks of flaming leaves.
Wild October mosaics of yellows and scarlets,
unnamed shades of sun-paint, flickering.
Those days were warm with stained-glass light.
Now this mid-December morning chill:
a long low shawl of charcoal stratus
shadows the barren orchard violet-grey.
Beneath the tangled apple boughs
sprawl mats of dead straw-grass,
the black and broken stems of summer weeds.
The fields lie down, drab with cold stillness.
It’s an old, quiet color—like roses, frozen grey
that shade of winter doves, silent now
huddled together on bare branches
waiting for snow.
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–Quilla
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African Christmas Art
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It’s Good that We Have Christmas
Augh! What a polluted river of deceits
and shallow vanities flow
from the deep and fractured vessel
of man’s clay heart, fashioned
by the Potter’s Spirit, to carry
and pour the very springs of God.
A sharp wind blows.
I sit in cold winter sunlight
listening to crows.
It’s good there is a winter Star
above, within—the bright candle
of Words, these bitter frozen nights.
One who keeps His fire of love
burning always, our most secret hearth.
It’s good that we have Christmas.
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–Quilla
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Fifth Night of Hannukah
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From my Nature Journal: ‘December, and Winter Closes In…’
Tonight, just after sunset strong winds are blustering down our valleys from the northern mountains, the high Unaka range. The thermometer’s red line has dropped over twenty degrees in a few hours. Empty trees roar with night wind. Squalls of rain have quickly changed to heavy gusts of blowing snow. Winter is closing in.
First the green, and then the golden days took down their pretty things, and left. Suddenly the blue mouth of winter is howling at our doors. Reveling in its power, both the ‘inner child’ and the older one living in me thrill to start a new fire in Efel, our cast-iron Belgian stove. Twenty four winters now, I’ve fed her at least two cords of seasoned hardwood each year. But these last two winters, she’s gotten hungrier. In return, she keeps us warm, even during power outages, simmers our winter soups and stews, cups of evening tea. Late in the long nights, her fluttering flames and falling embers talk soft words of the summer sun. The stored heat of many seasons is released in one night from the burning wood. Few things kindle our primal connections to the ancient past more keenly than wood fire warming our homes on cold nights, the soft lights dancing on our dark walls. Something deep in us remembers far more than we can recall.
Once again winter is closing in on our high country like a pack of ghost wolves. Already the mountains have been coated white with early storms. Now we wait the harder cold, the deeper snows. As Earth spins closer to the Solstice—the day with the shortest daylight, usually December twenty first or second—the arc of the sun drops a bit lower each afternoon. The ragged purple-grey mountains move long shadows across the stubbled fields. Up and down the backroads from Indian Creek to Elk Shoals, threads of woodsmoke rise from chimneys into the pale, slanted light.
In colder months the sleeping land keeps a quiet serenity. All the summer birds have flown from the forests. Farm work in the fields is done. Dark comes early, nights are long. This winter, Venus gleams low in the west after sunset, Jupiter sparkles high in the east.
Just this week we’ve noticed that Juncos have returned to our feeders. These small charcoal-colored birds are often called “Snowbirds”. A scissor of white flashes in their sooty tailfeathers. Juncos don’t migrate long distances. Winging down to the valleys for winter, they return to the highest ridge tops to nest for the summer. One jingling note is their mating song, held long in the thin air, the ringing of a tiny glass bell.
In recent weeks I’ve also been hearing the sweet music of my favorite winter visitor, the shy Whitethroat Sparrow. Nesting far to the north, they winter here. I see them flitting to the feeder from wine-red tangles of honeysuckle and briars along the garden’s edge. Their song is a lilting dream of seven to twelve notes, with the wistful sense of remembered joy.
Some of my favorite December memories rise from those years we took our two daughters, my mother and father, and went looking for a fresh-cut Yancey Christmas tree. The best part was walking the hillside rows of live Fraser Firs together with my girls, choosing just the right tree to take home. Sometimes snowflakes were spinning out of the dark north, ravens squawking high above on the gray wind. I realized even then how quickly it all was passing; I cherished the excited beauty in my daughters’ cold faces, their little-girl chatter and laughter, my father’s quiet joy in all of us. We piled into the Trooper with the tree tied to the roof, and went into town for plates of good hot mountain food. Winter was closing in. But we were together. It was Christmas.
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–Quilla
Published in the Yancey Journal and Common Times
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Splinters of Winter Light
December morning, my footsteps crunch
the crystalled grass.
Looking up through frozen birches, and beyond
my arms lift their hands: palms, thin fingers
stretch with praise to the winter sun
splintering rays through icy limbs.
I give my self afresh—to the Risen One.
The whole domed canvas of wide sky
shines winter blue, brushed white strokes
of high cirrus: windy tails of ghost-horses
like wisps of spirit running, slow motion
across the empty skies of time.
One Chickadee arrives, thirsty
and perturbed at the frozen pool.
She pecks the plate of ice
till it breaks open, just a bit.
She sips and sings, and flies away.
In the far meadow two deer
are standing in the open
a moment sculpted, like statues.
A poise of grace and fear
their blue shadows stretch out long and thin
down the frosted hill.
Something frightens them. They bound off,
disappear in the shadowed wood.
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–Quilla
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Passage
For two hours tonight with kindred souls
we learn, talk about God: remember
his presence with us down the years,
his inscrutable, faithful ways with men.
We say goodnight to everyone,
this, the last night of November.
We walk out into the dark,
the hard cold of the city.
So much pain we do not know.
Sharp black wind cuts our faces.
A thin white sickle of winter moon
hangs above the mountain rim.
The car is cold. I kiss the happiness
glistening your face, still beautiful
three decades with me.
Back home, I bring in enough wood
to last the long night’s fire.
We curl up in the darkness, together,
knowing heavy frost is falling
upon our roof, upon our lives.
Knowing, no matter what
we are perfectly known and loved.
Through the black window, loom
large black trees, sparkling
blue lights of winter stars.
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–Quilla
Two hundred year old Canadian Hemlock, spidersilks
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Haiku:
Greetings! For quite a few years I’ve used the form of haiku (or has it used me?) to record the fleeting but often potent impressions of my days. In keeping with traditional Japanese haiku, and since I am a naturalist, my haiku usually include an observation or a reaction to the natural world, the present season, etc. Although haiku as a 3-line poem began in Japan hundreds of years ago, with masters like Basho, Issa, Buson and Shiki, the art form is now practiced by millions of individuals, in many different countries and languages. Haiku are about pausing to notice, to see and appreciate more clearly the moments of particular meaning and beauty, in our quickly passing days and seasons of life with others. The essence of a wide variety of experience, both human and “natural,” can be captured in surprisingly few words. Like anything else, it flows more easily with practice.
In our complex daily lives, indeed any subject, or experience, can be reduced to its essentials with keen perception and an open ‘heart’, finding their expression in the flexible form of haiku—usually 2-3 lines, 12-17 syllables, originally intended to be read in one breath. Some poems may focus on poignant human moments, with no natural or seasonal connection. Our lives happen right where they happen–deep in a forest, or a big city, in deep solitude or a traffic jam–but always here, always now. Insights can originate from our senses, and yet may vibrate with profound spiritual implications. Daily life is the fertile ground where haiku are most fruitful: rendering the essences of the big and (mostly) small moments and insights of our days. There is often much more meaning and beauty in our moments than we realize. Haiku can and do express the full gamut of human emotions, from childlike humor to the raw pathos of grief.
I hope you enjoy these little poems. But more, I hope they throw a spark of inspiration in your direction, kindling in you a desire to capture your life’s moments with the simple art form of haiku.
(One suggestion, that will enable you to “get” the most from each poem, as well as help you see and appreciate valuable moments in your own day. Just this, (and I fully realize how this advisement runs against the prevailing currents of our shallow and frenetic “culture”) please consider: although haiku are brief, do not hurry the reading of them. Breathe. More deeply. Pause. Savor. Process. The three * * * after each poem are to remind you to do this. So please, don’t rush, or skim. Take your time, reflect. Read them each, slowly, a few times. Let each one open up and resonate a bit, releasing free associations in your own experience and memory. In truth, what is written is only one-half of the haiku; the other half is what it does in you. Then it becomes ours!).
p.s. I want to thank, and honor my oldest daughter (FLG) for encouraging me to blog on wordpress. It was her blog example and loving nudging, that brought me to this, my first blog page. May the holy ruach breathe deeply in and through us…
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Some recent haiku:
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8.21.8
early sunlight, high
in the ancient hemlock,
glistening spidersilks
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the bride-to-be stood there
alone, beautiful, at sunset:
the old church causeway
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high meadows in bloom:
late-summer phlox, goldenrod,
tall grasses, whispering
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8.23
that hard bare ground
along the fenceline, the horses
stand and gaze, across
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drought year, the pastures
have gone brown. That great green oak
drinks from deeper springs
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dark latesummer wind
tearing off leaves. Hummingbird
barely hanging on
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this dry August wind
in the dying leaves, sounds
like water sounds
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12.31.7
storm litter, cast up
to the dunes. Sea-oat wind
scrapes the winter shore
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4.10.7
winter dawn, aspens
perfectly still. Each twig
heavy with new snow
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8.25.8
what words, for such
‘yellowness’?–ten thousand
daylilies in the rain!
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morning News, still folded
in the box. Sunlight opens,
heralds the meadows
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12. 31.7
how small, how brief
our laughter, this vast
grey sky and sea
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8.26(srt)
finally, after 2 years
I grieve for him, alone.
Cool late summer rain
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the first autumn storm
blown in from the sea. Taste
my first cup of hot tea
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ancient haiku
and Kitaro. Windows open:
windy night rain
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8.28.
expensive birdseed shop–
windchimes, whirligigs
no customers
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at The Curves
so many skinny women
come to exercize!
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the storm has moved on.
puddles, reflections,
acorns, dropping
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9.3.8
night waves rushing in
forever, breaking white
ending with a sigh
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how long, each one’s shadow
walking along the shore
at dawn
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september dawn
the warm green sea, swells
and falls, around me
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around the park:
reading, sleeping, frisbees, love,
delivering pizza
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tall latesummer trees
cicadas’ song, and a small girl
taking voice lessons
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9.7
during silent prayer
a slight breath of wind
rings the windbell, one time
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thick fog at dawn
a large grey heron, flying
silently
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after sunset
September fields, the sun
softly lets the moon….
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The edge of Autumn, 08
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A Voice I heard:
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At 58 I am still learning how to talk to my Father, the true Father. The “Father of Lights”.
But much more importantly, I am learning how to be still, to breathe more deeply, gratefully. And in that stillness to wait, and to listen, for his Voice. There is much noise and hurry, and many other voices clamoring for attention. But most of them distract and/or divert from our true purpose: listening to the voice of the Father, learning to love and to obey His Voice above all others. In His words are hidden “all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge”. And love.
Here are some things His spirit spoke quite clearly to my listening spirit three days ago. ( For the purposes of sharing in human communication with others, and to edify my own spirit, I have re-scribed the potent, holy words I heard while waiting, in the spirit. It is a wonderful mystery, how the Holy Spirit, the Ruach of God, speaks the unspeakable to our listening hearts, and how we are able to translate those ineffable and complex truths into simple human languages. The following is true to the original message I heard from the Father):
“Son, regarding your burdens and your request, listen, and receive: I want you to let go. Let Go! LET GO!! (and keep letting go!)”
“Yes. Give it up. Give it all up. I want you to be free. For that freedom you must let go: of your chronic need to find fault with, blame, criticize, get even with, control, manipulate, impress, crave approval from, or otherwise “fix” others. You are not their spiritual mechanic, or their doctor. I am. Get out of the way, and allow Me to be. You must let others go, as you never have. Give up, on having power over others, acting like they exist for you to direct, or criticize; wishing they were different; or, craving their accolades, their recognition and appreciation of you. Then distancing yourself, or getting mad at them, when they fail to do as you wish.”
“Others exist for you to love. Give your attention and energy to that, and you will be much happier. If and when you perceive they do not love you in return, deliberately release them, immediately, give each one to me, each one who has troubled you, disappointed you, even hurt you, intentionally or otherwise, it does not matter. Just release them, to me.”
“My dear son, you need to understand this: each and all are broken in various ways, and do not see their own idolatries, strongholds, and wounds, with which they attempt to infect or afflict you . So let them all go, with love, forgiveness, and your blessing. Forgive everyone. Give them, and your pain, to me. I know how to care for them. “
“Paradoxically, it is others who are in fact, controlling you. By not letting them go, with love, and instead blaming them, or craving their approval, you automatically choose to give them power over you. And, as idols do, this one controls your heart, and keeps you from walking in the real freedom and love I desire for you. You have made both the kind and the evil words and actions of others more important to you than I want them to be. I want you to let them go. I created you for a truer freedom and a higher joy than can be found in depending on man, looking to others for your meaning, your security, your identity, your happiness. You have been looking in the wrong direction. I am here, very close to you. I am the giver of joy, and happiness. Right inside your heart is where I want to live, with great joy.”
“As you learn to let go of others, a number of beautiful things will happen in your heart, and in your spirit, as you expand into the fullness I created for you. But be aware! -as promised in my written words, an emptiness will be created when a man cleans out his house. As illustrated in the holy writings, those same spirits can indeed soon return, bringing others, and make it worse than before. To prevent this from happening, you must keep your heart vigilant, i.e., “guard your heart above all else, for out of it flow the springs of life”.
“Specifically, here is what you must do with the vacancy created by throwing out the idols of controlling, blaming, fixing, criticizing, not forgiving, putting your self above others. Just this: FILL that void–the cleansed and freshly opened places in your heart–with praise, love and complete trust in Me. Meditate on my words, as if they are the richest, most nourishing food, even as if your life depends on them. They are, and it does.”
“Please remember this vital truth: Only as you surrender, and renounce your critical and desperate need for others to be what you want them to be, will you be set truly FREE from their control. Only then are you able to love me, your heavenly Father, with all your heart, soul, mind and strength. This is what my son Jeshua clearly taught is the first and greatest commandment for all men. In focusing on what is wrong with others, you have not loved me.”
“And what about others? As you grow in your love for and trust in Me, I will enable you to walk in the second greatest commandment. You will find to your surprise, that as you let go of your need to control others, and to banish their control of you, you will be freed up, empowered to truly love and forgive them, with my perfect love. I will make you free, indeed.”
“I love you son. Share this with others.” — -your Father
Early March snowsquall, near Asheville NC
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Winter’s End
(From notes on 3.4.8)
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There is something compelling, although
a bit sad, a melting joy perhaps
that draws our eyes again, again
out to those last lingering scraps
of old, latewinter
snows.
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Spring is fast approaching, bright yellows
bursting luminescent greens, but these
pathetic vestiges
of February storms–their vast
severe and passionate beauty, fades
forgotten, like torn blue theater-tickets
in wool pockets;
scented lavender scarves stashed away,
dark closets, ’til next year.
Winter’s remnants are thrown
behind the briar thicket, north side of the barn.
And all along the brushy fences
winter’s edge departs, homeless, in patches,
harmless now, in ragged shades.
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The hold of ice is shrinking by the hour:
thin fingers, their frozen nails letting go:
great reluctance, the thawing land,
our yearning hearts.
Winter’s last hiding place?
–that long blue shadow, cast
by the empty stone silo on the hill;
and in here, embers we keep poking
on the hearth, although we know
they’ve fallen, into ash.
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“aint no doubt in no one’s mind. . .
. . .love’s the finest thing around,
whisper something soft, and kind.”
-James Taylor, Gone to Carolina, in my mind
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Whatever Else Comes Your Way
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Don’t miss the pungent smells, the music
latesummer morning rain makes:
how it dances, hammers lightly
the dry ground, rattles
those first gold birch leaves
drifted down;
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four crows crying, flying low
toward us, out of the heavy grey hemlocks,
thick shrouds of mist;
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a handful of white rose petals, dropped
to the black dirt, a long arm
of thorns shaken hard by storms
in the night;
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dear ones, waking slowly,
coming to you, gentle sleepy arms
and hair, soft morning words
murmuring love, just for you
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Mt. Katahdin, Maine
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Packing for a Trip
Bright warm Saturday, early autumn
wind scatters the dry leaves.
I spread old camping gear out
in the mown lawn–a trip next week
far to the North
to climb old Katahdin, again.
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Opened to the sun, the little tent
unfolds a wrinkled staleness of old smoke.
Fire-stain on the mess gear.
Moss-scrubbed scratches, sand-washed
the falling creeks of years.
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Where are they now? –once kindred ones
who shared the story of those fires
and snows, the heaving shadowed
candle love.
Would I know their faces, perhaps
their voices, long silent on the trails
of my mind. Would they know me?
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I find a quicker desire, to tell
my daughters: where I’ve been and why
I’m going back twenty eight years later
(as if I know).
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But the house is empty.
The older daughter is a barista
laying coffee down at a cool java shop,
her first job. And the other, younger one
has gone to the mall with friends.
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I do not blame them for not being here.
Indeed, we must pack, and carry
many precious and heavy things
alone.
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High country meditation
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Considering Ravens
(for Tom Linsley)
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We rested by the mountain trail
top of a high south-facing cliff.
Latewinter sun, out of the wind
the smell of fir and warming stone.
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The far horizon flattened out
its waves, pale evanescing blue
like time, like love, the sea.
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Soaring below us, black wings shining
in wide wheels, dives and cartwheels
four ravens cavorted, chortling.
Just playing. Not nesting or hunting.
For a long time we sat and watched them.
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Those few elder women
who learned to truly listen:
whose words grew richer, fewer, like the years
they had remaining; sweeter, too
like plums or apricots, ripened
in a warmer sun.
Or those old men who grew smaller,
kinder, wiser in their latter years
yet still flew kites with children–
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–are they not like the ravens?
Beings who’ve been set free
from self.
The ones who knew at last
how to laugh, to love, let go
in empty air, so full of light
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Please read Luke 12: 22-34, and consider
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September moon, pines, bamboo
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some recent haiku
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the strong black tea, steams.
white pages of holy words
rustle, morning wind
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a few silver drops,
early morning leaves.
one white rose in bloom
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autumn afternoon
longing Maine’s rough coast, I read
Sarah Jewett
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September night forest
chaos of echoes, a thousand
cicadas, chattering
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deep night woods
cicadas chant incessantly
like dark, ancient priests
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long train, rolling
downriver slowly, into night.
how quick the cricket chirps!
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Autumn morning fog, goldenrod
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A few recent moments:
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September’s last light
across the deep green fields
brown horses, glistening
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the land darkens, cool.
towering above the black mountains
bright cumulus thrones
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the whole wide painted sky
fades to ashes, dusk.
one grey appaloosa
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the old man, his thin rake
scratches the fallen leaves,
scratches the fallen leaves
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night windows:
summer’s last crickets, and rain
softly, September leaves
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“A strong nation, like a strong person can afford to be gentle, firm, thoughtful, restrained. A strong nation can afford to extend a helping hand to others. It is a weak nation, like a weak person that must behave with bluster and boasting and rashness, and other signs of insecurity.” –former president, Jimmy Carter
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recent moments:
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first frost, tonight
fallen from the stars.
Cold black bristling grass
* * *
how she prayed for me!
quiet room, that old farmhouse
sunlight washed the floor
* * *
(Cardinals in Autumn)
nesting time, he
tenderly put seeds in her beak.
Now, he scares her off
* * *
“Stairway into the dawn, Paris 1908″
* * *
I dedicate today’s writings to my son-in-law, Stephan, with deep affection and appreciation for him
* * *
Morning Reflections: “Redemption”
Traditionally, the use of the ponderous word, “redemption” has been reserved for purposes and conversations religious. And so, redemption (along with the monkish connotations that travel with it) tends to lead us away from ‘warm and fuzzy’, ‘user-friendly’, quickneasy, etc. –attributes our present culture likes to demand. (The evidence of this? Our well-acknowledged ‘dumbing down’, our “wide-spread” obesity, our rabid technology’s persistent theft of relationships, the prevailing ethic:I*want*it*now*!). Even church in America is feeling a strong pull toward a drive-thru, consumer-based momentum of instant gratification. Redemption appears to be too complicated, time consuming, perhaps even discomfiting, asking that we see things as they are, not as we wish they were.
At its source, redemption is a very practical term of valuation, having to do with ascribing or restoring worth. But when applied to our eternal spirits, a radically different currency is used than that of the monetary exchange to which we are accustomed: time, talent, labor, barter, banknotes. Disturbing indeed–to realize we are flat broke, and can not earn that currency. Paradoxically, a personal recognition of poverty preceeds the outflowing of redemption:
” Blessed are the poor in spirit, theirs is the kingdom of Heaven” -Jesus
So if we are honest, we usually do not feel welcomed by the word, redemption. Too ‘heavy’. Truthfully, it sounds rather lofty for our common thought and talk, our daily round of grabbing at trifles, usually in a hurry, with consequent stress. We tend to place redemption in a category, a shadowy church-box we might enter for an hour or two (partly out of true guilt? partly from real hunger?) once a week or so. Our notions of redemption, for the most part, do not give us comfort. As a result, much of the time we do not walk in the real powers of redemptive truth.
But this is sad, very sad indeed. Because a fuller appreciation and actual experience of redemption reveal it to be the living source of true joy, realized life-purpose and actual freedom. These are among the very highest human realities we were made to experience. But we habitually seek in vain for them elsewhere: from government, career advancement, “religion”, various ’causes’, knowledge, money, stuff, illicit sex, hobbies, pleasure for its own sake, entertainment, chemicals that goof with our brains, etc. etc. etc. Like all societies more or less constantly in a state of grope and flux, collectively and individually we do have our pantheons. And we must have them. We are each created with a strong need and compelling desire for a “hiding place”. We think our gods will help us escape the inescapable facts of human life. Although every idol does have its payoff, not one can offer a crumb of redemption, our deepest hunger. It’s a deep-seated appetite for restoration, some confirmation of our true worth, an innate desire for some lasting significance. It seems we will grab at most anything to get this, or a likely substitute. Watching or listening closely to anyone, we soon learn what is his reason for living, what he is feeding to his soul. It may or may not be redemptive, providing true and lasting worth.
Transcending our desperation is this potent fact: we are not random, nor are we im-personal. We are relational beings. Indeed, both our capacity and our need for redemption grow out of the fact that we were created to “love mercy, do justly, and walk humbly with our God”. -Our most vital, and ironically, usually most neglected relationship. Also, our bruised and needy lives are intricately intertwined with bruised and needy others. We are engineered, designed: biochemically, anatomically and emotionally, to be deeply cared for and to care deeply, to believe, and to belong– to something, or someone. None of us is in any sense autonomous, truly independent, though how we try to be! In our natural state we are, each one, exceedingly vulnerable, and thus frequently damaged and disoriented by life itself, existentially lonely, wondering and quite insecure. And so we grasp and clutch, pathetically chase and hang on to almost anything–for a sense of identity, communion and individual purpose.
We hear that initiates in some gangs are told to drink the gang-leaders’ collected urine to show faithfulness to the gang “family”. Talk about communion! In slightly less dramatic extremes, watch how we manufacture and cling: to slogans and cliches; how we run desperately with blind allegiance to this leader, that herd, party or denomination–for security, direction, and meaning–all of which tend to exclude others. Even true non-conformists, and there are very few real ones, for their very sanity and validation always predictably develop credos, codes, and standards, an elitist lingo–all of which promote their own peculiar agenda and community, and thus reject those who do not believe in and speak their particular language. Very interesting. Filial cohesion, of whatever stripe, does not amount to redemption. Although we can point others to its source, humans can not grant redemption.
So even if we choose the extreme of a-theism (so called) if we are honest, we’re back to square one: an unavoidable, and inexplicable need for validation, belonging, identity, security, the very qualities released for us only by a true, and costly redemption. But try as we may, we can not pay for it. We notice very few self-avowed atheists are able or willing to be that needy, and straightforward. Tragically insightful, how often prominent atheists are not able to bear the very real darkness they have created with their “bright” minds, and thus choose to end their own lives. Any child can see how the nihilists aggressively and foolishly disprove their own case. The truth is we all crave, deeply need something in which to believe, a sense of import, inclusion. In attempts to fill the hollow and hurting places crying out in us, we functionally worship at many altars.
It is precisely there, RIGHT THERE, where the powerful realities of redemption approach each of us–at the finally unavoidable recognition of our limits, how we inevitably fail in many ways. At that place we at last become able to face our critical need for some guarantee of our essential value, in an absolute sense. This, in spite of our many obvious deficiencies, which can overwhelm us. We have lived enough to discover that solace of this quality is not forthcoming from our toys and hobbies. Nor from rule-keeping, good deeds and mere “religion.” It is a broad smile on the face of God and His strong forgiving embrace, for which we hunger. Not a gold star, an attaboy, a promotion, more money or stuff. We were created for ultimate and reciprocal intimacy–with God, and with others.
In our home, we enjoy watching movies. We enjoy most a film that will portray a poignant, worthwhile truth in a plausible, non-exploitative manner. Interestingly, in the last year or so, we’re hearing the words redemption and redemptive thrown around quite a lot, describing movie plots and themes, even certain characters. And I am glad to hear the term, see the concept being pursued and employed(sometimes quite accurately) on the big screen where millions can consider: what is actually meant by redemption? Thankfully, even Hollywood is beginning to de-frock redemption of its put-offish religious garb and scent, not too unlike napthalene, mothballs. (Sorry, moths).
An astounding, truly miraculous happening is possible for each of us. (But oddly, it is something we may not even notice, at first). Just this: once we humble ourselves to that point where we enter the liberating process of heart-metamorphosis and exchange, we see that redemption is among the friendliest and most exciting of words. Redemption becomes an unfolding experience in transportation, very much like waking in the morning to a greater light in a new city, or country. That light changes how we perceive, everything. We realize that we had been sleeping, in darkness, under the spell of confusing dreams.
Ironically, in its New Testament origins , the word redemption was chosen because of its practical usefulness as a common term in the marketplace: The scribes of God’s new Covenant used an economic term to portray a profoundly spiritual fact. Look it up: redeem–to buy or get back, to recover; to pay off; to turn in (a coupon, note, or promise for a discount, free pass, or premium; to ransom; to deliver from; to fulfill(a promise); to make amends or atone for; to restore (to favor) –all very positive, robust actions, indeed!
Redemption is a word I have opened up and looked at much more closely, in recent years. I am very glad to say I am no longer put off by it. It is a “religious” word for me no longer. Now, it carries the hearty aroma of fresh bread, ground from a whole grain; the fragrance of a rare, blood-red vintage, crushed from fully-ripened carefully selected grapes. Redemption has the feeling of a strong warm arm, gentle around my shoulders, by one who knows me intimately, and still loves me, perfectly, tenderly holding me through it all, guiding me with unlimited kindness, wisdom and mercy.
Yet there is more, much more in redemption, than just the mending of our past. We also receive encouragement, renewal and power, as from no other source, for the unique healing path Christ offers, to individually walk with Him each day. His unqualified, illogical and unreasonable affection for each of us is in deed, our redemption, that is, our deliverance, our tangible experience of freedom and realized joy. Wonder of wonders, He transforms the gifts He gave us, and enables each of us to love, and to forgive, even as He loves and forgives us. As we expand into that amazing truth, very real chains drop away from our minds, our hearts. We become free, indeed.
For many years now I have enjoyed the writings of Oswald Chambers, a very gifted young man who lived on this earth from 1874-1917. His grasp of the truths of Yeshua, the Christ, was both unconventional and profound, as evidenced by the fact that his writings have remained in print and popular, for many decades. Reading him is both challenging and exceedingly rewarding. The topic for today, in his well-known book My Utmost for His Highest, began my inspiration for today’s blog. I am including here selected passages from today’s meditation: “The Nature of Regeneration”. As you can see, it sheds a bright and clear light on redemption. I hope you will give this some earnest “heart time”, and that you will allow the truth of Christ presented here to enter you, to redeem you, to reform and encourage you. May you experience His love for you. -Quilla
The Nature of Regeneration” -October 6, from My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers
“If Jesus Christ is going to regenerate me, what is the problem He faces? Simply this–I have a heredity in which I had no say, or decision. I am not holy, nor am I likely to be; and if all Jesus can do is tell me that I must be holy, His teaching only causes me to despair.
“But if Jesus Christ is truly a regenerator, someone who can put His own heredity of holiness into me, then I can begin to see what He means when He says that I must be holy. Redemption means that Jesus Christ can put into anyone the hereditary nature that was in Himself. …My part is simply to agree with God’s verdict on sin, as He judged it on the cross of Christ. (With that agreement, the process of redemption can begin).
“The New Testament teaching about regeneration is that when a person is hit by his own sense of need, God will put the Holy Spirit into his spirit, and his spirit will be energized by the Spirit of the son of God…. “until Christ is formed in you”. The miracle of redemption is that God can put a new nature into me, through which I can live a totally new life. But I must get to that point. God can not put into me, responsible moral creature that I am, the nature that was in Jesus Christ unless I am aware of my need for it.”
“Redemption means that I can be delivered from the heredity of sin; that through Jesus Christ I can receive a pure and spotless heredity, namely, the Holy Spirit of God.”
Aspens in winter
* * *
Recent moments:
*
in the drier, clothes
tumbling. Pleiades
rising over the trees
* * *
Her old parents, ailing.
My wife gone for a week.
Autumn moon, setting
* * *
I dig up summer’s spent
flowers, my mother’s garden
her eightieth autumn
* * *
(a memory):
*
midnight. the snow finally
stopped. Two feet deep. Silently
she walked away
* * *
hundred year old
wildwood church, boarded up.
the wind, the stream. . .
* * *
many years after:
whoosh of raven wings
over the black firs
* * *
October afternoon
birds all silent now, but
the neighbor’s rooster
* * *
Sugar maple, Kimberly Avenue, Asheville NC 10.8.8
* * *
autumn rain drums
stop for a second,
we pass under the bridge
* * *
drops of morning rain
interlocking rings, suddenly
vanishing
* * *
You are anxious and troubled about many things. Only one thing is needful. -Luke10: 41-42
“We think there are a thousand things we should be concerned with, but there is actually only one. If we take care of that one thing, all the others will find themselves done. And if we fail to take care of the one thing that is needful, all the others–no matter how successfully we may seem to do them–will fall into ruin. So why are we so torn between matters of the heart and our worldly cares?
“Father God, give me the grace to be faithful in my actions, but indifferent to success. The only thing I ought to be concerned with is to desire your will and to quietly meditate on you–even in the midst of busy times. It is up to you to crown my feeble actions with such fruit as is pleasing to you–and none at all, if that is what you find best for me.” -Fenelon
* * *
“Mercy, peace and love be yours in abundance” -Jude, vs. 2
October rose
*
petals already fallen
around the vase. but
these scratches on my hand….
* * *
imagined a wild sweet
bird flew in the opened window,
flew out again
* * *
* * *
Now the Dogwood Trees at Dusk
are almost naked, shake with windy rain.
Red leaves scatter the long dismal lawns,
the empty park.
*
Crows are barking at the approaching darkness
harshly, as if angry and lost, wanting
our hearts forever stained with shadow.
They fly off to roost in the tall black spruces.
*
But through the rain I also hear
more hope-filled notes:
a small girl finishing piano lessons.
A joyful pink raincoat carrying books and music
she sings down the worn stone steps to the car,
pays no attention to the dark trees
full of angry crows.
*
Her mother talks a moment
on the wide covered porch
to the kind teacher with white arms, folded
against the damp and cold.
She says good-bye, and walks back
into the lights of her old house.
*
Back in the car, in her wet purple raincoat
the mother fumbles a moment with her purse
and keys. They drive away, talking
laughing, mother and daughter
down the darkly shining windy street
of fallen leaves, into the rainy night.
* * *
-Observed on a quiet street at twilight
a mid-October evening, 2006,
the day after my oldest daughter left home.
Home
* * *
When my gifted counselor first gave this picture to me a couple of weeks ago, to be very honest, I politely thanked her, but inwardly I reacted somewhat in this manner: “that’s very nice, cute and sweet and all, but what has that got to do with me? I’m not that lamb. I’m not innocent. Nor am I young and tender any more. I’m bruised and scarred, weathered with much wandering and willfully getting lost in brier thickets and steep cliffs, I’m weary and blood-stained from being chased by devouring wolves. But neither am I that weak and helpless. Yes, life is tough, but I’ve learned how to handle it fairly well, on my own, of course with God’s help in the truly hard places. I do stay in frequent touch with him. So what has that picture got to do with me? That picture is for spiritual babies.
But I was challenged to look at it, more closely, to get beyond the superficial “cuteness” and raw innocence of it. I became aware that I needed to allow it to penetrate my heart, to let myself SEE what is really going on in this deceptively “simple” sketch, depicting the embrace of perfect love. I have put the picture on the wall above my desk, right in front of me, beside a lamp, where I look at it several times each day. Sometimes I even go beyond merely “looking” at it, opening myself to truly pondering it. It continues to exert and reveal its gentle redemptive power to me.
As is true with many things portraying emotional and spiritual truths, we discover layers. Many layers. Actually I think the layers exist more in our own hearts, and minds, than in the artwork itself. By the miracles of creativity, the art is just a medium, transferring something infinitely more brilliant. This curious, searching light, if we allow it, has the power to find us ‘where we live’, and peels back our accretions of tough protective tissue. Ironically, our layers desensitize us, letting us ‘survive’, rather than truly live, by walking in the light of God’s healing love. It is His radiance that shines a very real kind of light into the depths of our secret and personal shadows. We are permitted to see things to which we had been blind. The power operative here transcends mere intelligence, or knowledge, in the same way a shining white stone tumbles down through fathoms of dark waters.
It is possible for these epiphanies to happen as we welcome that light, allowing it to reveal to us what it will. But more often, “life happens” to us, and we are made to look at things, others, and see ourselves as we really are. Having experienced both methods a number of times, I assure you, the former path–the one of chosen surrender–although somewhat humbling, is much more pleasant. Deliberately abandoning the narcissistic need to be my own god effectively means I choose to relinquish the seductive illusion of control. This significant spiritual act always results in an expanded capacity both to receive, and to express: affection and mercy. “God resists the proud, but comes close to those whose hearts are broken”. When a hard wind and rain blow away our “props”, as they can and do, we discover, among many other things, we aren’t who we thought we were. We’d been in a fog, dreaming vanities. As we awake, this picture of the Shepherd tenderly holding a lamb becomes much more sharply etched, poignantly beautiful to us, revealing levels of needful comfort and belonging that go beyond words. Unfaithful sons return stumbling and starving from the many piglots of life, and from lifeless and shallow religions. Amazingly, when all the dust clears from our crumbling idols, with eyes wide open we can see the Father eagerly waiting for us, arms outstretched with redeeming love.
In the past two weeks or so since I was first given this picture, I’ve come to see it much differently. Day by day I am admitting to the realization that this charcoal sketch has everything to do with me. It is the toughened, wounded cynical orphaned rebellious stubborn prideful “self-sufficient” SELF-righteous rebel who tries to rule my heart, –he is the one that does not want to look at this picture. Yes. –that grotesque unloving caricature of the man I was created to be, indeed, the man who, in Christ’s love, I truly AM. He is a miserable facsimile of the real me, he is an impostor, a deluded conceited fool who is repelled by the transforming powers of divine love. He is the one who is afraid to face the truth. (I think you know what I am talking about; he manifests in each of us, in various forms). I am discovering that I must actively renounce him, and his insidious strongholds on me, daily. He wants very much, to sit on my throne, whispering half-truths and appealing lies. But as I learn to depose him, repeatedly, I become more open, receptive to the truth. I’m given a keener, clearer vision, able to see the Shepherd and lamb picture as if it were drawn for me. It was.
Two hearts are beating in the picture. One heart beats with this vital truth: my part in the divine relationship is to consent, to let myself BE LOVED, and FORGIVEN, allowing myself to be tenderly held–by the very God I have resisted, denied and from whose love I have tried to escape. Each of us in his own way has willingly let the combined powers of pride, fear, and unbelief do this to us. The inevitable result of this is that we have been lead far away from the intimate affection and protection portrayed by the simple strokes in this picture.
So let me pass this challenge along to you. (Please, do not skim this. You do not really have anything more important to rush off to.) Look at this picture long enough to get beyond your surface reactions to it. That’s important. And then, over the days and weeks, begin to ask yourself these questions: “Could this picture be possible, for me? Could I, by some stretch, be a lamb of God? –totally forgiven, held with a tenderness beyond all imagining? Could it be true? That, my friend, is up to you.
Can you picture yourself in this personal cameo, held closely by this sacrificial shepherd—the very Lamb of God, Yeshua Himself. If not, I would challenge you to ask yourself, why not?
It’s a very important question, tantamount to another question asked by the same shepherd: “Who do you say that I am? ” You will never be asked a more critical or practical question. If you are brave enough, and take the time to answer it with full honesty, your answer may be quite revealing. If you are truly courageous, ACT on the obvious implications of your answer. Everything will be transformed for you. But YOU are the only one who can do that. May God’s Spirit help you with these things.
* * *
“I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” -Romans 8: 38-39
* * *
“O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out, and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.
“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.
“If I say ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me, even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.
“For your created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
“How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand. When I awake, I am still with you”. from Psalm 139
…there walked one among us, who burned with the love of God for us, yes! how she burned with love for God’s Christ. He is the pure Fountainhead, the true source of her deep and genuine affection, and her abiding joy….
* * *
walking to worship
surprised! -a few sparrows
burst from the cold vines
* * *
she’d told no one til now,
with tears, a nickel she stole
75 years ago
* * *
newspaper, wind-bells,
gold leaves rustle me to dreams–
inside, a door shuts
* * *
its quick shadow
streaks across my page,
settles in the trees
* * *
autumn morning sounds:
*
Gregorian echoes.
Slow tires crushing acorns.
a faint ticking….
* * *
RL
*
deep lines in his face
smiling, smelling of coffee
he asks for old maps
* * *
October sunrise
* * *
Windless forest:
leaves falling, a sound like
footsteps, and whispers
* * *
all these colored leaves
flickering down. the skeletons
they leave behind
* * *
Beyond the old farm-shed
fields of goldenrod, ground fog
autumn morning moon
* * *
a thousand miles away
I listen, feel her pain.
Rain tears off the leaves
* * *
* * *
The smell of Tea
*
Hauge said “a good poem
should smell of tea”.
*
I don’t think he meant
just those words with fragrance
of steeped, black leaves
from China or India, the piquant taste
lingering on our tongues.
(Ah, that would be nice).
*
Maybe this: the way the wide grey lake
steams in wind, November mornings
a raft of geese is quickly leaving, the water
flinging off their wings.
*
My little daughter’s hair, autumn days
playing in the leaves.
When she was happy helping me
split and stack the fresh-cut cherry wood
and the mountains were still young.
*
A room once full.
Stale emptiness now,
the faint dry smells of February, snow
whispering against the windows.
Soft piano notes
remembering.
*
Raw cold dirt, finally thawed
and broken open, for seeds.
Noses and fingers
nearly frozen
planting the first snow peas.
* * *
Old store on Bald Creek Rd near Bee Log NC 10.15.8
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
October morning under Firescald Mtn NC 10.15.8
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
Plank bridge over Bald Creek near Roaring Fork NC 10.15.8
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
Dogwood, mid October, Lotties Creek NC
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
Bottomland fog near Flat Creek NC 10.16.8
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
Private mountain cove, Lotties Creek near Bee Log NC
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
Mountain Farm on Bald Creek NC 10.15.8
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
Maples in October, McKinney Gap NC 10.16.8
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
October fog, near Elk Wallow Gap, NC 10.17.8
(Please click on the photo, to enlarge)
* * *
Some recent moments:
*
She looked up
from her cheerios–a fox
crossed the far meadow
* * *
Dawn’s cold fire:
from blue shadows, yellows burst,
and the cardinal’s breast
* * *
Even at mid-day
shadows reaching longer
like cool fingers
* * *
Sabbath morning joy:
others still asleep, I walk out
into cold fog, bright leaves
* * *
Morning-glory vine
twines its purple blooms, around
the bleached horse skull
* * *
(Matthew five, twenty):
*
Cold white morning fog.
Pondering those holy words,
October’s white roses
* * *
November approaching,
the hills beginning to look
like a Wyeth sketch
* * *
Two white moths, spiraling
upwards, as one,
the autumn sun
* * *
Why is it–we let
so many other things, steal
moments of stillness?
* * *
Sirens screaming past.
Two hundred year old oaks
slowly dropping leaves.
* * *
Through thick morning fog:
crows’ harsh laughter,
white-throat’s tiny flute
* * *
Here, such stillness.
But on that far hill
gold trees, shimmering
* * *
Birch sapling, below Rocky Knob 10.17.8
(please click on photo, to enlarge)
* * *
Earlier this morning I was listening to one of my long-time favorite teachers, Chuck Swindoll, a man with more wisdom and joy than most ten people you are likely to meet. As much as Chuck laughs and relishes life—in his mid seventies he still rides a big Harley—it’s quite obvious that he loves Christ and His words far more. (Which probably explains his high quotient of wisdom, love and joy, since these are the real fruits of fully loving God). I would like to be more like him (both Jesus and Chuck). He is such a living encouragement that growing older does not have to be a deterioration into bitterness, blaming, regret, boasting and whining. (These ugly habits often start developing naturally at a very young age!)
Since I was driving while listening to Chuck’s words, I did not write them down. But like a good teacher, he repeated them, and referred back, so I think I got most of the two important principles he was teaching. So I am paraphrasing. And I have added some of my thoughts and responses to what he was saying. I hope you enjoy these few paragraphs, and meditate on them. I see the need to take certain steps to apply them in thought, and relationships. Chuck’s words contain far more gold than most of the stuff we hear:
“Over the years, I have found that these two truths apply to all of us. The first involves our human relationships: Most of the time, we do not get what we deserve from others. So don’t expect it. It works both ways, with our successes and our failures. When we have done something well, often we do not receive the degree of praise and recognition that we think the “something” deserves. You can almost count on it. In fact, some of our really significant victories, achievements, etc. are not even noticed by others.”
“Until we accept, and make peace with this fundamentally human FACT, we will waste a lot of time and energy being hurt, or disappointed, sulking, or trying to ‘get even’ with others in various ways. We think someone slighted us, or did not love us well by not noticing us, not paying us more attention. We need to realize that usually, his or her “neglect” did not have much to do with us, personally. We just ‘happened to be there’, and our behavior or words catalyzed a reaction in them. Realizing this is most liberating! (Perhaps they even said something needful for us to hear.) Most of us are so self-focused, we don’t see or hear others very clearly. We do not appreciate the depths of her individual pain or insecurity; nor do we see that his actions and attitude may be the natural fallout that results from his serving some imbalanced or foolish agenda. Understanding this does not make unloving behavior right. It just empowers us to refuse to take it personally. Seeing others as they are also enables us to choose to forgive. The truth is, every one of us frequently forgets who we are, and why we’re here. Thus, it’s inevitable that we are loved but poorly, by humans, much of the time. And we often reciprocate in similar fashion”.
“This truth also works with our “dark side”–our many failures, oversights and omissions, our more deliberate sins. Regarding these, if they are even seen or known by others, (which they often are not) we usually do not receive the degree of chastisement or questioning that our actions truly deserve, if they were made public. For better or worse, there are few if any, who know or love us well enough to clearly perceive our heights OR our depths. Therefore be very grateful for someone who loves you well enough to see you more fully than most do, and is willing to comment on both the true goodness to which you’ve risen, and the darkness to which you’ve fallen; and, who is able to steady you with appreciative, restoring affection and mercy. That is true, unselfish love and friendship.”
“The other truth, quite in contrast to human realities, is this: your heavenly Father always gives you what is best. You can count on that, and so you should. This best usually will not be on your terms, or timetable, or served to you just the way you want it. But if you are looking, you can see His loving hand reaching toward you, faithfully loving you, attempting to restore you, through it all. It is His plan for each of us, to believe and walk in this foundational FACT of God’s love. Indeed, accepting the Father’s personal love actualizes our capacity to receive and express love–toward God, and others. But this all begins in a very private relationship with our loving Father-God. This is very key, and central to all of life, and loving. Because the quality of that friendship openly demonstrates, to everyone, the extent to which we actually do love His words, and trust Him with our lives. Everything else flows out of this. You will find no exceptions. We each need to expect less of others, much less. And to believe more in our perfect Father, much more. Here, we become truly secure, allowing His love to flow through us out to others, without the need to judge or reject them for their failings. This is the way Christ Himself loves each of us. That truth will set you free, from much unnecessary pain. It will also enable you to make a creative and positive difference in the lives of others, because they are no longer “on trial” before you. That is why loving God is the first, and greatest commandment, for all of us.”
-paraphrased and amplifed from Chuck Swindoll’s message, 10.21.8
October Rose
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“I have noticed that wherever there has been a faithful following of the Lord in a consecrated soul, several things have inevitably followed, sooner or later. Meekness and quietness of spirit become in time the characteristics of the daily life. A submissive acceptance of the will of God as it comes in the hourly events of each day; pliability in the hands of God to do or to suffer all the good pleasure of his will; sweetness under provocation; calmness in the midst of turmoil and bustle; yieldingness to the wishes of others, and an insensibility to slights and affronts; absence of worry or anxiety; deliverance from care and fear—all these, and many similar graces, are invariably found to be the natural outward development of that inward life which is hidden with Christ, in God.” -H.W.S. Oct.21, Daily Strength for Daily Needs
“Seek first His kingdom, and His righteousness” –Jesus
Dave Moore, North face of Big Snowball Mtn. 10.29.8
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A bit about Haiku, living in the present, walking in the Spirit:
(a remix, from earlier)
Please see haiku, below article
*
This morning I saw a phrase that caught my attention: “It is always now”. Actually, it was the title given to a beautiful, reflective piece of flute and guitar music, either the particular song that was playing, or the album project itself. Unfortunately I did not catch the artist’s name. I appreciate the gentle yet pensive arrangement of notes, calling me to to pause and rest, breathe more deeply, let my mind slow down and quieten a bit, in the healing beauty of that moment.
Those words caught my eye, because that realization—It is always NOW—lives at the heart of haiku writing, a diminutive art form that for many years I have found useful for capturing the essence of insights, and daily moments, big and small. (See recent haiku below this article, and on the posts of other days).
Indeed, this truth also beats at the very heart of the Christ-life: the vital importance of Now, and its linkage to eternity. He teaches me to slow down, give myself more completely to the present moment in which I am living. At this level of heightened awareness, I am able to rest in the moment, listen more closely, talk less. I begin to actually see those individual persons with whom I am involved, enabled to “BE HERE NOW” for them.
This inner, spiritual expansion is a gradual process, reaching outward. By practice, I can learn to enter into the sanctuary of everyday happenings and persons, enlightened by God’s words, and His presence. In that beautiful place, He shows me something truly amazing in its simplicity, and directness: It is the Father’s pleasure for me to love others, as and where they are, right NOW, just as He loves me. This wonderfully challenging and creative task of living in the Now, begins by just being present for those immediately before me. For this, I must put my own agenda aside, opening my attentiveness to the needs of others. You can call this process an ongoing, and willful surrender. It is a calling––first, to slow down, listen, and see. Then, to give.
This emphasis on presence contrasts sharply with two common self-oriented preoccupations: shuffling through the mental albums of the past, or its opposite—projecting onto my mind-screen those hypothetical pictures of what I think, or hope, or fear is going to happen. For the most part, our notions of past and future are highly subjective, and thus distorted, illusory. But so much of our mental time and emotional energy is given to either, or both: cherishing the past or regretting it, eagerly anticipating what (we think) lies ahead, or dreading it. Either of these concentrations effectively prevents me from being totally present, always giving myself to the most important moment: this one.
As a culture pathologically shallow and in a hurry, our life-energy and attention are often dissipated, fragmented by multi-tasking, and dazzling gadgetry. Someone insightfully commented: “it’s as if our whole society has ADD!” Communication and transfer of information must be instant, brief, often truncated with interruptions. It seems that a few bytes at a time is all many of us can absorb.
(I realize this is not light stuff. So at this point it’s okay if you take a break, go check your messages, or something more pressing).
Just one unfortunate result of all our rushing is this: we barely know, much less believe or practice this simple but powerful truth: BE, HERE, NOW. . . And WAIT . . . on the Lord. Let him catch up with you! HE has some things he wants very much to say to you, and through you. Could that be one of the primary reasons we do not slow down, and listen?
It is joyfully possible for us to grow in our capacity to be more fully present, to learn how to “be still, and know”, to savor and to ponder, to love more sincerely, and tenderly, perhaps even to understand. “In quietness and confidence is your strength”. Yes, I can actually learn to embrace the present circumstance, giving myself more singly to that person or task right in front of me, as I open myself to its possibilities. Of course this does mean slowing down, saying no, or please wait, to many things. It is a deliberately learned discipline, empowered by the stillness gathered in frequent meditations, allowing God to breathe his words, slowly and deeply into me. Many of our leaders today talk very rapidly, as if desperately trying to keep up with the frenetic culture, and in their haste, somehow be more “relevant”. And so we have not been taught how to do this basic human/divine act: be still, meditate, seek God’s wisdom, patiently allow the hurts in our hearts to surface to the light, where they can be healed. (As a result, we also grow in our empathy for the wounds and yearnings of others).
In contrast to this inner path of restoration, much of the emphasis is placed on doing. And not doing. Perennially, and quite paradoxically, good remains the greatest enemy of the best. Martha was a good woman, “busy with many things”. But her sister “chose the better part” -Jesus
When will any of us “get” this fundamental truth?
Perhaps because stillness resembles death in some ways, we are afraid of it. But meditation on God’s words kindles holy desires in my heart: to burn with a cleaner flame and less smoke; to be whole, de-fragged; to have my various elements cleansed and integrated, and thus more closely resemble my Lord. Wonder of wonders! Scriptures do not record him hurrying, ever. He always took the time, and gave it back, fully—to whomever or whatever was before him.
As I study Christ more closely, I see clearly that he was always completely present for each person or group he encountered, one hundred percent focused. Jesus lived eternally in each moment, a pure fire of holy love that would not be extinguished. By his Spirit, he has passed that flame to us. It is his spoken desire for each of us to burn with that same purity, the quiet intensity of sacrificial love. Those types of beauty radiate uniquely from each of us, as we choose to allow the mystery of his Spirit to live in us, his holy Ruach to breathe his life through us; indeed, as we decide to “abide in his love”.
It is a dynamic mystery, but one thing Christ was trying to teach us is that eternity itself, the kingdom of Heaven (which we often mistakenly think is off in the future somewhere)—is closely linked to and enriched by the love we first receive , and then give back to the billions of present moments that make up our lives. This increased awareness calls for, even demands, a far greater degree of openness, submission, vulnerability, TRUST, and OBEDIENCE—an immediacy of servitude, than we are accustomed to giving.
To experience this level of love and mercy, we must first let go of the myth that happiness, or success, is found in having, getting, and doing. This trinity of idols continually entices, briefly satisfies, and then leaves us, disappointed, over and over, always craving more. “The eye of man is never satisfied”. Although nothing is intrinsically wrong with any of those three, when we make them our reason for living, they each disintegrate, like dust, “right before our very eyes”, as promised.
It is in Being that we discover our essential identity, and purpose. Out of that central core of life–the kingdom of God, within you––having and doing find their proper expressions. Seek first His kingdom, His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Where, what, and on Whom we fix our gaze, makes all the difference! We do tend to get exactly what we seek.
To move in acts of mercy, forgiveness and love, we also abandon our compulsions to fix, blame, judge, control and impress others. But this important ‘horizontal’ movement must follow an even more critical and decisive ‘vertical’ action: we willfully and continually relinquish the sovereign throne of our hearts, to the one who rightfully desires to rule there, in the ongoing present of our lives. His sovereignty actively reveals itself in our relationships and circumstances (or it does not): in the many choices we make each day, in the eternal NOW of passing moments.
(For a few more thoughts on writing Haiku, etc., please scroll down to the introduction, September eighth.)
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Some recent moments:
*
The jogger runs past,
his shadow following
on the fallen leaves
* * *
Cemetery flagpole
the rope rings, and rings. . .
night wind
* * *
Windy autumn rain
whirling all the bright leaves down,
the old trunks don’t move
* * *
Cold morning, barbershop:
92 year old, loudly
cursing the president
* * *
cold wind blew
the smoke away, as we talked,
but his few words…
* * *
Waking late at night:
the Hunter has risen,
the floors are cold
* * *
Waking, 3 a.m.
a truck out on the 4-lane.
winter stars
* * *
Haiku aren’t ‘out there’
but ‘in here’. And yet
a fox barks in the night
* * *
Words rise from the heart.
Orion rises
out of the dark trees
* * *
Billy Collins’ poems:
a dry crust of rye, served
with fresh marmalade
* * *
together:
*
visiting granddaughter
walks the little dog. Grandmother
walks her wooden cane
* * *
She tries so very hard
to be the Queen. But knows
she’s just another pawn
* * *
James 1:22-25:
*
I know what you’ll do
with this: feel quite strongly
then walk away, forget
* * *
eyeing each other:
*
She walks two red chows,
he a mousy Shi-Tzu.
It’ll never work
* * *
The autumn park:
children’s laughter, a cool wind
tearing down the leaves
* * *
10.29.8 hike from Beetree Gap to Hawkbill Rock
(Please click on photos, to enlarge)
NE, From Hawkbill Rock, NC 10.29.8
(Please click photo, to enlarge)
* * *
“God takes a thousand more times more pains with us, than the artist with his picture, by many touches of sorrow, and by many colours of circumstance, to bring us into the form which is the highest and noblest in his sight, if only we receive His gifts and His myrrh in the right spirit….
“No heart can conceive in what surpassing love God gives us the sufferings we endure; yet this which we ought to receive to our soul’s good, we let pass by us in sleepy indifference (or resentment) and so we often miss the point of much of the difficulties before us. Then we come to complain: ‘Alas, Lord! I am so dry, and it is so dark within me!’
“I tell you, dear child, open your heart to the pain, and it will do you more good than if you were full of feelings of devotion” -J. Tauler
“What are you asking me?” -theme from the movie, The Village.
Toward Mt. Mitchell (highest peak in eastern U.S.) 10.29.8
(Please click photo, to enlarge)
* * *
“You sometimes complain: of your birth, your training, your employments, your hardships; but I encourage you, never fancy that you could be something if only you had a different lot and sphere assigned you. God understands His own plan for you, and He knows what you want a great deal better than you do. The very things that you most deprecate, as fatal limitations or obstructions, are probably what you need most. What you call hindrances, obstacles, discouragements, are probably God’s opportunities.
“Bring down your soul. Or rather, bring it up, to receive God’s will and do His work—in your lot, in your sphere, under your cloud of obscurity, against your temptations. Then you shall find that your condition is not opposed to your good, but really consistent with it.” -H. Bushnell(1802-1876)
“For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. . . When you pray, I will listen. If you look for me whole-heartedly, you will find me.” Jeremiah 29: 11
West face of Big Snowball Mtn 10.29.8
(please click photo, to enlarge)
* * *
“Through the power of the Holy Spirit who lives within us, carefully guard the precious truth that has been entrusted to you.” -2 Timothy 1: 14
*
“I cannot tell you how much I love you. But of all things I have most at heart, with regard to you, is the real progress of your soul in the divine life. Heaven seems to be awakened in you. But it is a tender plant. It requires stillness, meekness, and the unity of the heart, totally given up to the unknown workings of the Spirit of God, which will do all its work in the calm soul, that has no hunger or desire but to escape out of the mire of its earthly life, into its lost union and life in God.
“I mention this out of a fear of your giving in to an eagerness about many things, which, though seemingly innocent, yet divide and weaken the workings of the divine life within you.” –William Law(1686-1761)
Sunrise, Beaver Lake 10.31.8
* * *
Emergent
(A poem written in Spring, for those already gone, those yet unborn)
*
We like our lakes to be full.
But the eighty-year-old impoundment
in our town has been drained, nearly empty
a few weeks now.
(They’re fixing a rusted valve near the bottom
of the tall drain tower).
So it’s almost down to its deepest channel—
the small wild beaver-creek, tamed
and buried underwater long ago, dammed
by men, to form the pretty lake.
Now, the ancient skeleton of finger ridges
and caved-in hollows stares up at us
like bones, a face in a dug up grave.
This place of sour mud is ugly, stinks
like death, those things we’ve trashed,
forgotten, sunk from sight.
*
I walked the littered banks, the ledges
and shelves of exposed rock, an old beachcomber
finding what he could find, poking about
the fallen water’s edge.
Here one reads the legacy of rusted scraps
and shards of glass, scrawled by culture’s hurried hand.
Time’s long tides passed, the dried-out crusts
of broken silt yield more beer bottles
than anything else. And a ’75 Toronado.
Someone even found a can of human ash.
Hundreds of bleached mussel shells, cracked open
by herons and raccoons, who left their penciled tracks.
I brought home a sand-logged camera
and a fishing lure—its hook was stuck
in a stump—and an old blue medicine bottle
long submerged, a smooth-washed driftwood root.
*
We like daylight more than dark.
Give us bright surfaces, not the murky depths
(we’d rather float on top, and toss our trash).
We’re desperately afraid of stillness, emptiness;
of pain, and illness, the hard true words they speak.
*
But this morning very early, even before
the slow dim forms of hills emerged
from the deep and empty lake of night
I walked outside. And watched. Listened,
long minutes. I heard, but could not see
the whistling wings of doves, descending
to the ground, to feed.
The lantern glow of fading stars
was taken by the rising opalescent light: a copse
of wild plum trees just in bloom.
Blossoms beginning to gleam, incandescent
with morning, and with Spring—little candelabras
lifted, their white goblets of petals, raised and full
of fragrance, to the rebirth of the land.
*
And I am reminded once again
of the invisible ones—the guardians,
the gatekeepers, those who see us;
the vibrant Springs, and loves already gone.
It is their wineglasses lifting
this pure, hope-filled scent of unborn fruit
for us—to the lovely face of God, the merciful
healing shores of dawn.
* * *
Elk Mountain farm, near Asheville NC Late October/08
* * *
” Injuries can hurt more in the remembrance, than in the receiving of them. A small hurt shall go as it comes; a great injury perhaps may dine, or sup with me; but I shall let none of them lodge with me. I let them all go.
“Why should I vex myself because another hath vexed me? Grief for things past that cannot be remedied, and care for things to come that can not be prevented—both of these may easily hurt me, and can never benefit me. I will therefore commit myself to God in both (past and future) and rather choose to enjoy the present day.” -Joseph Hall (1574-1656)
* * *
“Renew your image, Lord, in me.
Lowly, gentle may I be.
No charms but these to you are dear.
No anger may you ever find,
no pride in my unruffled mind,
but faith, and heaven-born peace be there.” – -Paul Gerhardt (1606-1676)
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“if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins”. —Jesus
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Recent haiku moments:
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Five older ones
do Tai-Chi together, slowly
the long tree shadows
*
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the old master
to the eager student:
don’t talk. just do
*
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pale earth dust
shining, dark side of the moon
what beauty, in shadows!
*
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The sound our steps make
walking on the wooden bridge. Water
rushing underneath
*
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Hard frost this morning.
This afternoon, that fragrance
in the wilted rose
*
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Signpost shadow on asters, Asheville NC 11.4.8
* * *
The Clock, and the Great Ballroom
*
The house is dark, so quiet.
The wall clock clicks its little marks–
minute plastic wheels enmeshed
with interlocking tocks and ticks
and chimes: a programmed march
of manufactured circles and arcs, fixed
on tiny axles: a mechanism, designed
to roll along a long invisible road
like a galaxy, a curving unseen line
out toward infinity,
pulling us with it, turning
two thin plastic arms called hands,
well-trained to point at numbers
painted on its face, telling us
our place, in time.
It is now, 3:29.
*
It’s precise, yes/no rhythm steps
like little feet, the precise white feet
of death, walking up and down the listening night.
It drops its bits of sound into our dreams,
bright coins tossed into a pool—
the fountain stream of sleep.
We travel there, on boats or wings, or pages
of story, like children
or angels, freely, without the need for clocks.
*
Oh, but out in the dark
howling oaks, November winds
come roaring again: like Banshees
unlocked, their ancient living limbs
entwined and groaning, how the Spirit groans
to God at night in the twisted wood,
with words too deep for words.
*
Sparkling silhouettes of trees
in starlight, dance like mimes
across our window panes.
‘It’s only wind, with shadows tossed’
that tears away the year’s last leaves.
Nonetheless, we watch and hear them
dance and chant, they help us grieve
and let go all we’ve lost.
*
I put on coat and shoes
and walk outside. The stars
do not sleep, but keep a slow grace
of pirouettes with such precision
down the seconds and the centuries, these
far-flung elegant geometries.
Black oceans of sky flow through
the naked trees. Unnumbered whorls
of blazing galaxies drift so far from us,
they hide beyond our sight.
They tumble to us just a few
their cast-up shells of light.
Translucent snails, they scrawl
shimmering silver trails of dust
a hundred thousand light-years wide.
*
The windy late autumn night
blows open for me, this celestial door
to a great ballroom. (Far past midnight
the guests have all gone home.
I’m left here watching, quite alone).
The cosmic ceiling spins dark sapphires, bright
with shadow dance: A silent waltz
of fire, and ice
sprawls beyond the reach of clocks
across my turning skies.
* * *
Sycamore, maples, late autumn, Asheville NC
* * *
“This pearl of eternity is the temple of God within you, the consecrated place of divine worship, where alone you can worship God in spirit, and in truth. When once you have become well-grounded in this inward worship, you will have learned to live unto God above time, and place.
“For every day will be Sabbath to you, and, wherever you go, you will have a priest, a temple, and an altar along with you. For when God has all that he should have of your heart, when you are wholly given up to the obedience of the light and the spirit of God within you, so that you will only in His will, you love only in His love, you are wise only in His wisdom, then, it is that everything you do is a song of praise, and the common business of your life is being shaped into God’s will for you, on earth, as angels do in heaven.”
-William Law (1686-1761)
* * *
“Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple, and that God’s spirit lives in you?”
-1 Corinthians 3:16
*
“The Kingdom of God is within you”. -Jesus
* * *
Approaching storm 12.28.7
* * *
Recent moments:
*
Grey gold morning:
low clouds, slow strokes of sun
softly strummed guitar
* * *
crows are calling
across cold morning fields.
Night hounds baying, the far hills
* * *
morning scriptures
I keep moving my chair
into the sun’s light
* * *
The last few leaves
rustle on their twigs. Nuthatches
scratch the bare branches
* * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
The year’s weight of leaves
thousands, flickering down
windlessly
* * *
Old woods road, late autumn dusk, near Bearpen Gap
* * *
Falling: leaves, rain, night.
Down the dark hall someone said
“tomorrow’s Thursday”
* * *
Changing, even as we watch…
* * *
The Topic is Change…..Part 1 (a reprise):
!Change! In the last year we’ve heard a great deal in our country about the need for it. We didn’t hear anyone bragging about the status quo. Indeed, the results of the recent election expressed a loud national outcry for major adjustments in the way we live and govern ourselves in the United States. And it appears Mr.Obama will be capable of delivering at least some change, on some levels.
Having voted a straight conservative ticket the last three decades, I now join in that newer cry, and I celebrate the awareness of our need for thoroughgoing reformation, in many arenas. And yes, I realize that some vital concerns were (cleverly) not even addressed in the campaign. But I am not surprised.
I have believed the “republican” myths, and I have voted, watched, and waited. I have seen the inflated posturings for what they are: for the most part, windy political enticements to the “religious right”, to gain our votes. Along with Dr. James Dobson and many other prominent Christian leaders, I am tired of being pandered to, lied to. Obviously, for me and a host of others, it did not work this time. Especially with the old-guard McCain, and his much ridiculed choice of the exceedingly charming but poorly educated beauty queen, Palin. Many of us who paused to think about it objectively, found ourselves asking, is this the best the party can put forward? Then (we) deserve the serious rebuff we got. Maybe we got the message, maybe not. Again, I would not be surprised. I do not even want to believe what I saw this morning: a bumper sticker: “Palin in 2012″. We need help. Serious help. It is no wonder Mr. Obama won by a (very predictable) landslide.
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But all that aside as temporary, and behind us now, we face the eternal “Given”: The internal machinery of our federal government is so gigantically complex, its momentum so fixed, it is questionable how much one man, or group of men, can alter the course of that sluggish (mostly benevolent) monster, hopelessly entangled in itself. “Good luck, and God-speed” Mr. Obama. You’re trying for the ionosphere, and we want you to, but you’ll have to move deep magma at the very core, if you want fundamental change. I am praying for you daily, and for your beautiful family, as holy scripture encourages me to do. I do not have to agree with everything you do, or say, to honor and respect you.
Over the decades, after all the posters and slogans are thrown into the trash, with a sad honesty we recognize a pattern: that various “changings of the guard” do not deliver as much difference as was promised, as we were, once again, given the right to hope. But the very fact that something deep in us continues persistently to hope, against all likelihood, for life to get better than this, –this yearning itself, to resiliently hope, tells us something interesting and beautiful about ourselves, the way we are made, the hearts we are given, to innately expect purity, justice and integrity.
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* * *
Perhaps we keep placing our hope and our fervor in the wrong direction? Do we keep on campaigning for the wrong sort of king? What is it we’re told, repeatedly, about ‘the princes of men’? If we are fully honest and un-biased, with eyes wide open (as very few of us seem willing to be), we easily acknowledge that both political parties suffer abundant corruption and willful deceit. Each has its predictable mythology of worn-out cliches, along with its obvious reality. Just one vital example/fact: republicans like to talk “less government”, blaming democrats for excessive spending. Pure myth. In the last 27 years, beginning with the Reagan watch, by far the greatest increases in our national debt (now approaching TEN TRILLION$$!!!) happened under republican presidents. The congressional brand does not seem to matter much. The truth is: our government is just like you and me–it LOVES to spend! Ironically, a great deal of our spending is borrowed, from China.
As for the hot-button social issues conservatives love to hate democrats for—abortions and the homosexual movement have both thrived under all presidents, who tend not to touch either of those two items. So why tell me “to watch my wallet if Mr. O gets elected, or “we won’t recognize America when he’s finished with it”. Please, give me a break from that kind of shallow non-thinking. Besides, couldn’t America use a serious face-lift? (Not to mention critical heart surgery?). Many agree that our nation needs a real revival, a return to basic spiritual rootedness. But we tend to think it’s for someone else, not us.
* * *
As I watch and listen, I find this fact quite interesting: Nominally, we claim Christ as our King, THE King of all Kings, the Lord of love. But as I observe the consistent disconnect between those words, and our others words (and deeds), I must wonder: Have we not confused our natural patriotism and tribal spirit with our identity as eternal citizens in the Kingdom of God? That kingdom of compassion and mercy is operative and observable, right here, right now, in each one who has been purchased outright, with that King’s blood. Or it is supposed to be, in all areas of our lives. But politics and a mature faith in the the Messiah are difficult to mix, like water and oil. Jesus himself knew that well, and gave us stringent cautions against it. Our passionate allegiance is necessarily reserved for one king.
* * *
* * *
The need for a shift in leadership was obviously due at this time, perhaps overdue. If that disturbs you, you must get over it. I encourage you: relax. Rest in God’s power, and long-term plan. Look at history. He often uses powers and persons we would not, to accomplish His greater purposes we did not (or would not?) see, to effect Godly changes we could not (or would not?) make. If that shoe fits (and it does, even though it has a few pieces of loose gravel in it), let’s walk in it awhile, perhaps with a limp. It’s clear we need very much to relearn some basic essentials: to expand our world-view, to re-consider some vital scriptural concerns, to which we’ve obviously not given much thought. I’ve discovered that walking with a limp is far healthier, and ironically much more secure than walking with arrogance, and the blindness that automatically results from self-righteous pride.
Even a slightly altered (but very fundamental) viewpoint lets us know that God’s plans and his ways are much higher than ours. He does not have to conform to the wishes of our little party. Or even our entire nation, especially if we habitually wage war more readily than we pursue peace. Along with millions of others, I have gotten rather weary with the tones of our (conservative) mean-spirited public rhetoric, and our individual conversations that communicate quite clearly that ‘God is on our side’. As if He has to be a republican, a conservative. We need to pull out the old Dylan song which speaks directly to that myopic condition, and give it a very close and thorough re-listen.
And we need to acknowledge the considerable body of evidence openly displayed in the words and life of our Savior, which clearly demonstrate that He was the most liberal of liberals, by our definition of the term. At the same time, He was the most holy man, ever. He did not compromise or confuse truth with love. Nor did He make the opposite mistake.
* * *
* * *
Change? You bet! Yes, we desperately need some of that, on many more fronts than we’re comfortably willing to consider. But with Gods’ ways, it may not be the change we thought was needed most. We’re often too busy pointing the finger of blame at someone else, and name-calling –clearly not the marks of a Christ follower, (supposedly) empowered and guided by mercy, wisdom, patience, kindness, gentleness, humility and forgiving love. I routinely hear (supposedly) mature Christians calling others “morons”. What was it Jesus said about calling someone “fool”?
So. Let’ see what happens. I ask all you down-trodden defeated ‘conservatives’: Reconsider. “Return to the ancient paths”. Do “all things work together for the good, for those who love God…” or do they not? Who are we to challenge that word? Does “blessed are the Peace-makers” apply to us, or not? What about the poor in spirit, the meek, and those full of mercy? Are we, first and foremost, living vehicles of restoration and redemption? Are these the qualities we are most displaying? It’s mirror-time.
* * *
* * *
At a recent Palin rally, she attacked Mr. Obama for “pallin’ around with terrorists”. Her ‘charm’ and Joe-Sixpack right-wing zeal-appeal stirred the crowd of conservatives to chants of “KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!. Sound vaguely familiar? It should. Tragically ironic, isn’t it? Is that murderous mob passion from God?
“A thousand people in the street, singing songs, and carrying signs, that mostly say “Hurray for our signs!” —For what it’s worth -Buffalo Springfield, ’67
Thank you for reading this far. I want to continue pursuing the topic of CHANGE from a different angle, in a later post. Still remaining is what I started out to say, when I got curiously detained by the need to comment on the recent political events in our nation. Please check back for a more personal meditation on the topic of change.
May God open the eyes of your heart, to see as He sees. He will certainly give you his wisdom and his love, if you ask him, with an open and humble heart. For a wonderful beginning place, please read, and meditate on Psalm 119. Also, Ephesians chapter 1, verses 15-23. God will bless you, as you open your mind, and your heart,—indeed, your very life—-to His eternal living words. They are words rich with wisdom, and holy love.
-Quilla
* * *
Day’s end, southwest Virginia, 11.23.8
* * *
Recent three-line word sketches, from a thousand-mile journey to my father-in-law’s funeral:
* * *
Cold sunset, slow
trumpet notes. The soldier
gives her a folded flag
* * *
* * *
This long winter road
so many miles, so far to go.
You peel a tangerine
* * *
* * *
Cold slate slabs of sky.
Grey woods filling with snow.
Crows eating a road kill
* * *
* * *
for Steve, and “Inky”:
*
86 year old
talks endearingly, about his
20 year old cat
* * *
* * *
Listening to him
life seems all about
how smart. Or not
* * *
* * *
Cliff-face in winter:
water-stained rock, veins of ice,
thin tree shadows
* * *
* * *
Once a warm life,
now a flat frozen thumpthump
under fast tires
* * *
* * *
They said these same things
25 years ago.
Still, it’s mostly talk
* * *
* * *
Even when it’s still
that windy winter tree
keeps the shape of wind
* * *
* * *
Mechanic
asks me what equipment
I work on? I don’t tell him
I make poems
* * *
* * *
Sparkling cold sun
vanishing swaths of blue snow.
Last summer shows through
* * *
* * *
Family huddled around
a flag-draped coffin,
freezing sunset wind
* * *
* * *
All the unknown names
carved into cold stones:
we laugh, knowing……
* * *
* * *
Motel room, alone.
Upstairs, a toilet flushes.
How cold, the long night
* * *
* * *
Day’s last light
a large flight of wild geese
goes quiet, settles on the pond
* * *
* * *
Frozen grey morning
long black skeins of honking geese
scribbling sky-haiku
* * *
* * *
Across the aisles and stacks
of countless books, briefly
eyes meet. And look
* * *
* * *
We talk all about
herbs and health, over
large plates of roast beef
* * *
* * *
Death came by, tonight.
How bright, the risen moon.
How black, the jagged trees
* * *
* * *
The father is buried.
Now his loved ones go to their rooms
and sleep
* * *
* * *
* * *
An Invitation:
*
Notice your moments.
Sketch them: words, paint, photo, music, stone.
And share them.
They are a gift to you. Each second
is rich—-with beauty, and meaning.
Every one of your minutes
from birth, til death, holds truth.
(The trick is seeing it, catching it).
It is all passing, so very quickly.
We need to see what you see,
feel what you feel.
It is uniquely you.
Please. Let us.
-Quilla
* * * * * * *
* * *
* * *
Night rain blowing in
the last few leaves flutter down
I put on Chopin
* * *
Windy rain, birches, reflection
* * *
Cold, wind-driven rain
whispers a few leaves
against the window pane
* * *
OH, I miss YOU too, so much!!!!
* * *
Word-sketches of recent moments:
*
Remains of the Day:
*
Darkening mountains
Venus gleams. One high gold
jet-trail, streaming west
* * *
A single grey thread
our chimney smoke vanishes—-
vast winter stars
* * *
Thick frost bristles
the black moonless grass,
thin blue starlight
* * *
December morning:
*
A few snowflakes.
High in the windy birch limbs
the lisps of waxwings
* * *
Like wild cats, red-eyed
banshees screaming the dark streets—-
ambulances
* * *
“Let every heart, prepare Him room….” -Joy to the World
* * *
Skytsengelen/Guardian Angel
-by Rolf Jacobsen
*
I am that bird that knocks at your window in the morning
and your companion, whom you cannot know,
the blossoms that light up for the blind.
*
I am the glacier’s crest above the forests, the dazzling one
and the brass voices from cathedral towers.
The thought that suddenly comes over you at midday
and fills you with incredible happiness.
*
I am one you have loved long ago.
I walk alongside you by day and look intently at you
and put my mouth on your heart
but you don’t know it.
*
I am your third arm and your second
shadow, the white one,
whom you don’t have the heart for
and who cannot ever forget you.
* * *
by Rolf Jacobsen, Norwegian poet
1907-1994
(translated by Roger Greenwald)
* * *
‘they will know you, by your love”…. Jesus, Yeshua, Messiah
* * *
Over the dark cold river
stark winter trees show us
how to grieve, and praise
* * *
* * *
“Be not over-mastered by your pain,
but cling to God, you shall not fall.
The floods sweep over you in vain,
you yet shall rise above them all.
For when your trial seems too hard to bear,
Look! –your God, your King
has granted all your prayer.
Be content, therefore, His perfect love
and wisdom is for you.”
–Paul Gerhardt (1606-1676)
* * *
Dark forms of stone
how very slowly, wash away:
timeless river’s song
* * *
* * *
My hands—a dry net
of scars, wrinkles, bones
—the cold winter sun
* * *
* * *
Heavy morning cloud
shadows the frozen land. Wood-smoke
drifts through bare trees
* * *
* * *
How the bright river
leaves its long story, its song:
the face of river stones
* * *
* * *
Soft piano notes
flames flutter in the stove
outside, the storm howls
* * *
“Yes, blessed are those holy hours in which the soul retires from the world to be alone with God. God’s voice, as Himself, is everywhere. Within and without, He speaks to our souls, if we would hear. Only the din of the world, or the tumult of our own hearts, deafens our inward ear to it.
“Learn to commune with Christ in stillness, daily. And He, whom you have sought in stillness, will be with you when you go abroad.”
-E.B. Pusey (1800-1882)
* * *
“The great step and direct path to the awful reverence of God, is to meditate, and with a sedate and silent hush, to turn the eyes of the mind inwards—there to seek, and with a submissive spirit wait at the gates of Wisdom’s temple; and then the divine voice and distinguishing power will arise in the light and centre of a man’s self”
-Thomas Tryon ( early 1700′s)
* * *
* * *
One brown leaf, fallen
to the brown earth: its shadow
fell with it
* * *
“Be not afraid of these trials which God may see fit to send upon you. It is with the wind and storm of tribulation that God separates the true wheat from the chaff. Always remember, therefore, that God comes to you in your sorrows, as really as in your joys. He lays low, and He builds up. You will find yourself far from perfection, if you do not find God in everything.”
-Miguel Molinos (1627-1696)
Water and wind
* * * * * * * *
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Iron and Stone
* * * * * * *
Self-portrait in a Christmas window, Charlotte St., Asheville NC
* * * * * * *
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“Old Messages”
* * *
Or, whose birthday is it, anyway?
So let the bells ring!
* * *
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Our Soul’s Deep Thirst
(A modern psalm)
*
Father God, eternal breath
of Yah-Weh, yearning your first desire
for us in that perfect garden, long ago.
Later, you led us out of bondage,
spoke fierce words of holy love, to us
in a burning desert tree.
*
At last, perhaps: are we starting to grasp
and see your invisible shapeless form?
We’ve so often had you wrong
this long trail of centuries.
Forgive us, O God!
We got deceived. We let ourselves believe
you were nothing more than rules, carved
by heaven’s hard steel hand
in earth’s grey mountain stone.
We saw you an angry face of flint, forever
unpleased with us, aloof, alone.
So we rebelled. We ran from you.
*
But came a dawning star, a fallen rose,
a broken Lamb: the passion of your lovely Christ
has shattered stone!
His lifeblood spilled, He filled
the deep and holy cup of your desire.
He opened the very sky, and our sightless eyes
to see—the Father’s heart is not cold
nor set in stone.
More like an ark of hopeful light, approaching us,
a living flame, flickering through
our oceanic dark, and storms.
Oh how could we have missed you?
*
Drawing near you now, in truth
we see your essence—-hungering
holy fire, an untamed love, craving
others to come near you, and to burn
with that very same consuming desire!
And nearer still, until we perfectly know
and love: your perfect heart, and will.
*
Following you, we grow up, drop our toys
and other cravings, one….by….one.
Broken, they litter this broken desert road.
You are the one clear spring.
All our thirsts are quenched, in You.
* * *
Greetings! Welcome to my journal of photographs, and writings.
Rest here a few minutes from our crazy, fragmented world gone mad with gadgets, grabbing and rushing. Please, for your own sake, do not rush through. Take a few deep, unhurried breaths of praise, and give yourself the time to enjoy these meditations in light, and in words.
Shalom! And the peace of Christ to your soul.
* * *
* * *
“Between us and Yourself, O God, remove
whatever hindrances may be;
so that our inmost heart may prove
a holy temple, fit for Thee”.
—Latin mass of the 15th century
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“Yes, all by You is ordered, chosen, planned–
each drop that fills my daily cup; Your hand
prescribes for ills no one else can understand.
All, O God, is known, to You”.
–Adelaide Leaper Newton (1824-1854)
* * *
My Mother’s Voice
(Revised; to be read aloud)
*
A hard winter night, listening
to her talking to me on the phone.
She’d just come home, three days
in hospital. Her life’s strong voice
was withering, scattering
like dry December leaves.
She even said she’d asked the Lifegiver
to take hers back, and let her leave.
Its greenness gone, she felt alone
spent and done with it, she said.
*
After we hung up, I put on
my dead father’s warmest coat,
and walked out into the howling dark.
Rags of thick cloud dragged
like a sad wraith, across the frozen moon.
Strong winds were bending
even the older, deeper-rooted trees.
Large black branches twisted, moaned.
*
Like thistledown, light snow
was spinning round the sickle moon.
Fine sharp snowflakes prickled my face.
Across the icy stones some withered leaves
went scraping. That sound was like
an old woman’s voice,
as if all her summer times
were past.
*
Down through the dancing black silhouettes
of windy trees lining the night street
I saw a bright and frosted window
filled with evergreen.
It was lit with twinkling lights
in the darkness and cold, sparkling there
like our eternal childhood, waiting
for everyone to see.
* * *
Please read Romans chapter 8, verses 18-25
*
“Look! A light shines in the darkness.
And the darkness has not overcome it!” —-John
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That same light shines into the darkness of your soul, and mine, if
we but let it…..
“I create the light, and I make the darkness” –Isaiah 45:7
* * * *
“Do you know the way to the home of light?” –Job
* * *
Snowmelt
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Seeing
An avid photographer for many years, I am often amazed at the remarkable differences between merely looking, (or visual scanning) and truly seeing something. When I am at a location, actively shooting photos and trying to capture, or interpret the scene, my visual antenna are operating with a relatively high degree of sensitivity. I’m searching, paying close attention, much like the heightened senses of a hunter. My eyes have been trained to frame objects and spaces in a rectangle with a 2:3 ratio. This is how we “bag” wild game in this craft of stalking with a light-box.
Here’s an odd analogy that might help illustrate these two very different functions, i.e., scanning and seeing. It’s the contrast between gulping food, swallowing it half-chewed (or less), and taking the time to chew and savor the complex of flavors in each bite. One is done hurriedly, and (sort of) gets the job done, while the other eating method takes more time, but yields a richer eating experience. Nutritionists tell us that deliberately slowing down and chewing our food more thoroughly, makes the food more digestible, actually making the nutrients available and nourishing to us. Interesting. The crude analogy works, illustrating an important truth.
I have learned that what separates the two activities—quickly scanning and actually seeing something, --is the motive behind the action. As with most activities, the reason for the action largely determines the quality of the outcome. Hence the adage: “you get out of something exactly what you put into it”. How true. “A man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest” –Paul Simon.
One can quickly scan for a variety of reasons, e.g., just to get a general idea or scope of the material presented; hurrying due to a perceived lack of time; rushing simply because one is used to rushing everything (the common inertia driving this culture); or skimming the surfaces of things mindlessly, just to pass the time in “cruise mode”. In this easier approach, we only utilize a fraction of the mind’s power to explore something, and discover what is really there. And of course there is laziness, (unfortunately) the default mode for most of us: a reluctance to engage. Involvement takes time, energy, creativity. “I don’t have time for that right now” usually is not the truth. We kid ourselves, a lot. (Watch closely, what you actually do with the time you did not have!) “I don’t want to give what that requires of me”, is much more accurate.
To illustrate the amazing differences between visual scanning, and truly seeing, I suggest the following experiment, using the pictures below. Instead of breezing quickly through the pictures, first, make a deliberate decision to slow down, before you start viewing them. It helps to take a few deep breaths, and get rid of other preoccupations.
It’s noteworthy that just making the decision to slow down and focus, demonstrates how powerful is the momentum to hurry, and rush through things. Notice that something quite persistent in us does not want to go more slowly! Pausing, becoming more receptive and still, is a learned skill, an outward expression of an inward grace. We must call on our whole being to cooperate and integrate our various faculties. Body, mind, heart and spirit, all are involved in the complex act of living more completely in the present moment, being still, truly listening, seeing. When I intentionally open up more fully to receive what is before me, I begin to see what I had not before, and to actually experience things in a different manner. My degree of receptivity–to a photograph or a person–makes all the difference!
Next, after deciding to proceed at a slower than normal pace, spend at least 15 seconds looking at each photograph in this manner: let your eyes take in the overall image, so that you see the ‘big picture’ presented by the photograph. It’s as if you’re leaving your world, and entering into the image itself.
After you start beginning to see the image, that is, letting yourself enter the picture (and it enter you), then, for another 20 seconds or more, let your eyes and your mind investigate the details of the photo, paying particular attention to the relationships between the various objects, colors , textures and spaces in the picture. (The spaces are often as important as the subjects themselves).
The next step, and the most important, is to consciously notice your reactions to the photograph, and the associations it gives you from your own wealth of experience and emotions. This is a vital act of transfer, which can happen (or not) between the art and the viewer. In that decisive and life-giving act, the picture no longer belongs to the photographer; it enters and becomes part of your living experience.
This mindful approach to seeing something takes some effort, at first, but the rewards are there. One of the results of truly seeing something is this: your mind will have a near-total recall of the image in considerable detail, depending on how much you opened your mind to investigate and experience the content. You will have gotten something you did not have before. As an added benefit, your imagination will (hopefully) have been engaged and stimulated a bit. The photograph might even leave some imprint upon you–perhaps an emotional, or spiritual reaction. It’s important to recognize that impact, whether subtle or profound. Sometimes a definitive call to action might be in the works for you, as a life-response.
Of course, this little entry into the vastly complex world of seeing is not just about photography. The ability to truly see (or, to care-fully listen to someone) is a rare gift, by which we share our world with others, and receive them into ours. Enjoy the gift of seeing! Then give it away, share what you’ve seen. Participate in, and enjoy the visions of others. Practice being more fully here, now.
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“If I really am always and equally ready to do whatsoever my King appoints, all the trials and vexations arising from any change in His directions, great or small, simply do not exist.
If He appoints me to work there, shall I lament that I am not to work here? If he leads me to wait indoors today, am I to be annoyed because I am not to work out-of-doors?
If I meant to write His messages this morning, shall I grumble because He sends interrupting visitors, rich or poor, to whom I am to speak, to show kindness, for His sake, or at least to obey His command: ‘Be courteous’ to them?
If all my members are really at His disposal, why should I be put out if this day’s appointment is some simple work for my hands, or errands for my feet, instead of some seemingly more important doing of head, or tongue?” (am I still my own, or do I belong to my Lord?)
–F.R. Havergal (1836-1879)
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My life, O Lord, is in your hands.
And I know your hands toward me, are good.
Have mercy on me, and save me.
And use me, if it pleases you.
My hands, my words, my very thoughts–
may they be filled with goodness
as you live your life, this day, in me.
* * *
* * *
A Winter Love Poem
(From a young wife to her husband,
often away at night)
Softly, large flakes of midnight snow come whirling down around me, feathers
circling round the tall street light. They fall like dying moths, ghost wings
lost and spinning back to earth, pale remnants of our summer dreams.
But you’re not here to see them with me, love. Not here to chase and catch
the falling flakes with open mouths, hot tongues stretched out, laughing
clouds of steam like dizzy children, delighted to kiss these flying crystal things
thrown like magic dust upon us, flown straight from heaven, wild and white.
No. You’re out there somewhere in the winter night.
*
And the night—unspeakably immense dark eye, its black gaze glares above
beyond the snowy twinkling land. These pathetic rows of street lights
with their sparkling halos—Ha! they scarcely penetrate the swirling dark.
*
I fear your being out there in the storm, love driving home, the streets all glazed
a treacherous maze and frozen web, spun with danger, sudden loss.
Waiting for you, not knowing—enough, almost to make my softened heart
crumble inward like a warm snow-cave, burying everything huddled inside it
like a small candle. Oh how I wait and long, the warmth of you!
*
But here is One whose strong love shelters, holds me close, his mystery words
and ways tender and constant, than even you, dearest one.
And so it should be. We do believe He chose to weave my life-thread into yours,
and yours in mine. He tells me again, again, again across all time, I’m not alone.
Never to let my candle-lit heart cave in—the heavy snows of fear.
For He is near. He shows me often, at night, alone like this: His lamp
of hallowed love, of holy words illuminates the winter night.
In Him, I find a home that’s true. Indeed, this inner hearth, and fire—His love
for me—it keeps this tallow lit and burning faithful love, for you.
* * *
For Farrah and Stephen, January 09
Surrendered
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River trail
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Winter wedding
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Leaves, by Leo Monahan
* * *
Surrender to Divine Love
* * *
We frequently hear the word “conversion” used in religious and spiritual conversations and writings. But I’ve noticed that different traditions tend to give this important concept various meanings. Yesterday I saw one of the best definitions of the term I have encountered. It is, all at the same time, comprehensive yet very specific, simple and practical, yet profound.
I read this in the brief weekly installment that comes to me from graced@gracedagain.com, compiled by Tom Wood. I have enjoyed Tom’s concise selections for several years now, chosen from a wide range of Christian thinkers over the centuries. I do hope you get something from this concentrated treatment of conversion. These paragraphs are adapted from Surrender to Love, by David Benner.
* * *
“Conversion is the lifelong transformational process of being remade: into the image of God.
It is so much more (than what we normally think it is, namely) simply trying to avoid sin.
The focus of repentance and conversion must be Jesus, not my sin nor my self. My attachment to sinful ways of thinking, being and doing is much too strong to ever be undone by mere willpower. There is no substitute for surrender to divine love as the fuel to propel such change.
Divine love, i.e., accepting the gospel of Christ, transforms both my heart and my will. Divine love enables me to choose God’s will over mine. Without this, repentance will be nothing more than a self-help scheme based on effort, and resolve (and the mistaken notion that I can fix myself). “
–David Benner, Surrender to Love
“We take captive every thought, to make it obedient to Christ.” –2 Corinthians 10: 5
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“There is another kind of silence to be cultivated, besides that of the tongue, as regards others.
I mean (the inner) silence as regards one’s self—restraining the imagination, not permitting it to dwell overmuch on what we have heard or said, not indulging in the phantasmagoria of picture thoughts, whether the past or the future.
Be sure that you have made no small progress in the Christ-life when you can control your imagination, so as to fix it on the duty and occupation actually existing, to the exclusion of the crowd of thoughts which are perpetually sweeping across the mind. No doubt, you cannot prevent those thoughts from arising. But you can choose to prevent yourself from dwelling on them; you can put them aside; you can check the self-complacency, or irritation, or earthly longings which feed them.
By the practice of such control of your thoughts you will attain that spirit of inward silence (and true peace) which draws the soul into a closer intercourse with God.” –Jean Nicolas Grou, 1731-1803
A daily prayer-verse:
“Let the words of my mouth, and the meditations of my heart, be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.” —Psalm 19: verse 14
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Life force
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I am coming, quite slowly, to the fundamental understanding that the circumstances of my life are not random, nor happenstance, not even the smallest detail of any moment, of any day. Every single thread is part of a far greater weaving, which I am able to glimpse only in small portions, and for brief moments of insight. Most of the time I am abysmally nearsighted. But I am now absolutely convinced that Someone is behind all this. That Someone possesses unimaginable intelligence, creativity, passion, playfulness, humor and love. As is also true of us, “by His works, we know Him”.
But in the darkness cast by much scientific theory, especially over the last century or two, in those shadows it becomes somewhat easier to try to believe in randomness. At first glance, entropy even has a strange sort of attraction of its own, at least to the natural man. For if randomness is true, then there is no authority, no right or wrong, no ultimate accountability or responsibility for anything. Simply stated, nothing and no one has purpose, reason or meaning. No one is in charge. Therefore all moral codes and efforts toward the redeeming spiritual values of love, kindness, patience, forgiveness, humility, etc., are a worthless waste of energy and time, nothing less than a farce.
Under the dominion of randomness, this whole thing is nothing more than a fierce chaos, unfolding. The picture of a handful of marbles being thrown into a busy street comes to mind. (But if we think about it just a bit, we realize someone or thing had to throw the marbles, create their roundness, and the laws of physics, by which they bounce and roll, etc., etc.). Quite interesting, that randomness is either oddly quiet about such questions (as it should be), or it babbles the verbage of an idiot. –if you can stomach it, read some of the profane stupidity being written by several best-selling (so-called “bright”) a-theists nowdays. In all honesty, one must ask: would the world as they would have it be worth living in? Does anyone really want to be like these arrogant fallen ones? For indeed, we do become like those we emulate–whatever god we choose to worship. We are made that way.
But if one is intellectually honest and brave enough to face the logical consequences of a real universe functioning on the “rules” of happenstance, the attraction of it quickly fades. The ridiculous and absolute impossibility of such a reality quickly emerges, intuitively, even to such small minds as those of children, and to some of the very brightest among us. Sadly, many others do not see the truth of these things, because they do not want to see it. Facing it would mean that they are not in charge of life, or God, or the way things are.
To keep it simple, there is far too much order, cause and effect, and yes, beauty, joy, truth and consequences, for randomness to even begin to explain. So one inevitably comes to the conclusion that the true advocates of randomness are, as holy scripture defines them in many places: wilfully blind fools. ”Always learning, but never coming to a knowledge of the truth”. “Thinking themselves wise, they become fools”. Unfortunately the case, regardless of what types and degrees of “intelligence” those advocates of randomness might possess. They’ve wasted their gift.
Furthermore, even the investigation of randomness, and the strong desire (on the part of some) to prove randomness to be “the order of things”–these very actions must obviously come into question as well: ”We’re setting out, in orderly fashion, to prove that dis-order is the highest truth”. —yes, when you say it out loud, it does sound as preposterous as it is!
How ironic, that these ugly and unavoidable facts are themselves revealed as strong evidence for the very position they are attempting to disprove. Yes, “a mind is a terrible thing to waste!”
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“I will cry out to God most high; unto God, who fulfills his purpose for me” –Psalm 57: 2
“Whoever puts his trust in the Lord shall be safe” –Proverbs 29:25
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Who’s in charge? (part 2):
“God has brought us into this time; it is He, and not ourselves, or some dark demon(or mere chance). If we are not fit to cope with that which He has prepared for us, we should have been utterly unfit for any condition that we imagine for ourselves. It is in this time we are to live and to wrestle, and no other.
Let us then humbly, tremblingly, manfully look at it, and we shall not wish that the sun could go back ten degrees, or that we could go back with it. If easier times are departed, it is that the difficult times may make us more in earnest—that they may teach us not to depend upon ourselves. If easy belief is not possible, it is that we may learn what belief truly is, and in whom it is to be placed.”
–John Frederick Maurice, 1805-1872
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Broken
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“Do not be discouraged at your faults; bear with yourself in correcting them, as you would with your neighbor. Lay aside this anxiety, which exhausts your body, and leads you to commit errors.
Accustom yourself gradually to carry prayer into all your daily occupations. Speak, move, work, in peace, as if you were in earnest prayer, as indeed you can be. Do everything without agitation, by the spirit of grace. As soon as you perceive your natural impetuosity taking control, retire quietly within, where is the kingdom of God.
Listen to the leadings of grace, then say and do nothing but what the Holy Spirit shall put in your heart. You will find that you will become more tranquil, that your words will be fewer and yet more effectual, and that, with less effort, you will accomplish more good.” –Fenelon
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Please read this, consider it carefully, and meditate on its simple but potent truth throughout your day:
” Little things come daily, hourly, within our reach, and they are not less calculated to set forward our growth in holiness, than are the greater occasions which occur but rarely.
Moreover, faithfulness in trifles, and an earnest seeking to please God in little matters, is a test of real devotion, and love. Let your aim be to please our dear Lord perfectly in small things, and to attain a spirit of childlike simplicity and dependence.
In proportion as self-love and self-confidence are weakened, and our will bowed to that of God himself, so will hindrances disappear, and the internal troubles and contests harassing our soul will vanish, and it will be filled with peace and tranquillity. “ -Jean Nicolas Grou 1731-1803
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……Serve Him with wholehearted devotion, and with a willing mind, for the Lord searches every heart, and He understands every motive behind the thoughts. If you seek Him, you will find Him….”
- 1 Chronicles 28: vs. 9
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May God richly bless your day, especially in the ‘small’ things. -Quilla
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Self-portrait
By the river, we are but shadows….and yet, we are eternal
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“So be truly glad. There is wonderful joy ahead, even though you have to endure many trials for a little while. These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested—as fire tests and purifies gold—though your faith is far more precious than mere gold”. –1 Peter 1: 6-7 (NLT)
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Dunamis!
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“Dear brothers and sisters, when troubles come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance (patience) has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, lacking nothing”. –James 1: 2-4
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“It is good for me that I have been afflicted, that I might learn your ways, O Lord!” –Psalm 119: 71
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“And yet these days of dreariness are sent us from above;
they do not come in anger, but in faithfulness and love.
They come to teach us lessons which bright days could not yield;
And to leave us blest and thankful when their purpose if fulfilled.” -anon.
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“Pay no heed to distressing thoughts when they rise ever so strongly in you; no, though they have entered you, fear them not, but be still awhile, not believing in the power which you feel these (dark thoughts) have over you, and they will fall away from you, suddenly.
It is good for your spirit, and greatly to your advantage, to be much and variously exercised by the Lord. You do not know what He has already done (in your heart), or, what He is yet doing for you and through you”.
–Isaac Penington 1617-1679
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“Why should I be upset at the plough of my Lord, that makes such deep furrows in my soul? I know that He is no idle husbandman, and that He purposes to harvest a crop”. –Samuel Rutherford 1600-1661
–all, from the Kadosh Ruach
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Meditate on these foundational truths of the real life, and you will be blessed. Believe, and receive…….
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“Send our your light, and your truth. Let them guide me. Let them lead me
to the place where you live. There I will go to the altar of God, to God—-the source
of all my joy.
Why am I discouraged? Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God! I will praise Him again, my Saviour and my God!”
–Psalm 43: vs. 3,5
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Flying toward the Sun
“And every man that has this hope in Him, purifies himself, even as He is pure.”
—1 John 3: 3
“Now believe me, God hides some ideal in every human soul. At times we feel a trembling, fearful longing to do some good thing. Life finds its noblest spring of excellence in this hidden impulse to do our best. At these times we are no longer content to be merely common. The woman longs to glorify her womanhood as sister, wife, mother, or friend….
And be assured that God himself is in these divine impulses. Here is God—-yes, God, standing silently at the door all day long—-God whispering to your soul, that to be pure and true is to succeed in life. And whatever else we get short of that will burn up like stubble, though the whole world would try to save it. “ —Robert Collyer 1823
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”Celebrate the presence of the Lord your God, in all you do” -Deuteronomy 12: 18
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“If any one would tell you the shortest, surest way to all happiness and perfection, he must tell you to make it a rule to yourself to thank and to praise God for everything that happens to you. For it is certain that whatever seeming calamity happens to you, if you thank and praise God for it, you turn it into a blessing. Could you, therefore, work mircles, you could not do more for yourself than by this thankful spirit; for it heals with a word speaking, and turns all that it touches into happiness.”
—William Law, 1686-1761
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Dusk River, by Jonas Girard
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It is for You
Open and enter, softly, cautiously
the deep night vaults, like childhood forests
haunted with voices, wolves, shadow:
If you stand and wait, the clouds
will part. You’ll see: long shafts of light
thrown from a tall white moon
across your path.
Let the safe words in those soft lights
speak, and enter your heart.
They are for you.
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Miles of desert, rocks, thorns,
sharp dry wind and sand, screaming.
A small stream bends, widens
into a slower movement,
pours itself into a pool.
Stop.
Sit down there.
Take off your shoes,
wash your feet.
Allow yourself: to feel the coolness,
to rejoice or weep, to feel
thankfulness.
It is for you.
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This holy war: fierce battles, much blood
lost. A large stone goblet is poured red
and full, some warm bread is waiting
on an old wooden table.
Drink it. Eat it, all of it.
Savor.
It is for you.
Yes. It is for you.
rt
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My daughter enjoying a Jonas Gerard painting. He painted it, for you.
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“You don’t really love me, you just keep me hanging on…….”
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(“No, I really do love you, warts and all”)
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Plum blossoms
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River in late winter
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Plum and Cypress
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Jason and Zeke
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Tulip leaves, morning dew
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Morning mist
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My Buddy
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Old abandoned house, Panther Creek
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Fountain
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River, late winter
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Resting
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The layers of years
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Cedar Waxwings in Red Maple
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Black Pine, heavy snow
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Old chimney beside the river
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Plum blossoms
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“God blesses those who are poor, and realize their need of Him, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven”
–Jesus, Matthew chapter 5, verse 3
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But officer, you don’t understand…….
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Winter Landscape by Jonas Girard
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Fig tree, Chapel garden wall
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Lighthouse railing, St. Augustine
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Once, upon a time, four young men……..
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Window, old marketplace, St. Augustine
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Greek Orthodox chapel, St.Augustine
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Tracks
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Winter shore
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Old cottage by the river
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Party’s over
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Solitary
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“Winter sun
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Metal sculpture, St. Augustine giftshop
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“Woman” by Jonas Girard
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“God blesses those who are poor, and realize their need of Him; the kingdom of Heaven is theirs.”
–Jesus, from Matthew, chapter 5, verse 3 New Living Translation
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“The circumstances of her life she could not alter, but she took them to the Lord, and handed them over into His management; and then she believed that He took them, and she left all the responsibility and the worry, the anxiety with Him.
As often as the anxieties returned she took them back to God. And the result was that, although the circumstances remained largely unchanged, strangely her soul was kept in perfect peace in the very midst of them. She marvelled at the difference God had made, in simply giving to Him the details of her life.
And the secret she found so effectual in her outward affairs, she found to be still more effective in her inward ones, which were in truth even more utterly unmanageable. Indeed, she abandoned her whole self to the Lord, with all that she was and all that she had.
And, believing that He took that which she had committed to Him, as He had promised, she ceased to fret and worry, and her life became all sunshine in the glorious gladness of being His true daughter, of simply belonging to Him.” At last she understood her divine purpose, and who she was.
—Mrs. H.W. Smith, pub. 1875
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Meditations on Black
Winter trees splinter the sharp morning light.
Stark silhouettes of living black
make abstract blue mosaics on the frost.
Crows and their shadows scatter like harsh words.
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The child in us is thrilled, yet afraid:
the wide black lake transformed, overnight.
Those white blades of ice pierce us through
like the evil of absence, of separation.
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Out of the low night land, mountain rims are risen
snowy and resplendent, exalted
like the old cathedrals wanted to be.
They forgot the glory came from Light.
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Out of sordid darkness, our human streets
lift their summits: steeples rise to the crimson dawn.
Their pointed brilliance inspires, yet frightens us:
like an evil god too steep to reach, or love.
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In the streets we keep our visage safe, and low.
Rummage the shadowy markets muttering
cliches, purchasing things. In vain we look to see
our true faces in the black windows.
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As young men, Renoir and Monet
walked out together to the sunlit meadows.
Among the first to paint plein air
right there in the field, not drawing first;
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Quick pastel impressions
leaped onto their thirsty boards,
parasols and water-lilies
danced happy on the watery light.
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After a century of calendars
the shimmering still dazzles us.
If we could live each day in Giverny, perhaps
the shadows would not haunt us so.
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But much later: to capture the pain
he’d felt and seen;
to uncover the hard bright masks
hiding our broken human beauty,
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With talons of pain gripping his old fingers
Renoir returned to the dark.
Unlike the Impressionists
he chose to use black paint again.
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I am the Lord, and there is no other. I create light, and I make the darkness.
-Isaiah 45, verse 7
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The Word gave life to everything that was created, and His life brought light to everyone.
The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it.
–John chapter 1, verses 4 and 5
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Eagle tree, vertical cliff, upper Colorado River gorge
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O God, you are my God;
I earnestly search for you.
My soul thirsts for you;
my whole body longs for you
in this parched and weary land
where there is no water.
I have seen you in your sanctuary
and gazed upon your power and glory.
Your unfailing love is better than life itself;
how I praise you!
I will praise you as long as I live,
lifting up my hands to you in prayer.
You satisfy me, more than the richest feast.
I will praise you with songs of joy.
—from Psalm 63
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Sols Creek falls, upper Tuckaseigee River gorge, NC
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As the deer longs for streams of water,
so I long for you, O God.
I thirst for God, the living God.
When can I go and stand before him?
Day and night I have only tears for food,
while my enemies continually taunt me,
saying, ‘where is this God of yours?’
Why am I discouraged?
Why is my heart so sad?
I will put my hope in God!
I will praise him again—
my Saviour and my God!
—from Psalm 42
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Our Soul’s Craving
(a modern psalm)
Father God, eternal breath
of Yah-Weh, yearning your first desire
for us in that perfect garden, long ago.
Later, your voice burned hard words of holy love
in an ancient desert tree.
At last, perhaps, are we starting to grasp
and see–your invisible, shapeless form?
We’ve so often had you wrong,
this long trail of centuries.
Forgive us, Oh God!
We got deceived, we let ourselves believe
you were nothing more than rules, carved
with Heaven’s hard steel hand
in earth’s grey mountain stone.
We saw you an angry face of flint,
forever unpleased with us, aloof, alone.
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But came a dawning star, a fallen rose:
the passion of your lovely Christ
has shattered stone!
His lifeblood spilled, He filled
the deep and holy cup of your desire.
He opened the very sky, and our eyes
to see—the Father’s heart is not cold,
nor set in stone.
More like an ark of hopeful light, approaching us;
a living flame, flickering through
our oceanic dark, and storms.
Oh, how could we have missed you?
Drawing near you now, in truth
we see your essence—hungering
holy fire, an untamed love, craving
others to come near you, and to burn
with that very same consuming desire!
And nearer still, until we perfectly know
your perfect heart, and will.
Following you, we drop our toys
and other cravings, one….by…..one.
Littered and broken, they litter
this broken desert road.
You are the one clear spring.
All our thirsts are quenched, in You.
-Quilla
Wild plum blossoms, April Snow
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April snow, White Pines, sunshine
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Where do poems come from?
I thought I overheard him say
almost as if unto himself—
“I’ll put on my old blue barn-coat
and brown winter hat,
get a cup of strong black tea
and go sit on the back porch awhile
with pen and pad, perhaps a poem
will come to me”.
Is that how it happens? I intruded—
—a pungent wisp of woodsmoke
drifting past? Or the honeyed scent
of wild plum blooms
come gleaming like a ghost,
the way the thrush’s silver tune
brightens the gloom of cold grey woods?
—Is that how poems are born?
“Sort of, but not quite. More like
waiting for a furtive deer
to step on stealthy certain hooves
out of the underbrush,
where she appears in early light
her large eyes bright, and fully aware.
“Or maybe just sitting down
and breathing deep,
shedding anxious thoughts,
waiting the inner noise and strife
to hush, and fall away—it’s only then
we start to hear, to see: elusive forms
of truth, emerge.
We come aware that they were there
secretly watching us, all along, like those
already gone, or wanting to become,
patiently waiting us to make them friends,
to give them words.
And in our reaching, with syllable and song
we give them life.
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Black, Green, and White
I think I’ve never seen
a black more absolutely black—
that fat black angus cow, bulging
heavy with her springtime calf.
Inside, there must be such complete
and warm motherly night,
as at the beginning of all things,
before darkness birthed the stars.
She stands over there just now
underneath the brow of a greening
hayfield hill, the last rays of the April sun
giving green fire to the tall young grass.
I think I’ve never seen a green more alive
than that green—waves of nourishing light—
nurturing, mothering a mother cow.
Sunset, and tops of large trees glow
bright green, hosts of new buds
hungering the warm light, like milk.
On the dark ground far beneath them,
fallen on last year’s rich brown death
of leaves—dogwood petals scattered, white
as drops of Heaven’s milk. White
as perfect love, proven and poured out
broken, stained with blood.
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Wood Thrushes have Returned. . .
. . .third week in April, as ever.
But how do they know?
I mean, do you ever wonder
—just how do birds, trees, stars, know
(much better than we) precisely
what time it is?
Never worried early, late.
It’s time to leave, they go.
The wood-thrushes are back.
Silent six months, waiting
in lowland brakes, winter swamps—
to herald another mountain Spring
with song, as have their kindred,
long centuries.
Returned again, to spin their secret nests—
dead sticks and leaves, hollows soft
with scraps of cloth, dried moss, horse hair
caught in fence-wire barbs.
They lay their little speckled eggs
to live, become again
what will sing beyond themselves.
Thrush music brings to us
the purest watersongs, pouring
from crystal vases.
The opened throat
of a small rusty brown bird
we enter Narnia, the true kingdom.
He fills our broken clay cup
with offerings
some far oasis.
Dusk deepening. Shadowy wings
fly further back into the quiet rooms
of trees, keeping the tall night.
One final tune penetrates the quiet
gloom, how truth and beauty linger
to the last breath of light.
The flute is folded into a dark cloth.
The musician walks home, silent streets.
A silver music sleeps in the forest.
We dream, knowing it will wake
the April dawn.
–Quilla
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This morning just as I arrived for my appointment at an old house on Montford, I was standing on the wide porch after I’d rung the bell, waiting in the long silence after the chimes, looking at the two large empty rocking chairs sitting very still on the porch. An old azalea, deep magenta, was in full glorious bloom in the backyard of the old rundown house next door.
Tony came to the door with disappointment speaking paragraphs on his face before he said a word, telling me how his computer’s power unit had just then crashed, ‘with a loud pop and a bad smell’. “I’m very sorry, but we’ll have to reschedule. And I’ve got another appointment this afternoon. I’ll have to call them too.”
“It’s okay”, I said, strangely almost relieved. “Stuff happens”. We shook hands and I walked back out to my car and went on my way.
Do you sometimes feel like a Jonah in someone else’s ocean? —the cause of storms, loud flashes of light and bad smells they did not deserve?
Everyone tells us these days: don’t ever, for any reason, “beat up on yourself!” There is always someone, or some thing you can conveniently, legitimately blame. As if I am never responsible for anything bad that happens.
(As they also are fond of saying: “Yeah, right!)
But sometimes the “coincidences” are a bit much. So if I want to move toward a more complete honesty, I must ask the orchestrator of the storms:
Is there something Lord? If there is, please show me.
And if I mean it, He does. Often, His spirit prays through me, what I need to hear:
Keep me from the immaturity of self-pity, and blaming others, when it’s really me who is so stubborn and childish, with so much yet to learn. I know I am quick to take offense, finding fault with others.
And Lord, also keep me from the easy temptation of talking way too much, venting my judgments and opinions, as if they were more valuable than what others have to say. There are so many talkers, so few listeners. Let my words be fewer. Make me a listener. Thank you, for teaching me to be more like you, and giving me the will and the power to change, in my heart first.
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We Write Our Words
By early sun
or smoky midnight lamp, a quill
desperately scratches the parchment.
Feather with a sharp claw, and a will
its own, it draws the blood of our script to dry
across an ancient page.
Fountain or ball-point, gel pen, felt tip—
cuneiform or Arial Black–
they scrawl our living river of words
from springhead to the sea,
down from morning, til the final hours.
There! the high hawk soars and screams
in the sun: her sharp eye fixed—
some small and hidden life below,
she falls faster than a stone.
It comes to this: her talons uncurl and seize,
a little thing transforms,
becomes a larger life.
And so with us: a brightness of mind, perhaps
a darkness of heart, high-soaring
in the sun or falling in the middle of night—
decides to dive, unfurl for all to see
the banners of it sorrow, and its joy.
Down the arm into the hand, truth falls
fierce through the blood like a falcon,
or drops an uncast stone.
The mind, the hand, the pen recalls
the stench and dungeon screams;
even the fleeting Elysian scent
of Heaven’s wide white fields.
Quill or keyboard—we keep picking
the locks of dark cells radiant with light,
setting prisoners free, we watch them run!
We write our words, scratch our moments
on the page, to dry at last,
forever in the sun.
* But why all this? you ask—
—it might have been to cleanse,
to laugh, or kill, or fly, perhaps to share.
Or just a need to testify that once, upon a time
Yes! we were here.
And more than flesh, and bone.
We wanted to know.
We wanted to be known.
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The Richmond Hill Inn
The historic mansion burned
a month ago.
Now, a rainy Sunday afternoon
I went to see what was left,
take a few pictures, feel what I could
a century of life—family and guests,
births and holidays, weddings and deaths—
gone up in smoke one afternoon.
But I could only get so close.
A chain link fence, warning signs
surrounded the charred rubble.
It was quiet, except for the birds.
No one else was there.
The rain had stopped.
The damp air was still rich with the stench
of burnt timbers and flooring, smoked wallpaper
and mattresses, soaked with a month of April rain.
The black skeleton just stood there,
its fingers empty.
It showed me the scars, and let me smell
the rotten fruit
of all human loss, and the wreckage of wars.
As if totally oblivious, all around
the burnt-out site, flowers were blooming
dripping with rain.
Two nesting doves flew in and out
where an upstairs window once had been.
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For My Daughter, on her 16th Birthday
A green-golden morning, late April.
From the painted rows of spaces
in the large mall parking lot, I chose
the spot beneath a tall Pin Oak.
Its black winter limbs are just beginning
to burn and smoke with new life:
the green fire of ten thousand
leaf-buds and catkins.
Or, to mix the metaphor,
countless curls of girlish tree-hair
unfurl above me
in the streams of warm Spring light.
I’m waiting for my flaxen-haired daughter
to emerge from her salon, Mes Ami.
(They’re doing her hair
for tonight’s high school prom).
And $45—a good rate, she tells me
for whirling her straight blonde tresses
into springy gold curls.
While I wait in the half-shade
of half-dressed branches,
ten or twenty Waxwings are gathered—
sleek princes and prissy princesses
whispering feathery secrets, passing kisses
in the golden green haze of new leaves.
On a whimsical breeze, dappled shadows
dance happily across my page.
The birds go mincing along the limbs, sideways
together, the way Waxwings do.
They act like a troupe of miniature parrots
escaped from a travelling zoo.
With their mischievous black masks, wings
and tails dipped in wax,
it’s clearly God’s beauty, and fun.
Yes! He lives in this late April morning,
in the light of the yellow-green sun.
*
Oh, there she is now, do you see her?
–my sixteen-year-old walking toward me
smiling, in her $45 dollar gold curls.
* * *
Happy 16th, Natallie!
Love always, your Dad
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Thirst
Early grey morning, early May.
Wandering a wooded mountain ridge
with the small soot-colored dog—
how bravely she stops a yellow and black
box turtle, its slow path was crossing ours.
Another rain blows in with thunder,
moist wind fills the whole forest
of fresh new leaves.
Old woods, recently thinned–
understory trees and brush removed,
just the larger trees remain.
One small fresh-cut stump
no thicker than my thigh
I stop, and stoop, put on my glasses,
read the concentric annual rings:
each year arcs a dark line between growth
and growth’s end.
I count 60 summers’ gain
and winters’ loss—give a few acorn years,
thick rind of outer bark, a shag of moss.
–that’s about my age, if the calendars are true.
Odd, the kinship one wants to find
with an old stump on a dry ridge.
We stood the same gold suns
and blue snow-moons.
We both licked under the rock ledge shadows,
found the deeper springs
we knew were flowing there.
Seasons the rings grew thin,
we both were longing water,
or a better reason.
If nothing else, we learned,
that dry ridge oak and I:
to let our net of roots sink further down—
earth’s dark nourishing ocean
of unknowns, and drink;
to sometimes only wait, and stand
in long dry wind, sucking the hope of water
from the taste of dry stones;
to lift the heavy sinews of our limbs
–palms opened wide, like leaves
into the empty sky, and speak, or weep—
soft words of praise, these thirsty psalms.
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Cacophony in Late Spring
The wide spring fields are shimmering again
those wild fresh yellows : wind from the sun’s face
flashing the field-lark’s breast and song,
warm swaths of buttercup and mustard bloom.
Plum blossoms have already blown.
The last wet flowers of snow are gone.
Just yesterday a grey wind moaned the trees,
clattering naked limbs, blowing gusts of spray.
Today, the weathered wooden wind-chimes chatter
and play, chanting an ancient mantra with worn-out teeth
the way old Zen priests mutter. Neither do they know
or say the haunted ways of wind, of time and faces
how they turn, return, and turn again to go.
*
A flock of grackles gathers, screeching in the branches
of the gnarled black Ash.
The dissonant bird-music recalls: a creekside grain-mill
waterwheel squeaking and squealing its axle, spilling water,
coughing it into a mossy wooden trough that never fills
but flows back to the creek;
or a childhood Ferris wheel turning so very tall
in the happy music of its calliope, turned and gone
so far away, now sounding very like
“the little lone balloon-man, whistling far and wee”.
*
And yet the sounds come back to play with us,
even while turning on the axis of a vanished galaxy, spinning
spinning further away, rusting with the warm salt wind of years.
Tall grasses whisper secrets to the listening winter shore.
A zig-zag sand dune fence leans among the rustling oats,
the latch on its slatted gate is broken, it’s always swinging
open, closing shut.
*
Suddenly frightened, the grackles fly off as one
into the yellow wind. They will be back.
Always, everywhere it seems things are singing, turning
rusting waterwheels and Ferris wheels like clocks,
leaving fast on black wings the frightened flocks of birds,
our endless childhood suddenly gone
as cloud shadows racing across a windy field.
But all these things lost keep turning, circling back to us
on the long white wings of mind—deep-buried things
and faces—a searching sea-gone albatross.
*
All the harsh and soft remembered words
still screech and sing to us
like nesting birds— wandered far, yet always turning back,
yearning for their home.
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Primordial
Cool spring morning on the trail
the small dog runs ahead and stops:
barking, warning me, some danger.
She halts a box-turtle, dappled yellow
and black, crossing ‘our’ path.
Sort of cute, how she thinks she’s protecting me
as dogs are fond of doing with their fear.
So I let the ancient defender in her
come out, and stalk around the turtle again
again, as if we were closing in on a Mastodon.
My walking stick—a Neolithic spear.
I get down on my belly in the damp trail
among violets and dwarf iris, to see
our predator up close, to look it in the eye.
And oh, that eye, a cold red ring of fire
encircling a black expressionless coal.
Such cool blood can wait forever, staring
through me into space.
The scaly yellow arms curve down to fingers,
slow pink claws clinging bits of mud.
Ready to let the swift or strong win any race.
More ancient(and alive) than Mastodon!
And there, gripped in her hard yellow beak
of a snout—writhing pale and soft
the glistening body of a land slug,
Gastropod, a snail without a shell.
Two tiny stalks of antennae, inexpressibly
sensitive, reaching out, reading the air
trying to know: what quick, engulfing shadow
crossed the sky, ending its glistening trail?
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Ginkgo Leaves
As we were leaving church late that Sunday morning
I saw a tall young Ginkgo tree by the warm brick wall,
the old building. Just unfolding pale new leaves–
scalloped and fluttering, dainty Chinese fans.
Like aspen leaves, rustling the mountain winds
of Sangre de Cristo, the mystic groves near Shao Lin.
Such tender, joyful energy, danced with children’s hands
the playful breeze, whispered lively words of praise.
I broke a sprig of the new leaves and placed them
on my tongue like a wafer, gently crushing them
between my teeth, the pungent essence: sweet
and bitter at once. The taste was Spring itself–
more ancient than stone, younger than rain, and light.
I like to think that such a tree was standing by the opened tomb
that first morning, quaking silver-green, shuddering joy.
If I grow old, I’ll still be reading the ancient Words, tasting them
yet again, listening to the mystery song of wisdom and love
whispering, like soft Spring leaves.
One morning, I’ll be wakened by a warm breeze from the far,
shining mountains of the King.
Walking slowly, joyfully into His light perhaps I’ll even dance
like Ginkgo leaves and children, a playful Spring south-wind.
I will be forever young.
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Tornado warning
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“Consider the lilies, how they grow” -Matthew 6: 28
* * *
“Still yourself, your cares, even your thoughts for Him, and He will speak to your heart. Let Him. Ask for Himself, and He will give you himself. Truly, a secret hidden thing is the love of God—known only to those who seek it…” -adapted from E.B. Pusey
“Yield yourself up utterly to His sweet control. Put yourself completely into His hands…. Allow Him to manage you as He wills. Surrender your will. Trust God absolutely, and in all your ways. Accept each moment as it comes to you from His dear hands, as being the needed sunshine or rain for that very moment’s growth.
Stop fighting, arguing, complaining, criticizing, finding fault with your life, and with others! Instead, I would have you say a continual ‘yes!’ to your Father’s will.” -adapted from H.W.S
“Your own stubborn self-will and anxiety about things, all your hurrying and labor–indeed, these very things disturb your peace, and they actually prevent me from working in you.”
“I would have you look at the little flowers on these serene summer days; they quietly open their petals, and the sun shines into them with gentle warmth. So will I do for you, IF you will only yield yourself to me. Very, very few learn this simple lesson.” -adapted from G. Tersteegen
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by Jonas Girard
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Night Thunderstorms
The first sultry night of summer
sleep comes stealing through moist leaves
and shadows, like a thief.
Or an ancient weaver spinning her dreams
with nets of silk and thorns, into the depths
of muttering silences.
The sullen air trembles between thunderstorms.
Violet lightnings flicker the black walls
of the room, the open door, the empty hall.
Far thunder finds the black ridge-lines
running deep in the mountains, remembers
the younger bones of earth, and mind.
I stand at the window long minutes of time,
silent flashes glisten the wet trees.
Out of the mumbling night distances
a child inexpressibly old returns,
stands beside me listening, the flickering light.
Across the valley, steep hillsides of darkness
twinkle yellow green, fireflies phosphorescent
with memory, auroras of mystery.
Cool wind drifts through the window screens.
Eyelids shutter, and close their curtains.
The mind becomes a hush of darkly flickering leaves.
Lights of distant storms gathering, glimmer
the black walls, like dreams.
Cool moth wings flutter, old fears
and loves wanting to enter, bumping softly
against the screens.
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Kindness
My daughter called me today, midafternoon
an ordinary midsummer day, to tell me about
“something good that just happened”.
She said I was the only one “who’d get it”.
Those words alone made sure I would.
“It’s really no big deal”, she said
“but today, in a big hot crowded parking lot
I stopped to help a woman
pick up the broken pieces of a jar
of pasta sauce she dropped. No one else
stopped to help.”
My daughter stayed with her until
the smallest pieces of glass were picked up.
So others wouldn’t get flat tires.
The woman, Janiqua, was so thankful.
Truthfully, “no big deal” at all.
But in the greater Economy, I don’t agree.
She called it karma. I told her it was
human kindness (much more personal).
And how proud I am of her, stopping to help.
And what a different planet it would be If:
if everyone stopped to help others
pick up their messes, and broken pieces.
* * *
“and what was the secret of her power? What had she done? Absolutely nothing; but radiant smiles, beaming good humor, the tact of discerning what every one felt and every one wanted–all this and more told that she had gotten out of her self, and learned to think of others, first.
So at one time this quality showed itself in forestalling a quarrel, by sweet words; at another, by smoothing an invalid’s pillow; another, by soothing a sobbing child; at still another by humoring and softening a father who had returned weary and ill-tempered from the irritating cares of business.
None but she saw those sorts of things. None but a loving heart could see them. And that was the secret of her heavenly power: the one who will be found in trial capable of great acts of love is the very one who is always doing considerate small ones”. -F.W. Robertson (1816-1853).
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“Be kind to one another” –Ephesians 4:32
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Port City Java Wall
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Deep Shade
Hot saffron-yellow, the light of noon:
the sacred quiet of a great bronze temple bell
when the monks are all asleep.
Down in the garden, bright orange squash blooms
are fully opened, steeped in the emerald shade
of their sprawling leaves.
They scarcely stir the heavy, somnolent air.
Somewhere deep in cool green woods
one Wood Thrush
conjures a few last morning tunes, entrancing
the silent halls of afternoon.
Even the birch leaves barely move, conspiring
not to break the spell of June.
And like the great bronze temple bell
the windchime dreams.
The fountain keeps lifting, the old water
keeps falling back, and back, its stream
splashes the black pond, white bubbles
scatter out, dissolve
like inspiration given, yawned
in the earth’s mauve heat, and lost.
In the dark water brightly colored fish
sleep motionless, the dreaming shade
of ancient listless trees.
And the beaming hydrogen sun
keeps pouring forth—an infinite fountain
of photons, splashing like fire
the golden blossom lights of afternoon.
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From New Direction Farm’s autumn festival:
October sunset
gives its fire: breaking clouds,
dying leaves, every face
* * *
Seeing an old friend
we talk and laugh, until
the mountains darken
* * *
Old woman
stands beside the crumbling fire,
cool October dusk
* * *
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Deep in the night
rain patters the roof.
The ticking clock. . .
* * *
From the flood of September 09:
River in flood:
sycamores turning gold,
the darkening sky
* * *
(I see myself):
The river rages
red with mud. One old heron
hunched upon a rock
* * *
That heron–
there just for me? I write
his poem, he leaves
* * *
In the tall weeds
behind a large flat rock–
poke-a-dot panties
* * *
Storm-washed tree roots
dance loose in the rapids.
Boulders standing still.
* * *
A grey heron waits.
And waits, on a grey rock.
River red with flood
* * *
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From September:
Autumn crows.
The sound of a hammer.
Morning distances
* * *
“If you died tonight. . . . .”
Oh, stop it!
We are dying
* * *
How do we forget?
That old white scar
on my brown wrinkled hand:
how did it happen?
* * *
Rain lashes the windows.
The sound her spoon makes
stirring the dark tea
* * *
Autumn sunset:
Brown horses, flashing
along the hillside fencerow–
such long shadows!
* * *
Morning birches:
wind and yellow warblers
passing through
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Emergent
(For Farrah)
We like our lakes to be full.
But the eighty-year-old impoundment
in our town has been drained,
nearly empty, a few weeks now.
(They’re replacing a rusted valve near the bottom
of the tall drain tower).
So the water is down, almost to its deepest channel–
the small wild beaver-creek that was trapped
and drowned eight decades ago, dammed
to form the lake.
The ancient skeleton of bare finger-ridges
and hollows stares up at us, like bones
in a dug up grave.
The empty basin smells like death,
those things we’ve trashed, forgotten,
allowed to sink from sight.
Yesterday I walked the littered banks, the ledges
of exposed rock, an old beachcomber
poking in and out, the fallen water’s edge.
One can read the rusted shards, like pages lost
or torn, from our culture’s book.
Time’s tide, and the broken crusts
of dried mud yield more beer bottles
than anything else. And a ’75 Toronado.
Someone found a can of human ash.
Hundreds of bleached mussel shells, cracked open
by herons and raccoons–they left their scrawl
of tracks in sun-baked clay.
I brought home a sand-logged camera
and a fishing lure–its hook was stuck
tight in a stump–an old blue medicine bottle
full of silt, and a smooth-washed driftwood root.
* * *
We like daylight more than night.
Give us bright surfaces, not shadows
or murky depths.
We’re desperately afraid of stillness, of pain
and illness, the dark words they can speak.
But this morning, very early,
before the dim shapes of hills emerged
from the deep lake of night
I walked outside.
And watched, listened, very still
long minutes.
The whistling wings of doves
descended in the dawn.
The lantern glow of fading stars
vanished, the growing opalescent light.
A copse of wild black plum trees
was breaking out of winter, out of night
and into bloom.
The blossoms gleamed, incandescent
with morning, and with Spring.
And I am reminded of the invisible ones–
the guardians, the gatekeepers, the Springtimes
and our loves already gone.
And of everything that each of us
in graceful light may yet become.
It is that Light, lifting before me
the radiance of flowers,
the scent of unborn fruit.
And I lift my hands, my face
to the lovely face of God,
on the shores of April dawn.
* * *
rt
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Doctor’s office. Waiting,
I pick up the large sea-shell
and listen
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The Grandfather
sits alone, an autumn day
with the dying cat
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Trimming the herb garden:
cut sage, broken rosemary
cool October mist
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Low, heavy clouds
cold wind tears the gold leaves down,
the iron gate clangs shut
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First frost
sparkling silence: leaves
whispering, down . . .
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Brown horses, flashing
along the fencerow
goldenrod shadows
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October morning
I take Mother far back—
her childhood mountains
* * *
Wild grey ridgetops
lost in mist. Plump chickens
clucking in their coop
* * *
Fields are bare now.
On the table, in cold wind
jars of dark sorghum
* * *
The shy farm-child
peeks out from behind
his father’s back
* * *
Somber autumn sky
white on the Appaloosas
grazing into night
* * *
Gold Aldebaran
rising through bare trees.
Feeble cricket song
* * * * * *
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Chopin nocturne,
Night wind clicks the bare limbs
rain ticks the windows
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Bagpipes whine and drone
a chill sunset wind
fills the autumn trees
* * *
Robins winging south
in sunset light, high above
the golden, darkening. . .
* * *
Layers of mountaintop
shadows and mist. One sun shaft
lights one yellow ridge
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Arcturus, yellow star
of Spring, setting now
red October dusk
* * *
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Gifted young artist
expelled from art school.
His face, the falling leaves
* * *
Wealthy young woman
shows the small dark ghetto girl
how to bake cookies
* * *
Her eyes, seeing
like the hawk. Her words
gentle, like the lamb
* * *
Sunday afternoons
in autumn, how I miss
reading comics with her
* * *
How can it be—
That he can speak so well of love
yet love so poorly?
* * *
All the other sounds
are gone. Just a long night-train
rolling upriver
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Traffic Dust
Driving past him
in windblown traffic dust
I briefly catch the ancient
Mayan features: oval brown
olive sandstone face.
Expressible peace and sadness there,
deep mystery too, black eyes
squinting at me, at you
through time
and traffic dust.
The fine Aztecan hands, grip
and turn the tall sign pole, all day long
ten thousand cars, or more
obeying him, asking us to STOP.
Or, SLOW through the destruction,
the windblown traffic dust.
His heritage, crumbled
like jungle ruins, long vanished—
far behind him now.
In such a small pathetic way
he (and thousands like him)
in this strange and foreign land
do their savage part—
the unthinkably cruel and primitive
sacrifice: tear another mountain down,
remove the forests’ trove of secrets,
kill the living webs of life.
Build yet another road
for we’ve always called this ”growth”
and think we must because it pays.
But we do not, can not see it clearly,
squinting in a hurry through fast days
of time, and turning signs
and windblown traffic dust.
* * *
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After the Autumn Storm
Deep in the mid-November night
hours before dawn, I woke.
The howling storm had broken,
blown its fury out, was gone.
Just a few rags of cloud held on,
patching the vast curtain of stars
hanging above the Elk Mountains.
Winter constellations had risen high
and blue in the east.
The trees were dripping and still.
At this hour, the distant four-lane was silent.
Far city lights glowed the southern sky,
silhouetted the near ridgeline, jagged
with black pine trees, like teeth.
A half-mile away, below
the bowing rows of hills
the night river was rushing full:
like one unending wave, it pulled
and crashed upon the strand of darkness
toward the ocean, and the sunken moon.
The voice of winter’s Great Owl
boomed in the black woods.
The long, graceful arms of Perseus
reached down to the western rim.
The diamond bracelet of Pleiades
glittered beyond time,
dancing slowly through the skeletons
of the empty trees.
* * *
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The Boy and I
(the day after Thanksgiving, 09)
*
A mild November with no frost.
At last, sharp cold is here.
The small boy who’s still alive, but lost
somewhere in this sere autumn forest
of half-forgotten thoughts
and aging bones–he’s feeling that old thrill
again: the sudden fragrant chill
of winter’s fast approach.
*
I don the worn grey wide-brimmed felt,
and the old blue barn-coat that smells
like earth and leaves, and smoke, and me.
The boy nestles in close, and buttons up.
Just he and I, we walk outside and breathe
as one: so near, our foggy breaths mingle
in the day’s last icy skim of light.
Young and old, we watch and help each other.
(I sense the shadow-voice of my father
might be there too, gently supervising).
I show the lost boy once again–just in case
he forgot–the art of safely splitting
sticks of winter’s wood—letting the keen blade slice
the straight grain from the knot.
For his part, he keeps reminding me, this work
is beautiful and good, needful, even fun.
I agree—Yes, it has has its natural joy.
Every work is not a chore.
I listen, and still learn from him.
Together he and I, we take the dry sticks
of split white oak from the shed
and build a small pyre—to cook
the killed meat before the coming dark.
* * *
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Low Sun
*
From the very edge of the world
it shines, thin rays splintering
through bare birch trees
as if they no longer lived there,
so empty without leaves.
Their windy shadows sweep
the chimney wall.
Blue smoke whirls and rises,
its shadows drift away.
Out of the brittle wind, hiding
in sunlit cracks between rocks
two or three house-flies cringe,
clinging the year’s last bit of warmth.
How miniscule and pitiful, their precise
threads of legs, ragged glistening wings.
I killed their kind all summer.
These, now, I let be.
Much later: Back indoors, I read
while the fire crackles in the stove.
Perhaps I’ll write something.
A mug of hot tea steams,
cupped in wrinkled hands
that don’t work as well
in the cold anymore.
Already, a frozen moon, pure white
is tossing high, in windy limbs.
The blue smoke whirls and rises,
its moon-shadows run away
back into the windy trees,
into the coming night.
* * *
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Regret
Regret has fallen into disfavor,
disuse in recent decades.
We keep hearing the phrase:
Don’t beat up on yourself. God loves you
so love yourself!
As if shame is the worst possible enemy.
To make all the students happy
we have expelled one of the finest teachers.
Yes, his grandfather often took it way too far.
Now everyone is a victim, of something.
So many new diseases we have!
And blaming has become natural as breathing.
The ink has run and gotten blurred
in the long boundary line, dividing
what is Right
from what is Wrong.
(If indeed the line still exists at all).
It took many years of intentional neglect
to do this.
The stone tablets (and their hand-carved words)
each of us and all together
have hammered into dust, with ridicule.
And with that holy dust
(some glitter, and some cheap word-glue )
we make cheap jewelry, cheap talk, saying
over and over to ourselves:
awesome! awesome!
It’s all good, just let it be,
do whatever you wanna do.
As if we knew how to rule.
Clear morning light, swallowed
so gradually, by afternoon shadows.
Come the cold night rains.
*
At this point, looking back
I’m able to see, and say, some things
I do regret. Yes, I’m deeply sorry
the mess I’ve often made of things.
Meaning: could I go back, and do one thing
or many things again, much differently,
I would. Listening to truer voices…
And I refuse the easy temptation
to blame my poor choices
on karma, fate, God’s will, the Church,
bad parenting, or someone else.
* * *
So having heard my confession
the question now turns back to you–
Father. Brother. Sister. Child: Can you, will you
forgive me?
Indeed, can I forgive myself?
The Door
that swings opens, or closes,
that lets in light, or not
hinges on this one thing:
“Blessed are the Merciful.
They shall receive mercy.”
—Jesus
* * *
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Please do not rush these poems. Take your time. You deserve it. So do they. Breathe………………………………..
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On a country road
how long the shadows
winter afternoon
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After loving,
toast and tea, now this
autumn morning stillness
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All shapes and sizes
each with its shadow, walking
toward the morning bells
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Dry bread, broken
dipped in the dark wine–
remembrance, and hope
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Those large black hands
hard red light and shadows
such delicate notes
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Days are short now.
The buildings are dark.
Streetlights walk the steps.
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Forty autumns after
college, still scribbling haiku
November rain
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Drinking hot tea
I fall asleep
rain on fallen leaves
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Waiting room
all of us in pain
wise guy won’t shut up
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Ancient Indian path
hidden beneath fallen leaves
the sound of my steps
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Shining through
hundreds of black trees:
bone-white sycamore
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Frosted window
stark black branches
sparkling winter stars
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Winter night sky
the Hunter, and his dogs
a far hound, barking
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’62 Chevy
pickup truck, rusting
in briars and snow
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December’s first light
glistens the hemlock frost–
whitethroat sparrow’s song
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Early heavy snow
Suddenly, sun breaks out!
the roof drips and steams
*
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Sequoiah’s river
Wolfe’s river. Autumn morning
now it’s my river
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So weary with it–
Christmas music, noise and junk.
I long for the Savior
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December graveyard
cold wind rattles the plastic
poinsettias
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Strong tea, dark chocolate,
a book of poems.
Cold sun on my face
* * *
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A Vanished Dream
* * *
I lay still in the November night
long moments
trying to recapture the evanescence
that just left.
*
But being very shy
as most dreams are, it vanished—
a field of butterflies
before an eager child
—the moment my eyes opened, letting in
the autumn night,
the inescapable present,
its close dark walls.
*
So I lay there, bereft
not unlike a small child who’d lost
some cherished toy, something
inexpressibly beautiful to him,
purely perfectly wild.
It would not reappear
in the empty shining meadow.
*
So I gave up on it. Let it go.
And let myself wander back
into the valley of echoes, soft wings
faces and reflections, always fleeting
along a bright stream, into
the shimmering trees.
*
Returning to that luminescent land
of shadows, I heard, falling away
behind me: the clock ticking in the dark,
the plodding walk of my autumn heart,
my wife softly breathing, so close
so far away in her own dreams,
the slow night-train, rumbling
upriver, miles away
* * *
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A billion flakes
tumbling down. My eyes pick one
and watch it fall
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Heavy falling snow
a neighbor’s rooster
sounds so far away
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Cathedrals echoing
lofty carols. He buys warm socks
for a friend
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We scarcely notice
the cold sun, slipping
into the black trees
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Hospital windows–
every one of them reflects
setting winter sun
*
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Heavy snow called for—
long blue shadows, stretch across
the morning frost
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How much we miss her!
Her package arrives in the post–
full of bright presents
*
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If You Want to Write Words……
A message to myself. (and anyone else who wants to listen)
*
….bearing the beauty, inexorable pain
the holiness of night in them,
first you must hear those words.
To hear them you must know
they are spoken, given to you.
But no one can tell you how to know.
You must choose that path.
*
Rise from warm sleep, your restless dream
and walk out hungry, lonely, thirsting
into the eternal pool of stars.
Beyond them always lives the shimmering
oasis of wisdom, the Father’s home of Light
whose words mothered the galaxies,
where it is written.
*
Step across the black crystals of the frozen grass.
Stand very small and yet, alive! Inside
the infinite sparkling universe.
Be present.
Open your eyes, your very heart.
Reach your fingertips—-their tiny bones
out to the thin and trembling radiance,
the distant beginnings.
Look deep into the invisible face
the Father of lights.
Like shepherds, leave your smoky sheep-turd fire
discussing politics, the mayor of Beth-la-hem
(“the House of Bread”). As if that mattered.
Hearken! angels are singing, to you.
*
Like a stern teacher, quiet the noisy hallways
of your thought, the endless talk. Let go
what everyone is telling you to think
and do. Listen! scriptures of light
are being spoken to you, these dark and holy
moments. Write them down– broken pieces,
as if they were dust
or bits of dried mud, fallen
from the feet of God.
They are.
Words have speed. Strength of light
and truth. And they endure, longer
than water, than stone.
Offer them up, like bread, your daily work
your very words an act of worship, as if
they were to be eaten by God.
They are.
This your service, fervent praise.
Solemn, joyful prayer, the way
you serve tea, clean the dish, the heart
you use to sweep the filthy floor.
* * *
You say you want words
the risen glory of dawn in them.
Then rise from your warm dream, and walk
among the cool and fallen,
the pale sleeping lilies of men and women
already gone from you.
Enter the dim tombs of night
just as the clanging black gates are closing
and the harsh gatekeeper tells you to leave.
Breathe, and listen: new words
you’d not dreamed, old words
you’d forgotten, suddenly
finally come running to you
like children, blossoming little hands
unfolding tender flowers of light.
But let them go, offer them up
open hands and heart:
this work, this art, these words
they are not yours.
Not in the way you want to think.
You’re allowed to give them birth, and shape:
a joyful grieving, the rich benedictions
that flow from truly owning nothing.
And to give them away, your whole life:
like smoke
drifts upward from an autumn fire.
* * *
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Her name is Annie, a Brittany spaniel. She slipped, and went over….
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modern day scarecrow, put away for the winter
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The mill-wheel stopped turning
many years ago. Its gear teeth rust.
The stream rushes on….
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Heavy snow, all day.
Silent blue darkness
large trees, breaking
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Gazing into snow:
is it falling, or
am I rising?
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Electricity
off. We sit in silence
candles, flickering
*
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Changing mother’s sheets
brown spots on the mattress pad–
my dead father’s blood
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Sirius, Orion
glittering icicles
along the dark eave
*
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Abandoned barn
the smooth shiny wood
of the empty stalls
*
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Dark, freezing bedroom
under heavy blankets:
Burrrrrrrrr-ito!!!
*
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First snow:
high in a windy gap
a red fence-gate, opens….
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That old uncle
who loved the woods—why
didn’t I visit?
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Our Soul Craving
(a modern psalm; a prayer of thirst)
Oh God, eternal breath,
Yah-weh, yearning your fatherly desire
for your first children
in that perfect garden, long ago.
But we would not have it.
*
Much later, you led us out of bondage–
You spoke such fierce and holy words of love
to us: our deliverance burned in a desert tree.
*
At last, perhaps, are we starting to grasp
and see, your invisible shapeless form?
So often we’ve had You wrong, this long trail
of centuries. Forgive us, Oh God!
We got deceived. We let ourselves believe
You were nothing more than rules, Commandments
carved by heaven’s hard steel hand
in tablets of fiery mountain stone.
We saw you an angry face of flint, forever
unpleased with us, aloof, alone.
We thought You hid yourself
behind a tall, seamless curtain.
So we rebelled. We ran from You.
*
But finally came a certain dawning star, a fallen rose,
a broken lamb–Immanuel. The passion
of your lovely Christ tore the curtain open
and shattered stone!
His lifeblood spilled, He filled the deep and holy cup
of your desire. He opened the very sky
and our sightless eyes, to see:
—the Father’s heart is not cold,
nor set in stone. More like an ark
of hopeful light, approaching us.
A living flame, flickering through
the oceanic dark, and all our senseless wars.
*
Oh, how could we have missed You?
*
Drawing near you now, the truth
we see your essence–hungering holy fire
an untamed love, craving others to come near You
and to burn with that very same consuming desire.
And nearer still, until we perfectly know
and love, your perfect heart, and will.
*
Following You, O LORD, we do grow up.
We drop our toys and other cravings
one……by…..one.
Broken, they litter this broken desert road.
You are the only oasis, the one clear spring.
All our thirsts are quenched in You.
* * *
rt 12/08
to be read at Highland Christian Church, Asheville NC, 12.27.9
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First Night of the New Year
Christmas is gone again.
Scraps of old snow are left
from the storm, two weeks ago.
With what we’ve done
to Christ’s holy birthday Mass,
it seems now little more
than a glittery, crumpled wad
of colored paper in the trash.
And the year’s first day is gone
like so much winter smoke.
Past midnight, January second
I lie alone beside the lamp.
My wife and daughter are gone all week
to visit her mother, in Tampa.
She called, and said it’s cold, even there.
I put the book down, listen
to the strong north wind beyond the walls.
Its roar is steady, like the river
in a flood year, or a long coal train
rumbling through the mountain night.
I get dressed, go out to the shed,
get more wood to feed the stove.
Outside, the cold is fierce, like teeth.
The winter moon rides high and white.
Orion and his dogs are running fast
through the leafless windy trees.
Wisps of silver smoke escape the chimney,
fly back into the stars.
In frozen moonlight
the smoke shadows run
like something thin and frightened
across the crusts of withered snow.
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Old Craggy Prison, north of Asheville NC
(study it closely; imagine yourself “living” here)
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(From my journal):
Another cold day. My wife and daughter gone to Tampa to visit Diana’s mother for the week.
Late afternoon, I’m ready to get out somewhere. I took Zoey for a drive upriver, to shoot some photos along an abandoned rail siding near the old Craggy Prison, closed for some years now. What a terribly grim place behind the posted chainlink fences. The faded mustard paint is cracked and peeling. Standing in front of the silent structure, one can’t help but imagine what unspeakable human terror and suffering screamed out behind those walls? What demonic scars inflicted there, that still persist, decades after the prisoners have been released, the old dungeon finally emptied and shut down?
But once our minds pause long enough to feel the true ugliness of this punishing place, comes another question, not unrelated to the other: how many souls in anguish turned their broken lives back to God? We needn’t pretend a false superiority here. But for a few shakes of circumstance, a wrong decision in a weak moment, and each of us is thrown behind those walls.
“I was in prison, and you visited me”.
I had a strange urge to go inside, take some pictures of the dark halls and the rooms in this horrible penitentiary. I recalled my cousin Danny having been here as a teen some 40 years ago. I am not sure what his original crime was. But I remember well the story of his running away from a road-gang of prisoners working near my mother and dad’s house. I had already left for college.
He made his break from the gang sometime in early afternoon that day, and made it to our door. Mother was shocked to see him, standing very frightened and breathing heavy, in a prison uniform on her back porch, desperate to come inside. Mother gave him some food, but told him he could not stay. He left out the back door and into the woods, where he and I had played Indians together so many times, our growing up years. Danny was wilder, darker, a more natural native than I. I will never forget how he taught me to stalk, to walk quietly through the woods. “Pick your feet up, Bobby! Don’t step on the sticks.” He and I shared a trickle of Cherokee, from a great grandmother on our two mothers’ bloodline, finding its source in an Oklahoma squaw our great grandfather found and brought back to raise a family on the headwaters of the Paint Fork of Ivy River, well over a century ago. But the forest and its ways still flowed strong, in both of us, in different expressions. (Though darker and more sullen than I, I doubt if Danny is writing about these kinds of things as a 60 some year old man.)
The last I heard, after prison he married and raised a family somewhere to the south of Asheville, but has cut himself off from all ties to the family. Perhaps it’s the ugly wounds of shame wrapped underneath an angry blanket of pride. I do hope he found some happiness, and was able to let the great Father touch and heal some of his wounds. From mother’s account, I remember most how much he absolutely hated Craggy Prison, and did not want to go back. Who knows what was done to his young body and soul in that place? Is it impossibly idealistic of me to want to find him, even now, and learn more of his story, perhaps even be an agent of healing? I am so sorry for the pain he had to feel, and I know how easily it could have been mine.
But he did go back. Within an hour of his running into the woods, bloodhounds came baying up the driveway, trailing him. The men asked mother if he’d been there, and she told them he had, because he was her nephew, but that he had gone. What irony, that they tracked him as a scared prisoner, running through the beautiful “Indian woods” of our childhood, and caught him and returned him to Craggy Prison, to finish out his time. I doubt that he got to go out on road gangs any more.
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Sunday, January 3, 2010
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(from the journal)
Still just 18 degrees at 3:41, a brittle sabbath afternoon. I chose to stay home this morning, had a quiet breakfast with black tea, read scriptures, sang and prayed in the Spirit to the listening silence. As often happens, willfully pursuing an encounter with the Spirit of the living God, I was emptied, somewhat, of me. And the human vacuum was wonderfully filled with something better, unexpected.
Later. Tired of being enclosed, I bundled up and came outside with the journal, a pen and the small dog Zoey, to sit in the bright low January sunlight. The sky is never more intensely perfectly blue, than this. I’m warm with whole grain bread, hard cheese my sister gave me for Christmas, a hearty vegetable soup I made earlier. Zoey is perched contentedly on the cushioned stool in front of me, sheltered between my stretched out legs.
Here on the south side of the house, I’m out of the sharp wind. It blows all the way from the high arctic across Canada, scours the Great Plains and rushes over the Appalachian rim, then across the roof of our little house, and on, even to Florida. My wife called and said it’s cold in Tampa, where she and Natallie spend the week with her mother. They did not take enough clothes.
The north wind keeps a loud humming in the shining green pines above me. Loose bark on the golden river birches rattles in the stiff breezes. It sounds like Nuthatches, scratching the crevices for insect eggs.
At the end of the house, the wind-chime we bought ten summers ago in Charleston (the one that sounds like a harbour sea-buoy) jangles as the gusts rise and fall. Someone is desperately sawing firewood in the distance. A few crows are cawing across the fields of dead grass in the thin light. Their sharp calls cut the frigid air like glassy black shards of obsidian.
The thermometer will read below 10 degrees again by tomorrow dawn. Today’s paper tells us this is the longest deep cold spell since January ’77. I remember that arctic month well–cars and trucks drove across the surface of Beaver Lake, just because they could. One sub-zero night Bruce and I camped beside the South Toe River, its clear headwaters frozen hard into bluish green plates of ice. We stayed warm with goosedown, friendship, a candle in a Northface mountain tent.
Before building the breakfast fire next below zero morning, I remember we clomped about in sweat-frozen boots. Standing by the solid river, we watched a mink swim up out of a rapids and drop a large trout flopping onto the blue ice. A few timeless moments: human and wild, watching each other watch each other. He broke the spell by grabbing the trout and slid back into the fast black water. Thirty three Januaries ago.
Back to today. Over by the woodshed, the living green stems of bamboo have finally straightened themselves, weighted down more than a week with heavy snow. Now they are whispering again quietly, as if renewed by a deep repentance. I’d given up on them, did not believe they could spring back from such long bending nearly to the ground. How good it is: to be wrong about such things. Ironically, knocking the snow off them when they’re frozen hard and bent low can break them beyond repair. There’s perhaps some lesson, a natural and a spiritual wisdom to be gleaned from this pain-filled resiliency: the bamboo’s way of simply bearing, bending, waiting. Maybe it has something to do with knowing how to grieve. How to bear a load, how and when to let it go.
So cold today, yesterday morning’s skift of powder snow still speckles the dead grass. The shadowy grey shoulder of the pasture hill is dappled like the back of an Appaloosa. Looking at the view I feel an emotion recalling Andrew Wyeth’s austere sketches. He tried, and succeeded, to communicate something to us about the harsher facets of beauty. It is on these, that the softer sides–of art, nature, and life itself–very much depend.
Many birds. Titmice, chickadees, goldfinches, whitethroat sparrows, cardinals, blue jays, mourning doves–flit quickly from bare branches to the feeders as the sun descends into the leafless trees. What does a small bird feel, a long deathly night of deep cold like knives approaching? Are they afraid at all of dying? Or merely hungry, feeling the sharp cold? Forty winters now, I’m happy to feed and watch them feeding: seeds rich with oils converted to heat, to keep their little heart-furnaces throbbing as they roost on limbs in frigid darkness.
The fish pond is nearly frozen. Only the small bubbling space at the base of the fountain remains open. Through the hardening blue ice, huddled in black water, dim swatches of bright fish colors wait in deep torpor, a few degrees above freezing, but still alive. What is it in them that knows, hangs on, and waits……….?
Something happens this time of year, especially in a harder winter with deeper snow, longer cold and power outages. Something very human in us emerges–mixtures of frustration, anger, depression and despair. It has been called by both artists and clinicians “the sadness of winter”. Unfortunately this accurate diagnosis doesn’t tell us much we don’t already know. But what are we to do with it?
To our surprise we suddenly discover how essentially weak we are, how dependent on very fragile systems. Without electricity, and all the things that it makes work, our nerves and patience are undone in a cold night or two. As Americans, we usually take these systems as a birthright. Much of the world knows this is an immature and arrogant myth. Our true hearts catch a glimpse of this, riding through the impoverished streets of Kingston on a tourist bus.
When our layers of comfort are taken away, we are tempted to strike out as a petulant child, hurting those we love the most. The (apparently) easier route is to blame someone, anyone, for our inconvenience and discomfort. But right in the very midst of our suffering, there waits an epiphany, a wider awakening. It reveals itself to us in the deeper sources of hope. Someone is waiting to help us see it, just beneath the frozen surface.
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Wabi-Sabi
(for Farrah)
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How quickly they pass, these short winter days
you’re with us.
The pale sun has fallen again into black trees.
Month-old snow remains the unforgiving cold
in our hearts, the north bank across the river.
The first warm day in weeks, we get outside
no heavy coats and scarves.
*
Late afternoon, the white sky washes apricot
watercolor paper.
I bring you here–you and your camera–to this
wasteland, shambles of a place:
railroad siding, a dumping ground
beside the mountain river, flowing fast and dark
with melted snow.
A few Canada geese feed in the withered grass
another starry night, hard with frost.
*
Across the road a bare hillside, the empty prison
gapes, facing us, asking questions
only a skeleton can ask.
I watch decades of penned-up horror record
on your heart, reflect in your face
and in your words–”this is a place of bad spirits,
oh many bad spirits”.
A Plover rises from dead weeds, flies away
shrieking, an escaping soul.
The stench of sewage drifts upriver
the city’s treatment plant.
*
Walking the old train cars, you find
you touch such beauty, fading
NORFOLK-SOUTHERN numbers
peeling red paint and rust.
The Japanese call this evanescence
Wabi, Sabi.
Ice-blue shadows always hiding underneath.
Two more days, you’re gone from us again.
I can not face that fact. Instead, I listen:
the winter river breaks and flows away.
*
I think briefly of my father, the many ways
he loved me.
I knew so little of him,
forty years of working with the trains.
* * *
* * *
The sound of strong night wind in the trees. Perhaps I woke easily because I’m alone in the house all this week. I had left a window open a bit, and it whistled the gusts rushing out of the southwest. I got up and closed the window, latched it. Another storm blowing in.
Through the black window the patchy landscape of old snow glowed softly under a cloudy moon. I stood at the window several minutes, looked out at the winter land in the cold opal light. Nestled away next to a hillside farm, our house sees no other house or streetlights. There were black rags of open ground where the snow had melted. The deep woods were still darker than the night. Just west of the house, large oaks roared in the long gusts like lonely old lions.
Perhaps a third of the hills and meadows still shone bluish white with snow across the darkness, north-facing shadowy places the low December sun could not reach. For weeks the air has remained heavy and cold. Many folks are already starting to complain about winter, but solstice was only last week. Our winters in recent years have been fairly mild. But we’re just getting started, three months of lean light ahead of us.
I enjoy waking up deep in the winter night. After the dream images fade, somehow thoughts flow more lucidly, like crisp, late-risen moonlight breaking through the stark trees. Daytime thought and action are often anxious and hurried, like gnats insistently buzzing around our eyes and ears, demanding attention. This and that be done, now! We stay busy with a thousand things, but take few deliberate and restful pauses. Thus our minds, our very thoughts, our breathing, our words become shallow, rushed and fragmented. We know little of the clarity, the peace that comes from intentional reflection and meditation, simply being present. It seems as a culture we’re addicted to distraction, dissipation, hurrying. Give us anything but quiet, and stillness.
At night all that can be wonderfully different. At least there’s less demanded of us–by others, and ourselves. This particular night, storm gusts are moaning about the eaves, just above the upstairs windows. It is enough, to be warm, and indoors.
I’ll go downstairs and make a cup of chamomile tea, come back to the study, and put down a few thoughts. I do love listening to that elemental sound–strong wind rushing over and about the house, through the winter trees….our various tribes have been keening into that dark music for eons of nights, with fear and wonder, making our own songs in return.
I had an interesting little excursion into the countryside earlier this afternoon. The heavy sky was growing steadily more cloudy, long gray stratus slabs stretching slowly across the blue mountains, promising storm. I drove north along the old two-lane scenic road down and with the river’s flow. It was running full of silty green snowmelt and winter rain. White rapids crashed on large boulders and sunken shoals, creating standing waves of froth. Every half mile or so, I chanced to see a solitary blue heron perched upon the flooded rocks.
In contrast to the miles of turbulent waters, the winding narrow road was mostly empty, only a car or truck every several minutes. Most take the faster four-lane, a few miles to the east. The shoulders of the river road were still littered with storm debris from the foot of wet snow that fell Friday before last. In the already-saturated soil, shallow rooted pines came crashing down under the weight of fresh snow, taking power lines with them. Thousands of homes were stripped of electric power for several days and nights, ours among them.
I drove to the tiny riverside village of Marshall, the quiet streets still decorated with Christmas lights. Marshall has that rare quality of being so raw and real, it almost looks intentional, overdone, like a movie set constructed for a certain dreary effect of impoverishment. But it’s the real thing. Indeed, at least one major movie has had a few scenes filmed on its streets.
In the window of an old hardware store, a few woodburning stoves were standing on display, so I parked around the corner and went inside to check on them for a friend who had weathered the recent storm without heat. The stoves proved to be an unlikely choice, but I walked down a long aisle on creaking, oily floorboards to the back of the large gloomy store. There the owner was sitting alone next to a Fisher woodstove. It was putting out a great deal of heat that mostly lifted to the rafters of the 30 foot high ceiling.
“Heatin’ this old bildin’, why, hit’s a lot like heatin a damned old barn!” the man bellowed, offering me a cane-backed chair with a sunken seat. I decided to stand. We were the only two in the store. It even felt strangely like we were the last two humans left in that gray little town. I think he was glad I had come along, so he could talk to someone. Which he did for the next half hour or so, almost without stop, offering all matters of opinions on various topics from the speed of gossip in Marshall, to the reasons we had no business in Afghanistan.
Each time I started to say something, he cut me off with another new story line, or his take on what he thought I was about to say. So I just went with this lop-sided conversation, appreciating the fact that I might learn something by listening. Or at least be entertained, if not educated. It turns out he thinks he’s solved a decades old notorious crime that E.Y. Ponder, the long-standing high sherriff of Madison county could not himself crack. I sensed he wanted very much for me to ask him who he thought committed the heinous deed, but I didn’t bite. I didn’t want that kind of information or name running scared and trying to hide in my brain, even if it was only speculative.
And I learned who still makes the best white likker in the area, although most of the old-time moonshiners have all died out. “Moonshinin’s an art. Yessir! Not just anybody can do it.” But he still knew right where to get “the good stuff”, for $12.50 a quart. He called it flu-medicine, saying he took a drink ever now’nen.
And how he thought the great blizzard of ’93, terrible as it was, couldn’t hold a candle to this recent storm, which did a whole lot more damage, with a lot less snow, according to him. I wouldn’t argue the point, since there may be some truth to his contention about the devastating snowstorm of December 18, 2009.
I stayed in the store, listening to the storekeeper’s history and opinions until almost five o’clock, his closing time. The old store had grown gradually darker. I left him my card, and wished him a better year coming, and walked back down the street to the Trooper, parked in front of an abandoned storefront.
From the main street in Marshall I crossed over the swollen snowmelt river and climbed up into the plateau farm country along the winding Rector Corner Road. The low sun had already been swallowed for the night by approaching storm clouds. Still, it was good dramatic violet light for photographing a few winter landscapes. I pulled off the curvy country road onto muddy shoulders at a few different vantage points. The snowy pastures and woodlands rolled away into darkening purple ridges, the heavy sky, the coming night.
I was composing a scene through the lens when I heard loud rustling, something walking behind me. Just across the road, at the top of the steep bank an Appaloosa was grazing in the briars and short grass near the fence line. He unknowingly posed, a perfect silhouette against the twilight sky. I felt a quiet but deep gladness that it was winter.
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All Night, a Deep South Wind
…blows in from the Gulf,
lifting heavy limbs of the pines,
filling these ancient black mountains
and their sleeping valleys–
songs of emptiness,
of fullness.
^
The past is always irrevocably flowing
into the present, ready or not.
Warm winds melting, wash away
into the winter river
last vestiges of old snow.
I stand a long while, soft dark wind
filling my shirtsleeves, breathe
the moist air deeply, arms open
a long awaited grace
like a friend arriving, some faraway
warmer place, a late night train.
We know somewhere deep within
the frozen ground, hiding in our hearts
some miracle is curled, a dream
of unfurled leaves.
A folded lily lies sleeping in the stormy boat.
^
More snows are certain to fall.
But for now, this night
I let the long midwinter fire
fall to quiet ash.
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Nell
A dear friend called
late this winter morning.
She wanted my advice–
which woodburning stove to buy,
what sort of price?
For half an hour—our lives
we talked important details
and preferences: cast iron or steel,
firebox size, creosote, and who
can you find, and trust,
to sell good wood?
Perhaps my thoughts on staying warm
helped her a bit.
But seeing each other through
another winter’s hardness, warming
at the embers of friendship–
that is something more, much more
than smoke and ash.
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Community
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The loud plaintive electric music wails on, whining like the depths of an agonizing human soul. Out of the darkness in the dim, half-lit room the straggling line keeps moving toward us. All these men and women, with children and without, singles and couples, together, and alone. Some of the women look up briefly, to meet my wife’s smiling countenance as they receive the elements. A few individuals might even glance up at me. I watch them closely, bless each of them silently as they clumsily pick up a piece of cracker and dip it into the juice.
I find myself wondering at the many separate threads of story woven into the loose cord of strangers pulling itself along in the shadows. A very strange and holy moment, this ancient rite of sacramental giving and receiving. It passes quickly. In the half light, I sense on the faces an ironic mixture of embarrassment, dire necessity, and wide variations on the theme of gratitude. For many, it appears to be merely robotic, perfunctory: let’s get this over with. But who can know? Out of whatever motive, soul hunger, spiritual need, or not, they all do come to this crucial place. They each take, and walk back to their chairs somewhere in the large dim room.
The other six days of the week the room serves as a bar and “social club” here on Biltmore Avenue, in the center of the city. Fifty years ago on Wednesday nights–family night–I rollerskated in this very room with my friends in the fifth and sixth grades. Then, a large pink neon sign on the roof proclaimed the name SkateLand. I especially remember skating with Carolyn, pretty Carolyn, and tentatively holding her hand, both of us desperately trying not to fall to the hard floor of the rink. Girls wore dresses in those wonderful years. When she fell, how awkward it was for both of us, a skinny kid straining to help up his lovely girlfriend sprawled on the floor with wheels on her feet. She was already beginning to fill out with soft and mysterious curves I remember wanting very much to touch, but at the same time being desperately afraid to. Ah, the tortures of an early-adolescent boy!
But this morning, and every Sabbath morning the past five and half years the bar is used as a somewhat nonconventional inner-city church. Diana is holding a flat plate of broken crackers, and next to her I grasp a pottery goblet of dark and fragrant concord. The people keep moving toward us–somewhat hurriedly, some of them furtively, as if barely escaping something. We stoop down a bit for the children so they can see, and reach. I love watching the wide eyes of the smaller ones, how their little fingers are a bit uncertain, a little afraid. It’s as if they sense they are approaching something both terrible and good, like the casket of a murdered God, receiving the gifts he gave away to everyone before he died. The power of story is still strong, in the large and open hearts of children. The wonder of it shows on their tender faces.
Along with the faces, I love watching all the precious human hands unfold to pick up the cracker and dip it in the juice. Different ages, sizes, and conditions of hands. Some of the fingers are clean, manicured and precise. Those are the fingertips that usually are very careful not to dip into the juice. And other fingers are not so clean. I notice that those are the fingers that often bathe themselves in the juice, up to the first knuckle. It almost seems they want to be certain they’ve gotten enough.
I guess those of us who believe that “cleanliness is next to Godliness” will just have to get over it , and realize those words, that idea, is definitely not in scripture.
For it is written: “where sin abounds, grace abounds all the more”.
And didn’t our Lord himself say in a variety of ways: “I did not come for the righteous, for those who are well. I came for those who are sick, in need of a physician. Whoever will, may come”.
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While Waiting. . .
. . .for my daughter
Friday morning chemistry lab.
I sit in the car, an empty park,
the winter river flowing by.
On the other snowy shore
a ridge of trees stands stark and bare.
Suddenly comes deep rumbling, not unlike
distant summer thunder, trembles
the very ground, the cold hard air:
a long train of coal cars grinds upriver,
thousands of tons, screeching
thin steel rails.
Countless lives (unknowing) depend
on that black cargo
rolling toward the needy town.
The train rumbles on into the past.
The swollen grey river keeps flowing down.
All the coal will turn to steam, and smoke.
*
On public radio, a Bach concerto
resounds from Brandenburg—
two and a half centuries ago, his quill
scratched those notes in whale oil’s light.
The orchestra thunders and chimes:
harpsichords like winter streams
windy branches making rhymes
dropping delicate shells of ice.
And great cathedral organ pipes
make timeless cadences
not unlike a summer storm,
a winter river, rolling beside
a winter morning train.
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Fire Ghosts
Another storm approaches, silently
the long January night.
Snow clouds drift across the moon.
Like shrouds of summers gone
the smoke from our fire blows away.
Down in the dark hollow
a small owl lifts his quavering music
into the pale blue light.
Back indoors, I warm
beside the old iron stove.
Embers crackle and fall.
Petals of yellow light flicker
the floor, the silent walls.
The fluxions of radiance flutter
like flowers in a summer wind.
There is no other sound.
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Reality IS Redemption
From notes in my journal. A few reflections on Oswald Chambers’ excellent meditation on January 31, “Do you see your calling?” –from My Utmost for His Highest–(my long-time favorite daily reading for spiritual food and direction).
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As Chambers does so well, and quite often, he gets your attention with a slightly shocking statement that sounds a bit over the top, almost hyperbole, like flirting with the skirts of blasphemy, even. But no. As you get used to reading Chambers, you realize he’s not overstating for effect. You come to understand, and appreciate, that he’s quite serious, and more than that, he’s right on target, with some of his more disturbing pronouncements. Remind you of Someone else? He wasn’t just trying to get our attention. He was trying to tell us the truth. But the truth is often so, so….true (compared to the mish-mash we are accustomed to hearing) that we think it’s a bit radical. Just a bit?
In an attempt to describe the sharp contrast between divine and carnal, we often contrast spiritual truth with worldly “truth” by using the analogy of oil and water. They just don’t mix well at all. But the analogy serves: oil IS so very different from water, just as Spirit is distinctly other from flesh, a different dimension entirely. And it is certainly not the purpose of oil to change itself to be more accommodating to water. Likewise, you will not find Oswald Chambers apologizing for the “extreme” nature of some of spiritual wisdom he imparts. He knew that many commonly accepted “religious” beliefs aren’t spiritual at all, and have no scriptural basis. He exposes them for what they are. When you read Chambers, you’re likely to get the pure oil. You can count on it to burn, hot and bright.
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An example of Chambers’ tendency to wake us with a surprising statement can be found in today’s (Jan. 31) devotion. The very first sentence: “Our calling is not primarily to be holy men and women”. (Really? We thought that was the whole point, so much is made of it by most preachers and teachers.) But read on. It gets better:
“The one, all-important thing is that the gospel of God should be recognized as the abiding reality. Reality is not human goodness, or holiness…..it is redemption. The need to perceive this is the most vital need of the Christian today. We have to get used to the revelation that redemption is the only reality. Personal holiness is an effect of redemption, not the cause of it”.
Wow. Thank you, Mr. Chambers. The cart was certainly not designed to pull the horse. But how we do try…. and try…… and try………to do what God has already done. It’s wearisome and even sad, how so much of our spiritual energies are displaced, even wasted, trying to accomplish something we are not able to do. We can not make redemption happen, or realize it, or add to it by resolving this, or intending to do that, by trying harder to be good, or if not good, at least better. What a waste! The focus in all that striving is on the wrong thing. We’re looking at ourselves.
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At this point, we must be sure that we have at least a basic understanding of what redemption actually is. From this, hopefully we will begin to grasp as well, what redemption is not.
Redemption is both miracle and mystery. But God chooses to unveil it to us as mercy, in the dire neediness of our smallest and darkest hours. Redemption is how the eternal and divine come to reveal themselves in the fragments of our often wasted days. Simply stated, redemption is the deep healing power and restorative purpose of God. Divine ointment, poured out like a priceless balm on the open sores and hidden wounds of human beings.
At a certain point in Earth time, God demonstrated redemption perfectly in the long-awaited Messiah, Jeshua. Redemption is completed by God himself, in the life, death and resurrection of Christ Jesus. It is applied to us by his dynamic Holy Spirit. We can summarize an infinite mystery with a very few words: Redemption is Christ. We believe and receive this radiant mystery-truth, and willingly keep moving toward it, warmed and healed by its holy fires.
Or we do not.
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But what is our part?—
–Our “work” if you will, according to Jesus himself “is to BELIEVE IN THE ONE WHOM GOD SENT.
That’s it?? Just believe?
Yes. The lamp of our slow walking with God through the darkness is kindled, and is kept burning, by the oil of faith. (For a whole mess of interesting reasons, we keep trying to get around or get past that basic fact: “the righteous, i.e., those who are truly good, will live by believing the truth”). Oh, but we think we need to do so much more.
What Chambers wants us to see in today’s words are how essentially different living by faith in Christ is from living to be good, or moral, or living to impress others, or living to feel better about myself by doing penance, or good deeds, etc. The simple humbling truth is that God has already redeemed all of mankind, (even me!). In Christ, He built the bridge necessary to restore everyone to joyful friendship with Himself, once for all. I am asked to believe, and to abide in the unfolding liberating wonders of that reality. That reality is unconditional mercy, the perfect agape love of God—for you, for me, for everyone. That reality is redemption. As we continue bathing in its luminescence, redemption grows us in wisdom, in the capacity to know God: to forgive all others, and to love them in intelligent and meaningful ways. (These are the ‘good works’ that flow out of real faith). This is redemption’s very purpose: to make us more like God himself. Anything less than this, no matter how impressive, is merely vain existence, literally killing time.
The price for the privilege of walking in this? Far too high for the likes of us to pay, ever. (though we tend to keep trying to pay for it!)
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So Rejoice! It has been paid. The law has been fulfilled. Halleluliah, ten thousand Halleluliahs. Blow the Shofar til the highest mountains resound! If that doesn’t begin to break your mask, and make you at least a little hopeful with a childlike joy, the chances are very good that you are still believing in your self to save you.
Question: how can self save itself from itself? Dare to think about that. Absurd, isn’t it? —one of those lies that needs to be acknowledged, seen for the poison that it is, and released.
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Redemption is God’s primary agenda. Throughout the centuries of nations, cultures, and individuals it is just this: by the power of his Christ, His Word, and his Spirit, to fix what is broken, to heal what is diseased, to find what has been lost, to restore to value that which has been damaged, stained, devalued and cast aside. God’s pleasure is to ripen hardness and sourness into softness and sweetness. To mature what is immature, into a much greater usefulness, beauty and fruitfulness. To abolish and replace stubbornness, pride, and its many vanities with humility and gracefulness, just as a river disintegrates and washes away great boulders. To replace so much babbling and chattering with true and caring listening. The Holy Spirit of God radically alters our inborn and ingrown focus on Self, outward and upward, so that we expand with the life and love energy of God. In Him, we grow to love and to forgive ourselves, and all others. We give up the need to get and have our way, to be right, to have the final say.
All this and so much more is enclosed and unwrapped by redemption. It is the most beautiful and divine process.
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Chambers is right. Redemption is the reality among all the other smaller “realities”. It is the highest purpose of this life. It is to be shared with others. The importance of our getting this fundamental revelation is what today’s meditation–indeed, what Chambers’ life ministry–was all about. “Do you see your calling?”
Rejoice! Redemption is reality. “Look up. Your redemption draws near. The kingdom of heaven is within you”.
Thanks for reading. I hope this blessed you.
-Quilla
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I stood at the window early, waking. I was watching our little portion of the frozen earth emerge out of blue darkness. A cloudy rose of dawn was blushing the winter land. Like large torn blankets, shadow patches of week-old snow still lay across the north-facing hillsides. Every tree branch, each dead weed stem held thick crystals of frost. A low mist hung just over the treetops in the far pasture. There was no wind. Birds were still huddled deep in the thickets. None had flown to the feeders yet. Only the first week in February, more cold and snow have already raked the land than any winter for many years. The house was quiet and chilled.
After getting dressed I would go downstairs and throw some dried split oak into the stove, and a large chunk of coal, to warm the house. Fill the humidifier to get some steam bubbling: that comforting, all-is-well-and-warm chuckling little sound it makes. No matter how torn and crazed the world with war, our nation and our individual lives always in various states of disarray, how wonderful and strange, the solace in such small things: flames crackling the morning fire, tea water simmering on the stove. Primordial comforts, deep in our bones.
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Then I would put on my old barn-coat, scarf and hat, let the small dog outside, and throw some bird seed to the hard ground. After a few minutes in the sharp cold, I would come back inside and put on water for tea–a large mug steeping two bags of black Pekoe and a swirl of honey. Toast two slabs of whole-grain bread with butter, and jam from the late summer berries. Then I would go to the den with the dog, sit down by the lamp and sip tea, eat toast, read and pray. No one else would be awake yet. I look forward to these solitary morning movements, small sweet beginnings to the shadowy winter days.
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But all that would come later. I was still standing at the cold window, looking out. The drab frozen landscape was tinged faintly rouge by the cloudy light. Summer seemed years ago, or years off in the future, perhaps never to return to this frigid planet. From boyhood I’ve relished the hearty mountain cold, its wild raw weather, its special routines, hardships and comforts, the layers of familiar garments with their stains, patches and well-earned holes, worn many winters.
I stood and let my mind move slowly out across the frosted scene pitching down the gardened hill below me, and off into the violet distances. I especially loved the black pinewoods bristled with frozen mist. How their dark borders shaped the shaggy fields of dead grass, the color of coyote fur. Still further out, great oaks reached their bare limbs up into the low fog. The old trees displayed the postures both of high praise and of utter despair.
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My eyes gradually withdrew from the dark forests and distant ridges, to the frozen garden down the hill a short distance below the house. My vision was scanning the sparse orchard trees when it stopped——a shadow-form not usually there, was standing very still, between the peach and the pear tree. The coyote blended into the background as if it had been sketched with charcoal and pale, straw-colored chalks. It was not moving. For thirty seconds or more I focused on it, amazed at its very presence, a carved stone statue that had always been there. It was an ancient etching, scrawled on a smoky cave wall. For those brief moments, the coyote and I and time itself did not move. In the blue and rose dawn light it appeared mystical, more apparition than animal.
Strangely, it seemed to have come out into the open this morning, for me to see. I was thrilled, alive and awake. The wilderness places in my own spirit were most grateful for this crossing of paths.
Then the spell of wildness was broken, gone like a drift of smoke. The coyote turned and loped away lightly, vanished into the frosty trees.
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Insomnia, Deep in Winter Night
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I.
Curled under heavy covers.
Sleep keeps silently fluttering through the darkness
like a soft and friendly little bat, but I won’t let it rest,
enfold its velvet wings around my head.
The cool room is hushed: my wife’s low breathing,
the quick and certain stepping of the clock.
*
I finally tell my mind: stop watching
your re-runs and retaliations. It consents
to drift the rocking riverwaves of sleep.
The conflicts and re-enactments, I command:
put down your empty guns, and words.
and walk away.
*
How vain, especially in bed a winter night—
to rebut the replicas of mannequins
who never tire of debating the troubled day.
They’ll play and fight with you til dawn
chases them away, like moths
who do not love the light.
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But how good, how much like God
to open the strong hands of the mind,
release their tight grip on things
to simply lift, and let them go!
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How sweet, to breathe each slow breath
a small, thick-furred mammal, curled mindless
almost like death, deep underground
in warm leaves, the hollows between stones,
dreaming far yellow meadows, sunlit songs
flying to us, softly, across the February dark.
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II.
Last night, out of that quiet, breathing mind
bright images began emerging: years ago,
high in the mountains
walking out of a long tunnel
into the Spring sunlight, singing.
The deep stone cave behind me
was echoing my song, still echoing my song….
*
And yesterday, a thousand miles away
my daughter called, her midwinter laughter
felt close and warm. All afternoon,
I’d been walking alone beneath icy cliffs,
beside the grey, snow-swollen river.
Tiny Siskins were flitting high above me
through the limbs of empty trees,
tall bone-white sycamores.
Her laughter so far away, came so close, and warm.
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Entering sleep, I stood long moments there
so small beneath the river cliffs, fallen boulders
and tall bones of sycamores, the little birds
were flitting through the wide white sky.
Hearing my daughter’s laughter, I let
it remain there, close and warm,
I let the ice-choked river flow away.
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Sometimes, Our Fallen Hearts
(a prayer)
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Lord you know: how hard and shiny
sometimes our hearts, our words become—
like the black, spit-shined boots
of the cruel general, his steel toe
impatiently tapping, like The Raven’s beak.
A long cold rail is bringing
the next red train of prisoners
to his camp: hear them weeping
and gnashing at his inhuman demands,
he feeds them the pale and rotten fruit
of this unending war,
in a bitter winter land.
^
And Lord, you know: how bent and broken down
sometimes our hearts, our words become—
like the tall grey junipers
bending low, beneath the stormy weight
of snow after snow, after snow,
exposing the dead brown needles within,
where once was spun a tiny nest
no larger than a small girl’s hand:
a swirl of soft grass and down
holding warm
the sparrow’s clutch of speckled eggs.
Once upon a time, was gold and green
in the laughing summer land.
^
Lord Christ of perfect love, have mercy
on these—our wintered, fallen hearts.
By your sweet grace, remake us
tender once, again.
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Snowdance
(for Jerry and Lisa Smith)
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Scintillating the blue morning air—
the last diamonds sparkle and spin
like silver dust, from the ballroom ceiling
of dark, departing clouds.
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Early gusts, fresh from the arctic
roar through the trees, breathing life
into the fallen ghosts of late-night snow.
White shrouds arise, reborn,
resplendent with the sprightly music
of winter light and icy wind.
They waltz away, across the fields
into the black trees,
elegant white veils following.
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Snowflakes in the swirling air,
dulcimer strings and a silver flute
romance and marry, making marvelous
children, wondrous playthings in the light:
crystals spinning from the haunted looms
of February, waking and wooing
the winter ghosts in us, to dance.
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Background Sounds
(a winter farm)
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As we walked past the old barn
talking, did you hear?—the wide door
opening, closing
on its hinges in the wind.
The grey farmer recalled his early years
for us; did you notice how
he kept hitting the heavy overalls
on his right thigh, with a dead stick?
Seven miles high in thin ice-clouds, a jet
rumbled over, quickly past our little words
far below. Our bootsteps crunched
the frozen cattle-path.
The thermometer (from Fox Bros. Hardware Store)
was broken, the blood gone out of it.
Did you catch it rattling on its rusted nail
a few feet from the kitchen door?
Finally we stood quiet on the back porch.
In the empty fields, crows kept arguing.
Brittle leaves were rustling on the large limb
that used to hold the children’s swing.
Just as we were saying farewell words,
sharp wind walked the winter corn.
Withered husks scraped the spindly stalks.
Surely, you must have heard it too?
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L. to R.: Diana’s mother(Nanna), Farrah’s mother Diana, Farrah’s birthmom Robyn, Natallie and her friend Jennifer. Unfortunately, my mother(Nanny) had already left before I took this picture.
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A Gathering of Moms
The first mild sunny day in many weeks. Most unusual, even for a mountain winter. I can’t remember the last day of such Springlike quality—mid 50′s, bright sun, almost no wind. It is easy to imagine, to feel the earth’s gladness in her moist awakenings. Today, you can actually smell the soft radiance, the dark soil thawing.
Just yesterday in the high branches of the riverbirch by my second-story window, a small flock of Waxwings suddenly landed, as I was looking at the empty tree. A “little” but much appreciated gift, almost as if my looking brought them to the tree. I have not seen Waxwings since early last autumn. And in the tall holly near the other end of the house, a Mockingbird is fattening himself daily, on the abundance of red berries. Each time I round the corner, he flies off into the trees. The top ten feet of that holly are still bent from the heavy snow of December 18. I suppose I will need to prune it back.
Most all the birds of various species are singing much more than they were just a week ago. My favorite Ornithology books tell me the tiny pituitary gland deep in the brain of feathered beings, is very sensitive to the photoperiod, the length of each day’s light. Birds are sensitive to the earth’s turning. They know what time it is. The daylight world is no longer mostly white, the night hours not so long. They want to sing! Watching and studying birds for many years, I sense they are aware of many things we do not imagine.
Surely they also know we have some of our biggest snowstorms in March?
The ladies, younger and older, are still inside, sitting at the kitchen bar, talking. Every few minutes I hear loud outbursts of laughter, the joyful sound of girls and women who are truly enjoying their time with each other. It is a sound of healthy happiness in being together, a particularly female joy. I can not enter that circle, nor do I want to. It is enough to sit outside, reading, listening, looking at the beautiful winter land. I am pleased for them to have these few hours together, with their thousands of needful words, poignant tears and laughter mixed. Men have so much wholeness to learn from women, if we only would. A number of blockages prevent a mutual transfer of various forms of beauty, strength and wisdom. Those impediments are worth identifying, and removing.
Two things women can do to enhance that learning process: 1. Sometimes, talk less. Much less. Listen more closely. Stop incessantly dominating the airwaves with your stories, feelings, strong opinions. Use the keen intuitive wisdom the Father gave you to be more humble, to wait and listen. Instead of so much talk, use your intuition to ask something pertinent. Then listen, keenly. You might be surprised. “Be slow to speak, but quick to listen” –it is written. Very good life-words, indeed, for all of us to ponder, and put into practice. It is no small thing to relinquish the self’s need to be pre-eminent.
2. (This may be even tougher, but carries such beauty, with grace): gradually learn how to give up the need to control, to find fault, to express criticisms. (Many of us have heard enough criticism for several lifetimes). You do not have to be in charge, or always have your way, or your say. Try letting all that go. Those very destructive traits seem to be the dark side, or the misapplication of the wonderful intuitive perceptions most women possess. Like all gifts, they must be cultivated and trained how to grow, in order to blossom, and bear luscious fruit.
A short while ago I went inside and cut some apples, cheese and bread, and served it to the ladies on a small plate, poured each a glass of iced tea. They seemed to appreciate it, and went on talking. I came back outside with Zoey, my books and chair in the bright late winter sun. I had Billy Collins’ Sailing Alone Around the Room. The small dog is a good companion, content to sit nearby, attentively watching the birds fly down from the trees to feed.
My older daughter Farrah’s birth-mom, Robyn, is visiting us today. A lovely woman, who has suffered a great deal. She arrived late morning for brunch, to meet my mother and Diana’s mother, Farrah’s grandmothers. This helps fill out Robyn’s knowledge of Farrah’s life, extended family and upbringing. I think she is getting a sense of how much love Farrah has received these last 22 years. Her sister Natallie and close friend Jennifer were there as well. I sense that Natallie (also adopted) is especially blessed by seeing a real live “birthmom”. Just ordinary women who made the right decision at a critical time, but until they appear, birthmoms remain such mysteries! One could only pray that someday Natallie might experience a wonderful reconnection herself. I do hope so.
My mother brought a delectable breakfast casserole. I made a pot of stone-ground grits, fresh-sliced stewed red apples, buttered slices of whole grain toast. Diana decorated the kitchen and dining room beautifully, I had bought a bouquet of flowers from Ingle’s florist shop. It was all so pleasant and beautiful, the bright sunlight glistening on the pines and the thawing land, God’s spirit radiating from the faces within our home. For a breakfast blessing I read a scriptural passage that Nanna shared with me the other day—brief selections from Daniel and from Psalms. She has been memorizing it for a Bible class she is taking.
It was a very good visit–emotionally rich with tears and laughter, as many ‘Farrah stories’ were told from the last two decades of love and care, all of us helping a baby girl grow into a beautiful young woman. We all wanted her to be here with us, so much. Each of our hearts felt her presence, the joy of her very life. But she was having a wonderful day in Boston with Stephan, and that was good too.
We looked at several photo albums from the growing up years. I had found an old cassette tape of Farrah at two and three years of age, talking into a microphone/recorder which her dear friend Nell Masters had given to Farrah twenty Christmases ago. The sound of her voice brought back the reality of her childhood even more than the pictures. We also got to hear “Baba’s” voice on the tape, recorded one Christmas at their home in Hiwassee Georgia. Hearing his voice brought tears to Nana’s eyes. He passed on, November of 08. I can still hear the haunting “Taps” bugling into that cold and windy late-afternoon New York cemetery. The body of the man who was her husband for 64 years, was lowered into the ground. A folded flag was given to Nanna.
So I am back out here writing, basking in the bright February light, like a pale lizard that’s been hiding for months, deep in the woodpile. The warmth of that benevolent star feels so good on winter face and hands. But it is better, far better even, to hear the warmth of love and laughter flowing inside our home. Thank you, Father. I bless You.
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See Poem Below
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A February Afternoon in the Coffee Shop
I take a tall cup, and weathered pages
of Robert Bly to a small table by a large
misty window, looking out to the busy street.
The pungent acrid steam, the warm baked goods
keep beguiling: remain a while, enjoy
this artists’ city in winter —-pale searching faces,
the drab and rich palette of February,
consignment paintings on the walls.
Empty wrought-iron tables sit like summer tourists
under the naked Myrtle trees.
Yet someone else in us, an animal, wistful
and wild, keeps tugging at his chain, begging us:
escape into the blue hills, the falling snow.
From speakers overhead, a guitar screams
an acceptable, confined defiance.
Then Chris Botti (or was it Michael Buble’?)
dispelled the rebellion so smoothly,
making us feel that all we really need
is a deeper glass of wine, more cuddle time.
A loud late-twenty-something keeps bragging
about her California years.
A couple on the sofa in front of the gas-log fire
softly entwine their fingers, sparkling eyes.
A guy standing in a running suit tries to persuade
a fat guy sitting down to leave the Republican party.
Snow clouds above the dingy city are thickening
about the mountaintops, night draws near.
A few moments only, the low winter sun
finds an open space in the heavy clouds.
Suddenly, bright amber light
glows the grey stone church across the street.
I think of a small child, bringing a smile
to a sour old man.
Just a few seconds, the dark stained windows
wake up and catch fire, burning
splendor out of rough rock walls.
A fleeting vision in pure gold light, like eyes
reflecting the glory of what they’ve seen.
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In sharp, winter morning light a large white cup, half full of red tea sits on the bright windowsill.
Wisps of steam lift up. Beside an empty hand, wrinkled white pages lie opened. Holy words flow to
us, far beneath us like a stream, washing these long hours and brief centuries. Nights and days
forever, a slow deep river like stars, sparkling waters far above bathe and nourish us, noonlight or
midnight, fathomless and still.
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Beyond the bright window sill and the large white cup of steaming tea, the ravaged land lies littered,
winter-broken beneath a wide blue sky. Bare hills stand etched with morning shadows. The last
patches of snow are gone. The trees are all swaying, shining branches toss a strong east wind,
forboding storm. Each long gust, the window groans.
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Tips of green things just starting to emerge, the cold land seeps and thaws. Fifteen or twenty doves
huddle together, mourning in the limbs of the tall Black Oak. I’ll bring in more wood. Snow and smoke
will be blowing again before the blue night falls.
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In Those Small Minutes
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After the eggs have been broken
stirred and poured into the pan, but before
the omelette curdles and makes,
After the cold tapwater
and the fresh-ground coffee
have been married together
in the steaming coffee maker,
As the rich black liquid drips
I lean on the sink a few moments
and sip the deep cup of stillness.
Through the window: a slow heavy veil
of snow is steadily falling, expressing
inexpressible words of beauty and of peace,
descending timelessly
from childhood, down through the release
of our certain death, and far beyond.
Is it possible that each flake,
every single crystal is a divine syllable
silently uttering something to us:
infinite love settling, covering, overwhelming us
with unthinkable grace?
For the likes of us it takes so very many.
Through the cold glass I can hear far crows,
calling harshly in the dim meadows.
Finches and cardinals flit bright flashes
to the feeder from the snow-clotted shrubs.
The tall drapery of pines submits
with eloquence, slowly bowing down.
A gigantic nineteenth-century Oak
stands perfectly silent, strong and still
lifting ancient snowy arms,
holding throngs of noisy crows.
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Just the other morning, perhaps it was Saturday—a warmer morning than most this enduring winter. I was sitting by the window in the small upstairs study. After reading the holy scriptures, I was reflecting, looking out at the thawing land. For once, no vestige of snow was left on the ground, not even a trace in the shadows. The slowly climbing sun had done its work.
This winter stands fierce, in icicle-sharp contrast to the wimpy “winters” of recent years. I have said many times: “it’s forgotten how to snow!” Maybe, I was sort-of daring “it” to snow. Apparently, “it” took my dare. I take back my words. “It” has not forgotten how to snow.
But the other morning the land glowed in the sunlight, subtle olives, browns and greys—the somewhat drab palette of late winter, reminiscent of old sweaters. Perhaps it takes a hungrier eye, and heart, to see and appreciate the visual richness of the landscape this time of year. The white no longer excites us, childlike, as it did between Thanksgiving and Christmas. How our withered spirits long now, for bright swaths of tender green and ochre, swatches of pink and yellow. And they will come. But as and til they do, there is this wild white furry lion of March to contend with. Even this morning as I write, thick “flurries” are blowing about, settling onto the five inches yesterday’s storm left us. Bach’s glorious music in the background dances wonderfully with the glistening flakes spinning across the meadows in the wind.
But that other, warmer morning I began speaking of, I was gazing out, when my eyes were drawn to the tall pines down along the lower edges of the lawn and garden space. I became somewhat mesmerized with the tossing motions, the silky green branches in a warm but robust wind. Brilliant easterly sunlight was shining upon the pines. Their millions of glistening needles splintered the sun’s white light to green, and gave it instantly to me. And so I reflect, and give it to you. Do you see the windy shining pines? I do hope so.
The brisk south wind filled the limbs with movement—rhythmic almost hypnotic motions—up and down, side to side, falling and rising in such graceful ways of beauty. Although I could not hear the pines through the window glass, as I watched, I could feel the gentle ballet of the tossing boughs. My soul knows well that softly soughing sound, similar to the air sighing in the coils of a seashell held close to the ear.
Since I was indoors, my experience of the wind in the sunlit winter pines was mostly visual. The shining green limbs and deeper shadows within the trees was so reminiscent of the ocean: its eternal waves in motion, lifting and falling, winter and summer, stormy or smooth, the empty or the crowded shore, endless waters rolling lucid green or heaving somber grey, waves long-approaching, remaining an instant then leaving forever, pulling with such irresistible force then casually letting go, swelling, crashing and sliding at last, up onto the sand. And we are delighted that such darkness, depth and energy could cross the great distances and end up in a million white bubbles tickling our ankles and toes. We gather a few broken shells to take home and remind us.
And so are we, as over the decades of our little lives we too have our back and forth movements: Many of us “must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and sky”. There we contemplate immeasurable power, the deep orchestrations of water and time, far beyond our ability to comprehend. We stand and gaze out, or walk beside it, shoes in hand, leaving ever-so-brief shadows of our footprints in the sand. Even the oldest among us become mere children again, in the timeless motions of salty wind and passing light.
And so the other morning, the winter sun and wind were playing in the pines, making a little sea-music in my mind.
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Bluebirds in the Snow –(from my journal notes earlier this week)
I took my morning walk earlier than usual, just as the night snow was ending. The storm had blown in several more inches between bedtime and dawn. More than forty inches so far this winter season. A few flakes were still flurrying from heavy clouds, hanging low. Gusts of wind blew thick clumps down from the trees.
Before heading out, I had thrown a large chunk of coal and a stick of white-oak into the Efel, the cast iron Belgian stove that has warmed us for twenty five winters. The small dog eagerly joined me as we walked–that is, I walked, she leaped and bounded–out into the fresh, unspoiled fields of white. Thick smoke spun and fell out of the chimney, curled off to the southeast, away from the source of sharp Canadian air that frosted the land during the night. It was good to be out, walking in the wake of a storm that transformed our world as we slept. Even after so much snow, I am dazzled by the wonder of it. In spite of the inconvenience and dangers caused by winter storms, I hope never to lose that capacity for wonderment: the myriad ways God’s artistry continues remaking, renewing itself.
That morning, the small dog and I didn’t get far along our pathless walk before I was drawn aside by loud chirpings in tall saplings to the east. I didn’t recognize them at first, this small flock of birds so exuberant in the trees. They were silhouetted against the grey-white sky, rendering them black flitting shapes, chattering among themselves. To get a better vantage point, I walked east from our property into a neighbor’s old field, overgrown with blackberry briars, Sumac, shrub oaks, and pine saplings still bent over from a heavy, late December storm. I stopped walking, and stood still in the open light, half-concealed behind a young oak still holding its leathery leaves. They rustled as the wind scratched and shivered among them. Through openings in the branches of rasping leaves I could see the birds more clearly.
Within a few seconds their bright colors identified them to be a family of Bluebirds. I was a bit disappointed in not identifying them immediately, but this chirping rattle was not the sweet warbling whistle they usually make. Perhaps it was too cold and snowy for that kind of music.
So I stood there in the scrub oaks perhaps ten minutes watching them, maybe a dozen birds. Their main objective in the old field was the dark red seed-heads of the Sumac, so bright against the snowy fields and darker woods. Through binoculars, I watched each bird close-up, feeding intensively on the fruiting bodies. But I could not determine whether they were eating the furry red berries, or perhaps tiny insects hiding deep within the snow-crusted crimson fruit.
It did not matter much, because the sweet fruit I was feeding on was the pure beauty of the moment: a dark morning in late winter, a family of sky-blue birds flitting between the red berry clusters of Sumac in the snow. Their raspy chatting and the russet feathers on their breasts created a harmony, both of color and of sound: the chorus of latewinter oak leaves rustled with early March wind. It is my joy to sing with them, to you.
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Rivers
At first, a thousand silver dimples
and globes—glittering drops of rain
gather, swelling together
on the sloping windshield plane.
Each watery lens encapsulates the sky,
the mountains, the busy street
in a minuscule circle of light:
a school of fish-eyes
looking up.
The storm blows in, the sky
grows dark and flashes strobes
of fire, the winter mountains rumble
the crashing, shaking down
to subterranean stone.
The ancient One living in us
glimpses and hears the beginning,
the end of everything.
Now rivulets are streaming down
the glass, how great rivers
all over the globe flow to the sea.
Something in them knows
the way home.
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The Sapling Beech
Walking up the road in cold mist
to get the morning’s mail,
I paused to rest, and gazed down
into the dark March woods.
Among the wrack of winter storms
stood a solitary Beech—a sapling
almost glowing, ghost-like
in the forest gloom.
Still clinging to its limbs
were last year’s shriveled leaves—
torn rags, bleached almost white
by many snows.
In misty light the spindly tree
was vaguely reminiscent: a frail prophetess
from another time? A broken angel
standing before me disguised,
dressed in faded wisps of ancient gown?
It seemed she was remembering,
promising something—delicate sentences
of lost truth—such pale whispers, spoken.
I stood there in the mist, watching, listening
several moments, walked on, resolved
to catch the image later with some lines.
But she escaped! And left a scraggly winter Beech.
Try as I may, I can not find a way
or the simple human words
to lay her cryptic message down.
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A Late March Day
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A few lucent fragments, this gusty late March day
even as the pages of a dear old book tore loose from me
and blew away. . .
Days like this, we feel June’s gold forge melting
the blue steel knife of January wind.
Always a troubled truce, the interface of fire and ice
where tornadoes are born. . .
I watch three Cooper’s Hawks screaming upward
widening arcs, spiraling high above the glistening pines.
Fingers of silver light shine through their wings.
Today we’re cleaning winter from our house.
The wood ash poured out on the garden goes up
like windy smoke into infinite blue.
Blankets and bed sheets flutter like flags. . .
. . .Saluting the strong spring breeze from the south.
Tall trees roar, bend the long gusts like sea-oat stems
when waves of wild surf crash a stormy shore.
Now the fountain blows fast iridescent ribbons
sideways, rainbow sprays unfurl. Flocks of crows fly past.
A tiny lavender butterfly tumbles down and through
this world of wind: trembling flowers, the mouths of birds,
wide fields of hungry sky.
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“The Bells of the Flocks”
*
The coldest winter in many years, now past.
At last, warm Spring sunset wind from the west,
softly jangles the chimes.
I was sitting outside, reading Milosz’ “On Pilgrimage”,
when through the flickering late-afternoon shadows
on the page, came this evocative phrase—
“the bells of the flocks remind us”
—words that rang softly the distances in me,
muted bells across the memory-scape
of layered hills.
*
In childhood, a rustic cottage waited for us
in the mountains, perched upon a brief plateau.
A large blue lake shimmered far below.
Behind the house the steep slope continued upward
to a knoll with trees, against the sky.
Early settlers had cleared the hillside
for high summer pasture.
All the stumps were long rotted away.
*
Cows and sheep walked slow steps on terraced paths
around the hill, nibbling the tender mountain grass.
Around each half-wild neck, dangled
a jingling, clanging bell.
The farmer, the shepherd would find them
when he came to get them in the mists of fall.
A small boy was mystified that cows and sheep
could make such simple and sweet music,
merely walking around the hills.
*
At my pleading, one morning Dad and I left the house
after breakfast, and climbed together
up through the frightened cows
and their jangling bells the high steep hill
to the very top of the knoll.
At last we sat down under the welcome trees.
*
I remember how very small the cottage looked below.
My Dad and I were together, mountains and sky
rolling on forever, the deep blue lake
was sparkling in his eyes. He loved me.
And all around the hill below us
rang the randomly tinkling bells.
“The bells of the flocks remind us”.
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A Chime of Old Tool-Heads
Easter eve, 2010
Three days, windy April sun
suddenly hot, dries the greening
winter land. Everywhere pastels
and brushes breaking out—
a happy/mad painter relishing
her palette, her playful work.
Wild plum blossoms color the dark copses.
All afternoon, wide grey wings of storm
spread across the southwest sky.
Cooling, fragrant rains will blow tonight.
The strong pines bend, bend the warm wind
like long bows being pulled in war—
the tension of winter, relinquishing.
Thin birch limbs rattle, toss and sigh,
adolescent girls wanting just their will.
Spring of year, land toads faithfully crawl down
again to the water with sad jubilation,
mate and sing. Daylight and darkness, vibrate
their long melancholy trills.
All the deep ice we’ve lodged in our hearts
must finally break and weep.
*
Desolate for a new tune, the old gardener
(a troubadour at heart)
makes a crude chime of baling twine
and a few rusted tool-heads he’d not thrown out
—a maddock, an axe, a small axle shaft
with broken gears. Handles gone
years of hard labor done.
Yet the fresh Spring wind
brings them another life to sing.
Daffodil blossoms dance and flutter
like saffron music for the deaf.
Across the luminescent air, dusty wings
of small yellow butterflies go
quivering past.
But the gnarled grey juniper root,
the grotesque silhouette of the solitary oak
on the high ridge—these, these remind us
all has been endured, given, and lost.
And what still joyfully lives
regardless of the cost,
what will always live.
*
“He who was seated on the throne said
“I am making everything new!
Then He said, write this down
for these words are trustworthy, and true.
Then He said to me: It is done.
I am the Alpha, and the Omega,
the Beginning, and the End.
To him who is thirsty I will give to drink
without cost, from the spring
of the water of life.”
-Revlation 21: 5-7
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From my journal:
While the air is still cool in the shadows, I sit outside with the morning psalms, munching a warm muffin and jam, sipping hot black tea.
But my reading is pleasantly interrupted by the tiny squeakings of a small flock of Cedar Waxwings, flitting back and forth through the greening birch limbs, with thousands of yellow catkins softly dancing in the spring breeze. The Waxwings’ “song” —sweet insistent squeals you’d likely miss if you weren’t listening for it—is similar to the sound from bird nests, each time a parent bird brings an insect to the tiny hungry hatchlings. It is that small of a sound. We tune our ears, to hear these little things in the constant noise around us.
A bit earlier, two para-sails droned over the house, the first I’ve seen since the weather warmed. The first one, about a thousand feet up, sailed with a crescent-shaped parachute bright red and blue. It created a visual haiku as it crossed the thin arc of crescent moon, high in the blue sky among wisps of cirrus. I was on the phone with my daughter in Connecticut, and of course shared this singular “coincidence” of alignment with her. I was sitting in the midst of breezy daffodils on the ground, looking up, wondering if the sky sailor could see me in my little green yard, far below.
My daughter went outside in Groton, CN to see the moon crescent, but could not find it in the immense skies. (Neither could she see the para-sail!). I was a bit disappointed, hoping that we could enjoy seeing the same thing at the same time, although a thousand miles apart. We’ve frequently experienced this by telephone, looking at the stars and planets “together” at night. But not this time. Even though the Connecticut skies were clear, she could not find the sunlit edge of that round barren rock forever encircling us, the blue mother stone.
I do not believe I’ve ever seen such a fine sliver of moon, especially that high in the sky, so early in the day. It was so dim I would not have seen it, had I not been looking directly at it, floating among thin white hairlocks of cloud. Ironically, it was the brightly colored plastic parachute quickly drifting past, that showed the lighted rim of the ancient moon to me.
A second para-sail came along a couple of minutes later, although not nearly so high. I could easily see the person strapped in the little seat basket, in front of the loud motor and fan. It looked like such exciting scary fun, motoring along way up there, able to look out and down at the land and everyone tiny and invisible below. Just having fallen four feet from a stepladder this week, and badly dislocating my shoulder, I told my daughter I probably wouldn’t ride a para-sail, as fun as it looked. Steering clear of power lines and tree limbs on the landing might be a delicate trick. (Am I getting too old, too ‘wise’ for my own good?)
To which she replied, with a spoonful of my own sarcastic life-wisdom from many years ago: “don’t live, you might die!” Well said, daughter. I’ve taught you too well. Sometimes, eating your own cooking tastes a bit different than serving it to others.
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I wakened this morning to a red-winged blackbird singing in the birch just outside the second-story window. The cool room vibrated with this intensely wild, joy-filled song! Conk-la-Reeee! He isn’t a regular visitor to the feeders, as this species tends to remain in the lower, wetter places.
Conk-la-reeeee! It’s much easier and more beautiful to say, and a truer name, than ‘red-winged blackbird’, which sounds like a dusty laboratory specimen, labeled with a faded yellow tag on its dead foot.
I love the rich, reedy living notes—Conk-la-Reeeeee!—and the exuberance he uses to express them, his whole body shuddering, from the heights and depths of his airy being. If the sound could possibly be translated into our tongue, what would it say?
Conk-la-reeeee! —so reminiscent of rippling watery sounds. Could there possibly be a small fishing village on the east coast of Scotland, named Conklaree? –hidden away in space and time, like Brigadoon. I hear the song and instantly hear, see and smell redolent marshy backwaters, cattails and rushes bending in a brackish wind, all the fragrant watery life, sour black mud and the various musics of wild wet places. . .conk-la-reeee! . . . conk-la-reeee!
It is a lovely way to wake—song of the red-wing blackbird, the Conk-la-reeee!—-dispersing dreams. It seems a dark green and bright yellow sound: murkish water, flickering windy light, Conk-la-reeee!
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On a walk in the breezy sunshine last evening:
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Warm Spring wind
blowing a snow of petals
down the sunset light
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and from three mornings ago:
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Storm-blown petals
rippling the surfaces:
dark morning rain pools
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All day, the Hard Spring Wind
. . blustered, rough-edged, harshly
blowing raw black songs of crows.
They hurry to roost in the darkening wood.
The last cloud shadows gallop with the horses
across the greening slopes.
We barely notice the trees’ long shades
rising into night.
*
Thick smoke streams away, the smoldering
Spring land. Each year, old farmers
teach the young ones—burn down
last year’s crown of stubble and weeds.
An ancient rite of purging and renewal
centuries before Easter: first, a cleansing fire
of thorns, then bury the holy seed.
*
A neighbor’s rooster screams and screams.
Along the gloomy forest edge, dogwoods open
small white waxy hands—blood-stained fingers
of light—they reach our hearts, touching something
dark and wounded, needful in us.
At last we see: the lifting up, the letting go
is all that will remain.
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Recalling soft sea-sounds, the pine grove sighs.
The lowering sun, like a golden tide, recedes
into the gloaming hills.
Our empty shores of night will fill with stars.
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Praise, in the Time of New Leaves. . .
I.
. . . To the Sun Maker, the One true maker
who binds the nuclear hydrogen sun.
Holds it like a living coal over the abyss,
spinning photon sparks of fire
in black space and frozen time;
. . . To the One who carves the river’s deep path
down through mountains, washing away
the black sticks of our campfires,
the plastic of our fallen towns,
all our precious tracks;
. . . To the One who breathes the soft west wind
ruffling new leaves again, gusting
the white cumulus, lifting the hawk’s dark wing
and cooling my tired face. . .
II.
On this high thrust of land , touching sky
beneath a pair of soaring hawks I come to You
with utter trust—opened outspread hands,
this pulsing hourglass heart.
The vast Spring light warms and wakes
the grey earth another year: start again,
break into song!
Looking out across the greening land,
this wintered mind rattles sixty Aprils
of remembrance—like a dusty shoebox
of gathered shells, old coin, arrow points
and bits of bone. Nothing more
it seems now, than a handful
of tumbled glass and pottery shards
washed up in river sand.
All the tender, touching Springs
that came and went before
are absolutely gone.
III.
I know You are the One who made
the strong heart, the thin wing
of that grim sparrow who stayed all winter,
living on cold seeds and the inborn need
to hope. He sings again, from thickets of thorn,
dead weeds and fluttering apple blooms.
He tosses plaintive tunes
to the pathos of the April wind.
But what strange and lovely music rings
when joy and sorrow blend!
Rusted-grey ruffled thatch of feathers
withered, yet jubilant, the sparrow spills
his wistful trills, to You.
And You, wild unfettered grace, will bring
a mate for him, spin a horsehair nest
among the thorns, and place in it
a clutch of speckled eggs.
His song will go on.
IV.
And what do I bring to You?
—some little words.
A plate of flatbread crumbs.
A paltry offering lifted up,
a cracked and leaking cup.
A few small syllables, my psalms
of blood and salt, some grains of thought
poured out on endless shores of stone.
High above the rushing river,
far below the wind-blown sky
what can I possibly say to You?
Only this: I am not mine.
But neither am I owned by time.
That I am Yours, I always was
and You are mine.
Ever, from Your throne flow living rivers
of music and light: holy words transfixing
and transforming us,
that we may transcend time.
v.
These scraps of what is left
I bring to You, rattling my unlocked chains
with joy, spreading ragged wings,
joining a choir of ghosts rejoicing—yes!
call it an offering: all the Springs You’ve breathed in me,
Your one eternal Spring.
Only symbols, but these tokens
hold anything that might last on earth
beyond my nights and days.
All else floats and blows away, like ash
and plastic, faces, smoke and sparrow song.
And so these broken timbrels bring You …..Praise!
Your forever song goes on. . .
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No color enhancement used, on any photograph.
(Tilt your screen back a few degrees, to get the optimal color saturation, as in the original photographs)
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The Taste of Whole-Grain Rice
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She had grown “old” we say.
Well past eighty years (although
in truth, much younger than her younger days).
Most of the anger, tears, the need
to be heard—were dead, and gone.
One cold November New York afternoon
she buried an empty husk, her husband
more than sixty years.
*
With weaker slower bones, her words
grew fewer, but gained a truer strength—
nourishing, like chewy bites
of slow-cooked, whole-grain rice.
She no longer spoke in burbling paragraphs,
steaming piles of thin, convoluted egg noodles.
Clearer sentences now, sometimes just
a phrase or two, one word, a glance.
You understood
And were somehow better.
Not condemned, no longer flogged
by righteous words with orange beaks
and hard feathers.
(All of us give shelter to flocks of Pharisees,
those noisy self-important geese
that mess and gabble in our hearts).
Rather, she uplifted you to a holy dance
of wings, a stumbling gracefulness
rising into flight.
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You might have glimpsed, or heard
some music—certain rays of hope
were shining in her words.
Her true and God-like heart shone itself
into your eyes. It was not unlike
morning light breaking through
old thin curtains.
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Latter years, the ripened grain
of her talk bent more, and longer
toward the brilliance of the sun.
Withered yes, brittled by the winter winds
and yet, she often freshened the air
like the sudden spring rains.
More and more, you knew
her tender roots reached down
into a dark rich loneliness—
the mystery Kingdom
of that hidden, giving land.
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Ripened kernels, her words had in them
the protein, the fibrous sweetness
of wisdom, like slow-cooked whole-grain rice,
seasoned with a little salt.
Just as her own thoughts were nourished,
feeding on her broken Lord.
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For Dorothy Goettman
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The Spring wind blows
the rocking chair, as if
someone. . . . . .
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Soaring high above
the river, the Spring mountains
two hawks
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The old barn stands
deep in forest now. Spring wind
rattles a loose roof tin
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An old homestead barn in the bright Spring woods…
That windy late-morning in late April, the matted forest floor was dappled with wildflowers. New leaves on the trees were still small, letting most of the breezy sunlight through. I had left the car beside the noisy river, rushing full of snowmelt and recent heavy rains.
For more than half an hour I climbed steadily uphill through the budding woods. After a long winter it was good to be out, walking on soft, thawed ground again. The empty forest rang with songs of falling waters and the music of many birds. Behind and far below now, the river was a softer steady roar, echoing off the mountain face on the other side of the gorge. I stopped to rest, leaning on my walking stick, and wiped the sweat from my face. After sixty winters, I keenly felt the fragile goodness in being alive, walking into the mountains again, another Spring.
I climbed higher, following a steep deer trail along the shadowy edge of a grove of hemlocks. Many of the older trees stood bare and grey, dead from hoards of tiny aphids that sucked life from the shining green needles. I left the deer path and dropped down the slope, to walk alongside a small stream where fiddlehead ferns were just uncurling from their winter sleep. A few rusted strands of barbed wire straggled between old fence posts bordering the stream.
Finally the land flattened out some, and widened into a large wooded hollow, or glen. It was the kind of secret place early settlers of these mountains sought out, and preferred: a secluded cove of deep black soil, gentle slopes fallen below the high wind, a hidden basin of earth watered with a clean headwater spring. It was a private setting good for raising crops, livestock and young-uns, a place to be left alone.
I stood and looked a few long minutes into that peaceful woods–what had been a mountain homestead for several generations. The old timber had long ago been cut, cleared, dragged and burned for subsistence farming. I was imagining a century or more—all the arrivals and leavings and daily doings of those who had lived many years in this secluded place. But almost all traces of the humans who once lived here were gone. A pile of fallen stones marked where a cabin chimney had stood. Oh the vanished faces, the cold fingers that warmed themselves around that primitive hearth! I wanted to hear their lost voices, mother calling supper from the back door to the children in the woods, to the father piling stones in the hillside field.
Nearby, the shambles of an old plank barn was still standing, leaning among a copse of young poplars, where tended pastures once had grown. Soft breezes ruffled through the treetops. A loose roof tin lifted up and rattled in the wind.
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Spring Evening, Approaching Storm
Long ago, streams of white quartz were frozen
in these black granite stones.
The evening sky grows somber with storm, flashing
summer’s first thunder.
Fresh wind rushes white through the birches,
scattering uncountable seeds.
A tiny spider dangles and spins, an invisible silk thread.
A withered rose that survived the long winter
is more dead now, than alive.
The last frogs of spring are singing on the black water.
In the stormy wind, petals of the white roses
flutter down.
Long ago, streams of white quartz were frozen
in these black granite stones.
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Dove Song
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Slowly the night fog lifts.
Dark trees drip in the grey light.
The cool moist air does not move.
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Doves moan and coo
in the shadowy trees. Their music
wakens in us the old flutes.
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Sunday evening, May 16, 2010
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I walk the hilly half-mile to the large cemetery
in late Spring twilight mist, alone.
Tomorrow, young Dr. West will operate
on my torn shoulder.
At 60, my first surgery.
All the years of mountain cliffs and rivers, steep trails
and backroads slick with ice and snow, I fall off
a stepladder in my front yard, a mild Spring day.
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As I walk the winding graveyard lane
a light but steady rain starts falling again.
The moist air is sweet with honeysuckle,
evening songs of robins in the trees.
The heavy heads of peonies bow and drop
their fragrant petals to the ground.
*
This bone-yard was the Sondley farm
during the Civil War, and long before.
A thousand or more Union soldiers camped here
many nights, far from the soft lamps of their homes.
We still find lead musket balls in mud along the creeks.
*
Hundreds of of garish plastic bunches
resembling flowers, glisten in long neat lines
under the sodium-vapor lamps.
For seven decades, boxes of human bodies
have been buried here, evenly-spaced straight rows
of stones—decorated with brittle bouquets
that never fade or wilt, or freeze.
The tall white marble Christ with opened hands,
all the fingers broken off —
stands there pale and solemn in the hilltop mist
silent, like a holy ghost.
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The cool rain soaks through my shirt, soothing
my sore shoulder bones.
I quicken the pace, and turn toward home.
All the house lights have come on.
Under a street-lamp’s glow a small bat dips
and dives for insects, in and out of the light
through drops of falling rain.
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Recovering from Surgery
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Bumbling through the dizzy rooms, a stupor
of pain, pain pills and lack of sleep,
I opened the windows to the afternoon breeze
filling the curtains, the luminous green trees.
Do I live here? Is this my home?—uncertain walls,
this clumsy flesh, and fragile bones
that have been strong—
is this my home?
As if in answer, this hurting, half-dream haze
is suddenly pierced by the scintillating phrases
of a lucid and silver music, it rings
from forest shadows, through the windy leaves:
exuberant songs of the shy Wood-Thrush
fill the room. Liquid crystals of secret light
transforming into sound.
And I am reminded, a grace I’ve known
since a small boy, first hearing
those wild exultant notes, sparkling
like diamond rays of sunlight, a summer storm
had ravaged the tall black pines:
the Source of beauty is not frail, will outlive death.
His music wants to heal the damage done by time.
Knife-edged pain, and the thrush’s silver strains
both remind me: this terrible, beautiful place
is your trial, and your mercy.
It is not your home.
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Dining Hall, Historic Reynolds Mansion, arson
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Anonymous graffiti, Riverarts district, Asheville NC
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Shelter for the homeless
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Shelter for the homeless
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Dried Daffodils
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May 21, 2010. Spring has left. (Written after watching the movie “Bright Star”)
We’re not sure just how, but it happened. Breezy nights went rushing through our restless dreams. Busy afternoons we weren’t watching it slipped away, a new and welcome friend we knew could not stay. We realize too late another Spring has fallen behind us, it left on the empty train of time, a few hours before dawn. Oh, but we wanted to taste and touch more of its fragile essence. “Touch has a memory”, said John Keats.
All the gifts we’re given, we may write a few things down, press their wilting petals between our blank pages. Something resilient, hungering and divine in us wants to catch and preserve the beauty that is always fleeting….
Regardless, Summer suddenly is close and thick about us everywhere. It’s as if the land always had been cloaked in warm green leaves. We’ve already forgotten the months of rattling black limbs, the long night hours, frozen streams, everywhere hard blue snow-shadows hiding from the low and glimmering suns of winter afternoons.
But the surprise and urgency, the very noisyness of Spring has quieted down. The splashy pastels of just a few weeks ago have blown with the wind, faded back into the ground. Drifts of petals wither in the windy sun, wash away in redolent warm rains. The intricate and fragrant “work” of flowers is done, bringing the bristling pollen grain to the nectary ovule, completed by glistening insects and the persistent wind. Now the fruit, the children, begin the long sweet ripening, ….
Among the animals, a variety of ritual dances, rough scuffles and wild moanings under the dark Spring moons have been given, and received. The ancient miracle of fertile egg, swelling fruit and uncurling fetus is again begun, a thousand warm, moist hidden places. Life will and must have its way, or the very stars will go dark. “His will be done, on earth . . . . .”
The abundance of earlier flowering over, we’re left this brooding secrecy of tall blowing grasses and multitudes of heavy leaves, rushing breezy shadows. The inexorable and sacred mystery of male and female searches out and finds, fulfills itself again—in womb and nest and den, in hollowed log and burrowed ground, life remaking after the fierce and holy genesis. For all the silent yearning ages yet unborn, this vital interpenetration and giving will not be prevented! Nor should it be undone.
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There is a joy-filled, personal Brilliance radiating like a galaxy at the very nucleus of the unseen Universe. Countless billions of earth-years “old” by our reckoning, He remains forever young, outside of time, younger than the morning light. This autonomous helix of infinite wisdom and love desires to give the creative energy of His Being—the nature of His very Self—to everything living perishably on the inside of time. He is the one who designs, decrees and drives our fertile searching: for His perfect undying love, and for one another, though we are so frail and fading, “like the summer grass”.
The genius of mutual attraction and surrender expresses itself in the opposite and complementary shapes of male and female beauty, the mystery that woos and dances and weaves, claws and cleaves and clings. Inevitably and finally, like the burgeoning spring itself, we must leave the sweet fruit of our co-joined selves behind, forever, on this windy watery blue planet, wandering half-blind on through time. “It is our destiny….”
But we are somewhat bereft. After a long winter, the pageantry and passion of this Spring came and all too quickly left. So it joins the rich collage of springtime images we recall and have shelved like books of dear photographs: the April words we’ve spoken, petals scuttling like laughter around our footsteps down a tree-lined city street, the song we sang on a winding country road. But we must be on….
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This afternoon, through hazy blue and lazy cumulus skies a jet descends slowly to the airport, fifteen miles to the south. In the distance a lawnmower drones, and drones: the pathetic annual war we wage against the raging grass we plant!
Crows fly purposely back and forth across the meadows, feeding their raucous nestlings in the grove of Black Oaks. Swallows wheel and dip and skim with silent grace the steep emerald slopes of a May evening. Timothy grass in the hayfields is tall again, bending and shimmering like the timeless ghosts of children, chasing the quick shadows of their escapable dreams. Hidden in the secret leaves, doves coo and moan before the night.
Another Summer is upon us. If we pause enough to notice such things, we grieve a bit for another departed Spring.
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The Spring Night Sky
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Late spring twilight, the indigo hours
rise above us, opening soft wings,
enclosing the hardness of the day.
The last, glittering winter stars go back
into the dark earth, like the last snow.
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High in the east the golden shepherd star,
Arcturus, gleams across the eons
like David’s desert songs to God.
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Shining just above the mountain rim, Venus
beams like an old prophecy over a dusty village,
promising to bathe our hurting world—-
inexplicable, healing Light.
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Nocturne
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Nearly midnight, piano notes
of cool late-spring air
fill the upstairs rooms.
A lamp burns low over quiet pages.
Moth wings softly beat against the window screens.
Out in the vast darkness, summer’s first fireflies
flicker the black meadows.
The last spring-peepers ring jubilant
their delicate bells, along the marshy creeks.
A ruminant nocturne of Chopin
ripples and reflects—deep river, wandering
through time, enters and becomes
this sad and joyful music, the soft spring night.
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Sunset in Late May
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The small dog and I reach the high flowery meadow
the falling sunset hour.
We sit in a patch of lush red clover, to rest.
Evening wind blows across moist skin
unseen rivers of mountain air.
Tall daisies are bending, flickering
happy faces, the gold departing light.
How good, to leave the noisy sorrowful world below.
We learn to push and grab, to worship things
and silly men, to babble nothingness.
I scarcely hear the distant highway now. Its roar
is swallowed by warm spring wind
rushing through new leaves.
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Nocturne #2
Awakened by something
far, in the night silences.
The bedroom floor is bright with moon.
Outside, the cool wet shining lawn.
The smoky pewter clouds, broken gold edges
veil and show the full round moon
Hanging there, inexpressibly serene.
A perfect round stone of solid light.
Opalescent, ancient pearl: silent and fair
above time: transcending all the token words
fleeting loves, unspoken thought.
It did not make itself.
Horses whinny and gallop the moonlit meadows.
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At the High Mountain Lodge
An evening in late spring, supper with friends
who live in the higher mountains.
Bowls of steamed barley, fresh garden greens
and vegetables are shared, heartily consumed.
Afterwards, the women gather in the kitchen
laughing and chattering, nurturing each other,
cleaning the supper plates.
For the men, the talk predictably turns
to politics, and war. Unnoticed, I get up quietly
slip out the door, the cool dusk air.
A thunderstorm passed, flickers yellow,
grumbling in the mountains to the east.
Fireflies sparkle the dark meadows below the lodge.
Down the blue valley, wraiths of mist rise from the forest.
I lean on the porch railing, long minutes alone
listening to a wood thrush, the last glimmering light.
His music—clearer than a fine silver flute
ethereal, not like earthly sounds.
Darkness thickens, the thrush hushes singing.
Endless mountain hollows fall silent with the night.
Behind the open lighted door, cheerful women voices
are putting the dishes and food away.
As always, the deeper voices are still at table
analyzing things, laughing, blaming the man
they did not vote for—the mess the world is in, as if
it all began last year. As if their man (or any man)
or mere party could fix what has, for decades
gone terribly wrong.
They agree among themselves, and laugh again.
I have joined such talk countless times.
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In these small ways and countless hidden places,
giant myths, hungry idols and dragons
of power are nourished.
We’re so very slow to learn.
By our blind words of faith in them,
they stay alive.
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“Do not put your trust in princes,
in mortal men, who cannot save” –Psalm 146:3
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After a Storm in the Night
Lingering pain from surgery wakes me again
I walk outside. The waning spring moon
emerges from curtains of dark cloud.
Distant thunder is still mumbling.
All the trees are dripping with rain.
Locust blooms perfume the moist, sweet air.
Wide fields of mist, fireflies twinkle the far
memories of childhood.
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White roses glow the milky light.
Deep in a shaggy black pine, the moon
remembers how her brush-strokes
painted an ancient Asian silk.
To witness such beauty, while hurting
is still far better than painless sleep.
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Fine art flows from springs of grace:
only thirsty hearts drink deep from wonder.
Minds and bodies withered, broken, finally
find true healing, quench their fire
in streams of natural praise.
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Timeless
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Thundery showery days.
Another still and sultry darkness
without motion, any sound.
Evening deepens, endlessly.
Mist hangs thick, suspended
with no wind, not one star.
Even the night birds and coyotes
are quiet.
The distant city glows in the dark,
a pallid orange haze under low clouds.
Silent smoldering fire,
city in some other time.
In the blackness near, and far
fireflies flicker
as if their thin lights blinked on
and off
centuries ago.
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Bottomland Farm, Cane River
A morning in spring, I was walking new-plowed land
beside the shining river. It was flowing full of snowmelt
from the high mountains, alongside an aboriginal path
now paved and known as 19-W, following the river
we now call the Cane.
The lower fields had just been turned.
Rain had fallen in the night, washing the cut clods, clean.
In the fresh-rolled furrows of alluvial loam
lay a few shards of native pottery, broken by decades
of steel plows, tractors and harrow blades
breaking open, each spring, the soft rich land.
Distant past was risen there, in pieces, to the light.
I held each dirt-brown relic in my hand
and wondered: who was the last human to hold
this hand-formed piece of river clay? And when?
How many centuries back, how far upriver in time?
Exactly who was the one whose fingers fashioned it
moist and yielding, fired it hard in the hardwood coals?
Oh, to look into her dark eyes, to see and know
the giving land, as she and her tribe knew it then.
Standing there in April sun, this space in time
we’ve numbered 2,010, wistful
for the little curved fragments to speak
their truth to me, to tell their broken stories whole.
To hear the ancient music, primordial songs
of the lost People beside the river, fallen hundreds
and thousands of springs ago, right here.
All their blood, each tooth and fingernail and bone
has vanished—back into the nourishing land.
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Something Deep in us Almost Understands
We say it was the noble Cherokee
made to walk the horrible ‘Trail of Tears’.
Indeed they did, over a century and a half ago—
forced to leave their ancient homeland, in winter,
dropping their precious ones starved and frozen
into shallow graves, or none at all,
six hundred miles of wailing nightmare.
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When we try to imagine what we can not imagine
—that unspeakable suffering—the large beaks
of the vultures descending, something deep in us
almost understands: we’ve all been deposed
from the Fatherland.
And in the darkness of our secret hearts
we weep— for us, and them.
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We like to label our indigenous brothers weak
toward ‘fire water’—”an addictive gene”,
a “genetic propensity”, we condescend to say.
And we should know.
After clipping their wild eagle wings, skinning
alive their red freedom like the buffalo wind,
our white fathers locked the natives in the stockade pens.
There, we baptized the savages
with the demonic mercy of easy drink—
the only way to kill the pain, the howling need to escape.
And there they grovelled in the waste and vomit
of a new, beguiling god.
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If and when we ever stop, and think of it
something deep in us almost understands:
each, and all of us have lost our wild-born beauty,
our soaring freedom wings.
We grope and guzzle anything–even religion—
to numb the edge of inexorable pain.
We rationalize, condescend, preoccupied
forever busy with smaller things.
While in the darkness of our secret hearts
we weep— for us, and them.
It’s then, and only then
we almost understand.
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June Now
June now, and the warmed land hides
behind the sun’s intricate lacework
of leaves—all the spun jewelries of jade light.
The radiant earth covers itself with secrecy
and fragrant mystique, like a bride: layers
of alluring shadow, whisper
the long and luscious heat of afternoon.
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Birds have retreated, silently
into the deeper shades
these slow, somnolent hours.
Fair white daisies in the field
listlessly sway, barely stirring
the languid air.
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One butterfly, a large black swallowtail
pauses her life, lightly, upon
a sun-warmed garden stone.
She rests from flight, opening, closing,
opening her midnight papery wings,
thinner than black silk.
She folds and unfolds the dark pages
of her odyssey: each moment is her home.
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Along the horizon, stone-blue flowers
of cloud, larger than the mountains,
swell up into bloom.
We hear something like faint drums, rumbling.
Within an hour, the thunderhead has swollen,
swallowing the sun and its gold corona, whole.
Cool air falls from the tall cloud wings.
Trees grow dark beneath the coming storm.
Deep in forest shadow, before the turbulent night
a solitary wood thrush sings.
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Walking Home in Early Summer Dusk
Mild evening wind flutters the soft leaves.
In the darkening orchard, old limbs
already are bending with small green apples.
Bats dip and wheel in the twilight air.
Fencerows of wild roses sweeten the warm dusk.
The small Methodist chapel built of wood
over a century ago, stands white and silent
above a yard of leaning stones.
Fireflies rise, twinkling, out of the ground.
Rows of jagged mountains fade
from pale blue into night.
High in the southwest, Mars glows red
like a drop of blood
just above gleaming blue Regulus
85 light years away,
the heart of the Great Lion.
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Old church, Cane River
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Inside, the main sanctuary
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Loss
The wide, white stone ledges we thought so firm
those rocks we stood upon—have crumbled under us
fallen to rubble and shadows.
The sun’s long fingers are gone, withdrawn
like a shallow, temporary grace of light
from the dark and needful land.
Those deep, green picnic pools we knew and loved
like children, have sunk down, dried up like our laughter
revealing boulders, long-submerged.
Now, empty spaces where no one swims
the buzzing flies fly through.
Just sharp rock edges, the skeleton of a fish
and dry, gravelly sand.
What’s left of me, vestiges of you.
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Falling away
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Coyotes
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Waking late, I go downstairs to read.
Turn on the lamp, open the patio door:
the cool and living night.
A large moth bumps against the screen—
his tiny orange diamond eyes
dazzled by the light.
Written words and phrases fly across
wide canyons of time, space
and cultures. Billions of humans
have come and gone.
Just a few scribbled syllables give shape
to ineffable beauty, the poignant joy
and pain of being, whatever century, or place.
I was pondering the ancient musings
of Tu Fu, as he was traveling through
the Misty Mountains, Sichuan province
fourteen hundred springs ago.
His quiet poem was instantly replaced
by wild screams, ripping through
the back door screen.
Coyotes!
Cries like sharp yellow knives
tore open the ebony curtain of 4 a.m., excited
by their camaraderie under the stars.
The thick taste of warm rodent blood
keeps their family alive.
This is their time, and place.
I walk out into the high, dark music
listening. Something real
wants to howl in return, to join them
in their pure, nonhuman joy.
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The Cost of Living
Strong for sixty summers
I was feeling a little sorry for myself
this afternoon—a stupid fall
two months ago, a dislocated shoulder
changed everything.
Slowly healing from the damage
and the surgery (a labrum tear
repaired with seven bolts
and bits of bone removed).
Now the painful stretching therapy
tries to recover what was torn, and lost.
Then I saw a much younger man
walking into the drug store,
a piece of paper in his left hand.
He was smoking. Wearing a greasy
brown T-shirt.
His right sleeve was dangling,
empty in the wind.
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Paean
A thundery summer night
we were gathered in a classroom , discussing
the words, and ways of God.
The bright fluorescent bulbs were flickering
like the lightning, outdoors in the neon trees.
Heavy rain hammered the roof, lashed
against the window panes.
Suddenly, like lightning, a flash
the room went black. The clap
and booming thunder followed, echoing
through the hollows in between the clouds
and out across the town.
We sat there in the dark, unable
to see each other.
Our God-talk abruptly ended.
Someone fumbled for a flashlight, muttering.
Two deacons bumbled down the hall
striking matches,
looking for the breaker box.
Someone must restore the light.
And then we heard the music
and the haunting voice, singing
from somewhere down the hall.
(It had been there all along, but we
had tuned it out.)
I got up, and followed the sounds
like someone blind
sliding my hands along the walls
finding my way to the choir room door.
There, in deep shadow, not even a candle:
a piano, and a soprano
were letting glorious chords of praise
rise in the darkness, right in the midst
of the booming storm.
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–Adapted from meditation #18, Grace by the Cup, by Louise Bergmon DuMont,
shared with me by my daughter, Farrah. Thank you! and praises to God for showing me this.
There is a better way to live! It is “normal”, natural, human, and fallen— to be afraid, to want to fix and
control things, and people– to focus on the darkness, find fault–what’s broken and what’s wrong.
It is divine: to let go, to trust, and be risen, to go on singing in the darkness, in the midst of storms.
Jeremiah 10: 23 ” I know, O LORD, that our lives are not our own. We are not able to plan our own course”. (NLT)
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For Mei Yao – ch’en
One thousand years ago, you wrote a whirling stream,
a deep ravine by an ancient temple amid bamboos
as you passed by the monastery at Pao-Ying .
That night, you scratched some words with a quill
beside a smoky lamp. Somehow, your words were kept.
Nine centuries passed. Came the year of our Lord, 1,963.
From Saniniketan, the brilliant Indian scholar
Amitendranath Tagore translated your words, and those
of eleven other poets from the Sung. Ten years later
Grossman Publishers published Tagore’s work.
Thirty more years passed, into a new Millenia.
The year numbered 2,003. A gifted Colorado writer
was poking through a used-book store in Denver—
a young, steel and glass city on the high plains.
In the dusty stacks, he found Tagore’s book
marked way down. He thought of me and picked it up,
paid two bucks and sent it along, with a kind note.
I’ve read your poems many times.
Now the year 2,010, in summer sunset I read
your lucid words again.
Windy shadows creep across the page.
Like time, a stream still flows
down through tall bamboos, whispering
poetry into the deep ravines.
A warm breeze flutters the thin leaves.
Poems are still being born,
this fleeting golden light.
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By Yang Po-jun
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Denver windows
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Yield your self……..and let God
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“Consider the lilies, how they grow”……Jeshua
“Remove any barrier to His mighty life-giving power, working in you all the good pleasure of His will. Yield your self up utterly to His sweet control. Put your growing into His hands.
Allow God to manage your life as He wills. Do not concern yourself about it. Trust His Holy Spirit absolutely and always. Accept each moment’s dispensation as it comes to you from His dear hands, as being the needed sunshine or dew for that moment’s growth. Say a continual Yes! to your Father’s will.” —Hannah Whitehall Smith, pub. 1875
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“It is your own self-will and anxiety, your hurry and labor, that disturb your peace, and prevent Me from working in you. Look at the little flowers, in these serene summer days: they quietly open their petals, and the sun shines into them with its gentle influences. So will I do for you, if you will yield yourself to Me.” —G. Tersteegen, 1697-1769
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Both selections from Daily Strength for Daily Needs, pub. 1904, Methuen and Co.
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Two Days Before Solstice
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The winds of spring have blown.
Now the long year’s longest days have come.
With dark spice scents, Earth warms herself
like a naked sunlit stone, and gotten still,
quieted down—a mother radiant, fragrant
with the fathering spirit filling her, giving life.
Spinning secret webs of grass and mud
and horses’ hair, she weans her nestling young.
Oh, the deep emerald heart of June!
The very light shimmers in verdant haze.
And this hard, concave image of noon—large bronze bell
hanging a mute shadow over us—softens, vanishes
like mirage, into the day’s falling shades, the smell
of warm trees, endless afternoon.
The air itself is heavy, listless now.
Intricate perfumes drift from amethyst blossoms
flickering with butterflies: black and yellow
swallowtails, wings uttering silence, suspended
in the heady purple blooms.
Coiled tongues uncurl, and drink the nectary oil.
Pure energy freely pours from the god-like sun
unfurled like love, like light, on everything.
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“Of Time and the River”
Today, the river rushes turbid brown
with recent mountain thunderstorms.
Black willows reach over the crashing waters.
Their luminescent leaves are quivering, dancing
like river-nymphs, playthings of the summer breeze.
Mid-afternoon, a remote sandbar, far downstream
between two mountain towns.
Every few minutes, a car or truck rambles down
along the winding nineteenth-century road
blasted out of river cliffs. Today, almost everyone
takes the Interstate a few miles to the East.
But here, all is much as ever was: thunderheads
pile up, the tall earth-steam of afternoons.
Tanagers hide their scarlet beauty, raspy singing
high in the sawtooth leaves of sycamores.
Lofty granite cliffs and ledges of the gorge
(up where the river flowed, eons ago)
lodge rattlesnakes in cool, inaccessible rooms.
Cicadas rattle and drone, the wide white rapids toss
and surge, washing down the riverbed.
Grain by grain, sand is made from stone.
From somewhere in the tall rank weeds
and broken highway rocks, floats the hot, sweet-sour
stench of death. Jagged vulture silhouettes
soar on rising thermals, along the looming wall
of tremendous, slate-gray thunderheads.
But who am I? to sit with pen and pad—
this transient bar of river sand, mussel shell and storm wrack
left by the winter floods—a summer afternoon in time,
and scribble down such temporary, timeless things?
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A Yellow Summer Moon
After the hot and difficult day in town, I sit in the dark
to rest and deeply breathe, to cleanse my mind.
A round yellow summer moon rises slowly
through warm haze, a kaleidoscope of black leaves.
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Tiny greenish lamps of fireflies float and glimmer
across the garden, the far meadows.
Beyond the western mountains, the sky flashes silently
shades of violet fire , approaching storm.
The darkness stridently sings —black electric music,
thousands of insect legs and wings.
We notice little, beyond the closed boundaries
of our desperately hungry selves.
We are such easy prey.
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A slight breeze begins to stir. Night is fragrant,
lingering sweetness of the day—scent of cut hay,
honeysuckle, fence-row thickets of wild rose.
Behind the empty wood-shed, the yellow moon
is splintered, perfect wholeness flickering
through silent leaves of the tall bamboo.
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Doing Tai Chi with my Daughter
Usually a thousand miles away,
she has come to visit for a few days.
I open the door to the morning air,
let in the fresh breeze and the birdsongs.
Together, barefoot on the brick floor
we follow a gifted teacher on the screen.
Though young, he is gentle and patient.
We flow through the stream of moves,
father and daughter, talking little.
It is enough, being present in the moment
and with each other.
A few times, arms stretched out like wings
the pinions of our fingers, touch.
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In steady unrushed rhythm, long blue waves
break and flow, one at a time, upon the shore
behind the teacher.
Outside the open door, in empty space
a white butterfly drifts freely, unencumbered
as we were born to be.
River-birches flutter silver in the wind.
Doves are cooing in the shadowy woods.
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Down in the garden the large snowflake blooms
of Queen Anne’s Lace are bending gracefully
with the morning breeze.
White morning clouds drift from west to east.
One by one, like our days and our dreams
shadows float across the sloping green meadows.
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Namaste’. God’s peace be yours.
I thank Him for the gift of you,
my beautiful daughter.
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Monday, July 5.10
It is the morning after joining a large crowd under fireworks sparkling over the dark city. We were there to celebrate independence, and freedom–what deep and beautiful, mysterious words, rich with layers of history, meaning, and unmeaning! –Words that still make our black skies flash, boom and crackle with excitement and hope.
Watching the summer crowd, and knowing a little of the precarious world in which we live, I consider the ways of our sovereign and eternal God. He is the One “who brings nations and kings into power, and then brings them down”. I often wonder how much longer America will last, as a nation.
I find it odd, how many continue fervently putting their hope in this or that political party, some social and economic agenda, to rescue us and save us—from ourselves—our many delusions and rebellions, individual and collective.
Ironically, at the same time, the number of those who care enough to vote is at an all time low. Many have given up on the hope that politics can deliver to us the better world it keeps promising, and for which we perpetually hope. Over the decades, we have seen how both major political parties in the United States are deeply infected with the serious viruses of the human condition: a strong bent toward deception, the lust for power, the illusion of control.
Much easier to guzzle beer and scream once a year at the explosions of pretty but falling lights. I suppose there are many levels of patriotism.
“Do not put your trust in the princes of men, for they will fail you”.
And so our national house is increasingly a divided one: apathy and resignation on one hand; endless rancor, deep-seated prejudice and tiresome partisan name-calling on the other. We watch a few wealthy loud-mouths thrive on stirring up the masses with predictable cliches, and the misplaced passions of indoctrination. But these shrewd entertainers only polarize us, inciting our anger at “the other side”, telling us how to think and feel. And for the most part, people do think (and say) what they are told to think. Incessant brainwashing works, we are so impressionable. As if we’ve learned nothing from history, or from the ancient holy words. Or the beauty and power of our own amazing brains, created to think the very thoughts of God!
This is particularly disturbing: to hear how many professing Christians are much more fervent and vocal about their political opinions than they are their love for Christ himself, and for broken humans created in His image. We continue to miss His central message! From this abomination, I can only conclude that such persons spend considerably more time listening to political rhetoric, than reading and meditating on the words and ways of Christ. Many seem to have forgotten, if indeed they ever knew, that the Lord they claim is first of all the Lord of love.
“If you are my disciples, abide in my words. . . This commandment I leave with you: love one another, as I have loved you. ”
In His first major talk to the large crowd gathered on the mountain to hear him, Jesus blessed the peace-makers, not the war-mongers. The divine God-man consistently exemplified robust mercy and kindness. He is the very persona of forgiveness and redemptive healing love.Those who truly follow Him with their hearts and their lives, do become more like Him. As that miracle happens, we give up our inherent need to be right, to have our way, to win battles, to criticize and dominate others. I am fully aware how “unAmerican” Christ’s mandates sound. But I make no apologies. We have a majestic King, reigning above, before and after all the little kings and passing kingdoms of this planet. Our allegiance is to Him, and to His eternal kingdom right here and now. As the Savior went to some considerable effort to show us, the Kingdom of God is decidedly unlike this world’s patterns of governing.
But our daily talk quickly reveals the identity of our true masters, the little lords we parrot and serve. “Out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaks.” We can not help it. We talk about what inspires us.
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I wake early and go downstairs, and do twenty minutes or so of Tai Chi exercise, to brighten my mind and stretch my rested body. My daughter was visiting us last week, and she left me an excellent disc–by Scott Cole–which she has been using. We did Tai Chi together several mornings last week. (See previous post). What a gift she has given me! I enjoy it as a method of whole-body therapy and healthy stretching.
From just a few mornings’ practice I feel the certain effects: an unlikely harmony of invigoration, and relaxation. I am already beginning to experience the subtle way the fluid movements subdue the dragons of impatience, anxiousness and hurrying–the dark powers that fuel and drive this acquisitive culture of discontent, and myself, a somewhat reluctant product of it.
We are not taught, and thus we do not know: how to be still, to meditate, to simply en-joy, to deeply rest and be content. As a result, we both give and receive love rather poorly. We are occasionally told these qualities are essential to a whole and sane life, but we are not shown how to actuate them. Sadly, the models and leaders of our faith (and thus, their followers) frequently demonstrate very different movements and habits.
Refreshingly, I am learning with Tai Chi to move with clearer focus, and a steadier flow. It is indeed much easier than rushing in an anxious hurry, interrupting and being interrupted, missing much of the beauty of our days and nights. And infinitely more enjoyable! I especially appreciate the gentle energy released from the exercises, how they help me slow down and live with more mindfulness and peace, in countless little ways. Always, the truth is found in the details.
I have inherited, I suppose, what is called the ‘type A’ personality, with plenty of energy, but much of it wasted, dissipated. As a consequence, I have often been ruled by this lie: ‘there is never enough time, so much to do’.
(But this is a perceived myth, not a fact). There is much more “time” than we have yet realized. We simply misuse time, and the valuable energy given us. We listen to the wrong voices, harsh taskmasters that diminish and fragment us—our faith, our deep strength and creative imaginations.
But Tai Chi is showing me how to flow with things, not against them. And to pause more often—if only for a few moments—to breathe deeply, to let go of the stress that drives and dis-integrates us in a variety of harmful ways. To simply be more present in the moment. To listen, rather than talk. To see things, people, instead of just glancing at them. Very strange indeed, that these ideals should sound so rare and alien to us.
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Invigorated after Tai Chi, I step outside into the fresh morning air. I take with me a large slice of whole-grain toast and and a mug of green tea, and the holy writings. My favorite old wooden rocking chair is sitting in a cool shadow. There I sit and sip, eat and read. And watch and listen, to the wonderful summer morning given to me. And I give deep open-handed thanks, and praise—to my loving Father who created the bright morning out of darkness, this miraculous body out of nothingness, human love and dust.
In recent weeks I have been rediscovering the joy in singing quietly the Doxology as I walk, or sit, or do the small duties of my day. Over the decades I have sung it, on cue, thousands of times, as a predictable element in formal worship. How truly freeing, to sing or hum it, anywhere, with earnest, from the heart. As if God himself were right there, present, caring and listening, even enjoying my little song of thanks to Him. Could it be that the Lord of the universe is much more available and accessible, closer than we ever dared to think?
This morning I received these words:
“I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you, and watch over you. Do not be like a senseless horse or mule that needs a bit and bridle to keep it under control. Many sorrows come to the wicked, but unfailing love surrounds those who trust in the LORD. So rejoice in the LORD and be glad, all you who obey Him! Shout for joy, all you whose hearts are pure! –Psalm 32: 8-11 (NLT)
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On Craggy Pinnacle
(Wednesday, July 7.10)
Because the mountains are my old friends
I was asked to lead the kids on an easy hike.
Now at the peak, seven or eight teens
gather around me in warm sunlight.
I tell them things about wild birds,
mountain weather and the brief flowers.
Meanwhile, purple shadows of clouds
silently drift across the emerald mountains.
But the window of the children’s attention
opens and closes quickly, always wanting
something new. They’ve heard enough
for now. I’m no competition for a ‘smart phone’
anyway. Who is?
So I stop talking, look away:
that brown smoky haze grows thicker every year,
dimming the blue earth’s distant rim.
The old trails below were closed off
many years ago: “Fragile Habitat, Rare Plants”
it says on the warning signs.
Over the decades since youth, I brought each
beautiful and willing love, up
to the high places, far above the town.
The ancient gnarled birches still make
their secret whispering shade, soft wild grass
and ferns still flourish underneath.
So soon, my beard has grown white in the wind.
My mind is still yearning, and young.
Far below, at the base of the mountains
the deep blue lake, full of winter’s melted snows,
shimmers like a sapphire in the sun.
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On the front door post, hand-crafted paper shop–’D K Puttyroot’– Burnsville NC
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Thunderstorm
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Scrap metal, river road, Asheville NC
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A window, through a window
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Two hundred year old Hemlock, dead from tiny adelgids
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My daughter, looking through hand-crafted paper for her friends
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Summer Meadow
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“Crazy quilt” pattern, Burnsville NC
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Elk Shoal Farm
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Rust
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White Oak in its 3rd century, near Boone NC
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Dayliles
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Approaching Storm
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Mother and daughter, 4th of July festival, Asheville NC
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Douglas Falls, near Barnardsville NC
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Fenceposts, barbed wire
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Very old Japanese photograph
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Mud-dauber’s nests from several years, Elk Shoal Farm
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Asheville NC city park, 4th of July
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Ford tractor, Elk Shoal Farm
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The Summer Wind
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Last summer’s Hay
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Jackson Bldg, Asheville NC
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Here’s lookin at you, kid!
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Making the Best of Each Other
“Love is of God. And everyone who loves is born of God, and knows God.” -I John 4: 7
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“Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior.
Instead, be kind to each other, tender-hearted, forgiving one another
Just as God—through Christ Jesus—has also forgiven you.” -Ephesians 4: 31-32
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“We may, if we choose, make the worst of one another. Every one has his weak points; every one has his faults. And we may make the worst of these, we may fix our attention constantly upon these.
But we may also make the best of one another. We may forgive, even as we hope to be forgiven. We may put ourselves in the place of another, and ask what we should wish to be done to us, and thought of us, were we in his place.
By loving whatever is lovable in those around us, love will flow back from them to us, and life will become a pleasure instead of a pain, and earth will become like heaven, and we shall become not unworthy followers of Him whose name is Love. “
–Arthur Penryhn Stanley (1815-1882).
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“The LORD will work out his plans for my life; for your faithful love, O LORD, endures forever.” —Psalm 138: 8
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“He who began a good work in you, will complete it, until the day of Christ Jesus” –Philippians 1: 6
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Please consider this question:
“Why is it that we are so busy and preoccupied with the future? A large part of our spiritual maturity is realizing that the future is not our province. That being true, is it not a criminal interference with Him to whom it does belong—our feverish, anxious attempts to fill it up with shadows of good and evil, shaped by our own wild imaginations?
“It is my part—to do God’s will in each present moment, as it is made known to me, to inquire hourly (I almost said each moment) what it is He requires of me. And doing that, then leave my self, my friends, and every other interest to His control, with a cheerful trust that the path He marks out for me will lead to perfection, and to Himself.
“—This is at once my duty, and my happiness. Why will we not walk in this plain, simple way?”
-adapted from William Ellery Channing (1780-1842)
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“Let us then learn to live fully in the present, and not permit our minds to wander into the future. This “future” is not yet ours; perhaps it never will be. We expose ourselves to needless temptations, when we anticipate God, to prepare ourselves for things which He may not destine for us.
Whatever should come to pass, He will give us light and strength according to the need. Why should we desire to meet difficulties prematurely, when we have neither strength nor light as yet provided for them? Let us give heed to the present, with its pressing duties.
It is faithfulness in the present which prepares us for faithfulness in the future.
—adapted from Fenelon (1651-1715)
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Summer Morning Rain
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Windows open, I wake to the long, refreshing
sigh of early rain in the trees.
Three weeks of intense heat and drought,
the land is dusty, hard with thirst.
I am alone. My wife left at dawn
to get our golden daughter to the plane.
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Water music fills the vast auditorium
of cool morning air.
I sip a large cup of green tea.
Soft notes of a bamboo flute breathe deep peace.
In the distance sirens scream and scream
and scream, then die away.
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I can not find the words for this
invigorating joy—how fragrant morning rain
quenches the thirst and sorrow, of everything.
I can not breathe it deeply enough, let it wash
the dust of bitter, anxious thoughts.
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Birds are singing, mating in the resplendent trees.
Wet grey doves fly down to the feeder,
shake beads of water off their wings.
Raindrops splash and fill the stone birdbath,
dimple the surface of the garden pool.
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All praises to the One
who brings us drought and rain!
This cloudy scintillating light, everything glistens
drips and sings: liquid silver falling from the sky,
our very souls refreshed, with living green.
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Queen Ann’s Lace bending in the rain
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Old barn boards, Elk Shoal farm
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Hosta leaf in the rain
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Fading Paint and rust
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Douglas Falls
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Shadow dancers
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Day lilies by the river
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Iris
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Mother and Daughter, 4th of July festival, Asheville NC
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Morning Thunder
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Mom and daughter, farmer’s market, Asheville NC
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Downstairs, from the Tea room
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Morning sun in the hayshed, Elk Shoal farm
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Thunderstorm
The long July afternoon, a towering cumulonimbus
comes gathering itself, grumbling somber, growing
taller and blacker with each hour, enormous dark
electric flower bent on some revenge.
An angry god of fire, it strides across the mountains
down into our valley, kicking its flashing boots,
cursing loudly, intent on breaking things.
The air has gone intensely still. Birds are silent,
flown deeper into the shadowed woods.
The very light pales yellow with fear.
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Now the first gusts rise and rush, filling the trees.
Millions of leaves show their undersides, flushed
from jade to bloodless white.
The air has chilled—the last cicada
ceases rattling its paper wings.
Butterflies cling to the large purple blooms
bouncing in the wind. What else can they do?
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Lightning flashes! The stricken air crashes
in upon itself, trembling the windowpanes
—OH our cruel history of terror—
innocent millions, huddled under bombs
exploding louder than this, shattering forever
the little straws of their lives!
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The small dog jumps into my lap, shivers
in the shelter of my arms.
And the sweet old Shepherd who died last fall
—the one who shook at every storm—
today, I’m glad her bones lie quiet,
buried deep in garden loam.
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The last bale
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Three Thoughts About Work:
“But my work seems so useless!
I have spent my strength for nothing
and to no purpose.
Yet I leave it all in the LORD’s hand;
I will trust God for my reward.” –Isaiah 49:4 (NLT)
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“Mind, it is our best work He wants, not the dregs
of our exhaustion”. –George MacDonald
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“In your occupations, try to possess your soul in peace.
It is not a good plan to be in haste to perform any action,
that it may be the sooner over.
‘On the contrary, accustom yourself to do whatever
you have to do, with tranquility,
in order that you may retain the possession of yourself
and of a settled peace.” —-Madame Guyon
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Summer pastures
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Beauty in the barnloft
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Farm on Panhandle Road
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Buddies, at the back door of the Bar, Biltmore Ave., Asheville NC
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Manhole Cover
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Turk’s Cap Tiger Lilies
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Douglas Falls
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Waiting for the fireworks, July 4, Asheville NC (she really DOES like having her picture taken!)
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Cecropia
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Abandoned cattle pen
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Earl, a Viet Nam vet, both legs gone, doing “chemo”, Biltmore Ave., Asheville NC
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After the Hurricane
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Madison County Farm
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A door no longer used
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Summer Fans
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Willow and rocks, river in the rain
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Summer Sky
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Old building, Biltmore Ave., Asheville NC
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Century-old log crib
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Corrosion
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Friends
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Layers
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Elk Shoal Farm
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“Hazy Shades of Winter”
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Summer Hayshed
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Textures in blue
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Friends
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Open
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Bracken Fern
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Fences
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Turkscap Lily, Black Swallowtail
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Roots of storm-blown birch
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Now, the Time of Day…
…when doves come fluttering down
the summer evening light,
their last feeding before dark.
Those large rose-grey wings
pinions scoop the whistling air
cooing ancient woodwind music
settle softly to the ground.
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The sun fades into the forest of leaves
splintering the day’s last warm blaze
like fire through cut emeralds.
Far in the dry fields, dusty horses
their long shadows
graze the tall gold blades of grass.
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Could peace come down at last, to earth
to each of us, falling like this—
simply, hunger gnawing
our empty hearts at nightfall
such wings of strength and grace?
Could peace come down to us like this—
like doves at dusk
the falcon’s eye and talons closed?
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Summer Sunset
That large bouquet of white cloud blooms
directly overhead, has caught on fire, glowing
the day’s last burst of flames.
Ashes of rose-light settle on everything.
We watch the final hour burn down
like petals of sacrificial flowers, incense dust.
Night cicadas start incessant chanting.
A small owl whinnies in the darkening trees.
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Today we swam in the mountain river.
Eons of waters gathered from the whole earth
washed our pale bodies, the timeless stones.
My father brought me to this same deep pool
fifty years ago.
All the splashing, laughing people here today—
not one of them existed then.
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A tall thunder castle was looming up
over the high mountains, rumbling down
long cloud halls and lofty towers.
Dark fires, shining edges flaring out
swallowed the little sun.
People hurriedly gathered their things
and went home.
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July Moon, Epiphany
Waking in warm darkness
moonlight floods the floor at 4 a.m.,
injured shoulder aching, not able to sleep.
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I walk outside, the only man alive,
sit quietly a long while: cool air,
the full moon’s soothing light.
All is stillness, but a few big trucks
out on the highway, over a mile away.
At this hour, even the night cicadas have hushed.
Summer’s last fireflies twinkle across the fields.
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To the east, the stars of early autumn are rising
shimmering unthinkable distances
above the sleeping trees.
Jupiter sparks and gleams, spinning slowly
an arcing path of endless years
through silhouettes of leaves.
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A thick mist lifts from the warm land.
A full pink corona halos the moon.
It floats in heavenly beauty—pure serene
eternal space, a large Mimosa bloom.
Suddenly I know: there is a place
of fragrant light, unknown by any pain.
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Magnolia
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For Jane Kenyon
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Although gone from here
fifteen years now, something live still thrives
within your words—honesty, clear light
and the shadows you shared with us.
May be the most important part
after all, given your lifelong halls of sorrow,
such resilient winter joy.
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I sit here a hot morning, late July
yet another doctor’s office, waiting, reading
your poems again. You’re still showing me
how to see luminous beauty in the small,
the daily things—just now, through the sterile clinic’s
high windows, maple trees are turning silver
as a river, a playful summer breeze.
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You saw through this diaphanous veil
of fleeting, tender, sun-scarred days
the tossing stormy nights.
Behind hayfields and the paintings,
the tumors, the flowers and music,
faces and the snowy light—
You found the love within.
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Fear
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“Go on, in all simplicity. Do not be so anxious to win a quiet mind, and it will become
all the quieter. Do not examine so closely into the progress of your soul. Do not crave
so much to be perfect, but let your life with God be formed by your duties, and
by the actions called forth by your daily circumstances.
Do not take overmuch thought for tomorrow. God, who has led you safely on so far,
will lead you on to the end. Be altogether at rest in the loving holy confidence which
you ought to have in His heavenly providence for you.” —Francis de Sales 1567-1622
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“Why are you so afraid?
Do you still have no faith?” —Jesus
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“Fear not, I am with you.
I will never leave you.” —Jesus
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Late Summer, Other Beings
This hot, burnished August morning
not yet ten o’clock, already ablaze
with burning light, the heavy air
sizzles, sings: cicadas rattling away
their brief summer lives
mating in the listless trees, resound
like rattlesnakes coiled inside
a large bronze jar of days.
In leafy mosaics of green shades,
our voices calmly discuss
more importunate things.
The thick air barely stirs
these languid morning hours.
Already our faces moisten with sweat.
How casually we watch dying butterflies
drift through our net
of fleeting thoughts and words,
flower to fading flower.
*
Motionless bright wings, they float
silently in space, long moments
of beauty, delicate, lingering . . . .
Their brief days fly with such quiet
yet certain passion, suspended
on invisible currents
of time and air
that we—nor the tall curtains
of flaccid birch leaves
—can scarcely feel at all.
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Stephan’s toe, friendly butterfly
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Happy Third Anniversary to Farrah and Stephan!!!
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Please excuse these belated greetings. Please know that we are very happy for both of you!
And your THREE years of married life together is a wonderfully big deal!
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May God our Father richly bless your marriage, may you each grow in His holy love—
for Himself, and for each other! -Shalom!
Always, Your Dad
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The last word
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The Days We Call August
Another dog-day Sabbath
steeps in the deep gold sun.
Summer leaves have hardened
into jade, hushed and stilled,
the strong red tea of heat.
Incessantly, cicadas drone away
their life song—–late summer’s
sibilant death song: like seed-pods shaken,
this ancient chanting
rattles the dry trees.
*
But soft tones from Liz Story’s piano
—strokes of cool black musical silk—
hypnotize us to the bone.
The ice in our glasses settles and melts.
Man-made wind, the whirring fan
keeps teasing the loose pages of words—
today’s edition of the Citizen-Times
fluttering, begging to be read.
Or maybe not.
Each day, tall clouds of turbulent earth-steam
rise violent from the heated land;
and like the centuries of raving headlines,
quickly fade away.
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Somewhere far below, a shining river
keeps flowing deeply through our minds—
all the winter snows letting go, seeping down
high mountain firs and rocks,
dark forest hollows, the treacherous slopes
of human memory.
A thousand generations of wild trout
swim freely in the dappled water-shadows.
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What we believe, what we fear
and yes, what we most desire—
these are the true powers that shape us,
make us into what we are.
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South Toe River
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Singing the Old Hymns
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This morning twelve of us from church
drove to the Baptist Nursing Home
to sing the older hymns.
Down the florescent linoleum hall and through
the loud double doors, we found them—
fifteen or twenty crumpled white ghosts
of humans–mostly women, and a few men
sitting in a warm bright room, silently staring,
waiting, waiting.
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Blue-veined delicate hands
had held and given so much life
lay folded quiet, or twitching, in their laps.
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Our songleader/guitarist good-natured Nate
with the red beard, introduced us.
His joy briefly displaced the obvious
yet unspoken truth, spelled out
in precious faces gazing pitifully,
blankly back at us.
Were any of them here, to hear us sing
because they wanted to be?
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Using the Home’s old brown hymnals, we sang
fervently of the Cross, the Blood, the Spirit
with fresh exuberance (I felt the sweat
like blood, trickle down my spine).
Everything living in us
wanted to dispel that horrid spell
cast upon these withering lives,
cast upon us all.
We were born for more than this!
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After the singing we greeted them,
held a moment their feeble blue hands,
poured love into their wistful eyes.
And then we said good-bye to them,
and walked back down the hall.
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“The Memory of Place” by Clayton Santiago. Displayed at the Haen Gallery, Asheville NC
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Mr. K’s Used Book Store
We rose before dawn
to take our daughter and her husband
to the airport, two hours away.
Their last breakfast with us, Stephan
wanted to pick one more bowl
of fresh blueberries, this time
in 5 a.m. waking dark.
I held the flashlight for him.
The neighbor’s rooster crowed.
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A quick jetport minute
of heavy traffic exhaust, we dropped them
and their bags off at the curb,
hugged each other briefly
and drove away, not knowing
if, again or when?
It all happened so fast.
Everyone was acting like we’re so used to this
routine, it no longer hurts.
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Back on the interstate, a few fast miles
from the airport, a Father’s quiet tears
spilled from my eyes, my wife
did not look at me, or see, talking on and on
about this and that good thing.
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Later, back in our town
she wanted to stop by a fabric shop.
I wandered down to Mr. K’s used books.
Thumbing through a Penguin paperback
the 1600′s life and haiku of Basho,
I stared into the Saturday morning rain.
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From the overhead speakers, softly
an old-time fiddle tune droned, refrained.
I thought of my father, over three years gone.
Beyond the covered sidewalk
the wet black pavement was littered
with the dark maroon confetti
of Crepe-Myrtle blooms.
Cars and people kept hurrying
hurrying past.
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Latesummer Zinnias
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1840 Smith-McDowell Home, Asheville NC
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Just a Hundred Feet Away
A thousand cars an hour
rushing up and down Victoria Road
to the hospitals, the college, the town.
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Waiting for my daughter to get out of class.
I sit on a park bench under a great White Oak
—an inch-long acorn, long before the Civil War—
that sprawls above the grassy lawn
of an 1840 museum-home.
Imagine the horses quietly walking by,
muddy wagons rattling past
right there, just a hundred feet away.
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170 Augusts later, the morning air is cool,
lightly stirring the weary leaves.
Daily now, as every year, summer’s heat recedes—
a long warm tide falling back, surrendering.
Fall’s first acorns are dropping to the ground.
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The large parking lots congest with cars.
Hundreds of students hurry to class,
heads bowed down, each one quite alone.
Almost everyone is talking
into the empty listening air, on telephones.
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And the traffic keeps rushing past the ghosts
—horses and their riders
and the muddy wagons, rattling
right there, just a hundred feet away.
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Detail of wrought-iron gate, 1840 Smith-McDowell Home, Asheville NC
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Hand-made lace curtains in window, 1840 Smith-McDowell Home, Asheville NC
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Nineteenth Century White Oak in meadow, Blue Ridge Parkway near Blowing Rock NC
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Jonas Girard’s splatter wall
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Thunderhead
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NC Arboretum wall
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Jonas Girard, 8.14.10
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Mussel shells, dried river-silt
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Farrah’s favorite quilt, NC Arboretum
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Stephan
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Passage II, by Leigh Wen, at Haen Gallery, Asheville NC
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Zoey with a bagel
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August 14.10, #II, by Jonas Girard
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Rocks, South Estatoe River
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Tiger Swallowtail, Butterfly bush
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Rails
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Goldfinch bathing
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2010, III X by Stephen Pentak, displayed at Haen Gallery, Asheville NC
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The last sunlight
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Passionflower
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Admirer
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Wooden bowl of Granny Smith apples
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Queen Anne’s Lace
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Stephan
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Stephan and Farrah
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Blue Ridge Mountain Farm
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August 2010, Jonas Girard
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Stream of Stones, NC Aboretum
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Blue Damsel Fly -(note hairs on legs)
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French Broad River, August 2010
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Kenechi —(Nigerian for “thank God!”)
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Hand-woven grass baskets from Africa
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A cherished grand-daughter playing “Peep-eye”
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African emblem
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Kenya Webster, African Drum Teacher, leading drum circle –(musicisformeto.com)
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“Pieces of Isis” Silk art by Janet Taylor, Ariel Gallery, Asheville NC
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Alley off Eagle Street, Asheville NC
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Sam Kaplan, Professor of Mathmatics, UNCAsheville NC–Taking Math to the streets at Goombay Festival
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Woman shopping for drums
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Man and Woman, wood sculpture, Goombay festival, Asheville NC
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Pattern of ascension
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The spirit of Africa lives in this face, from Nigeria. (She taught me that ‘Asante’ is Swahili for “Thank You”)
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Rolled-paper beads made in Uganda from Obama’s leftover campaign brochures
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Tribal
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Patterns from the Motherland
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Head-dress
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Making the primitive African band sound good
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At the Edges
For Stephan
Just as we feel drawn, as small children
bare feet, out to the very edges
of the land, the sea, to watch with fear
and open wonder, ocean waves
endlessly crashing,
coming at last to wash our little toes
and ankle bones with salty foam,
our shallow footprints in the sand,
Just so, when as adults
we’ve gotten weathered enough,
frightened enough and finally brave enough
to willingly approach, and see:
the broken shells, the jagged ravaged edges
of our beautiful selves, fallen away
like castles in the tide
and wonder: how? and why? —
—it’s then we first begin to see, to feel
the wide beginnings of God, His near edges
running toward us like the sea.
And much amazed, we find
if only we allow it
eternal mercy, breaking over us
again, again, again
gentle lapping waves, and foam.
It’s then we start to glimpse
the far and deep horizons
of our need:
a patient and fierce, redeeming love,
somewhere we call home.
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Three hundred miles away, a sea storm
—enormous lashing water-dragon
she blows and spits and gnaws
a thousand miles of coastal sand,
houses built upon that sand.
Autumn, and once again
the warm hungry ocean
eats the crusted edges
of the helpless land.
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But here in the deep hollows
of blue mountains, a cool September dusk
follows the falling sun, perfectly serene.
Just a few high cloud-feathers,
lofted wisps
of molten radiance, like the gilded dust
blown soft from angels’ wings.
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Floating from the twilight land
–the way thistledown drifts up–
quilted patches of green gold light
lift from the limbs of the quiet trees.
Glowing layers of leaf thatch
weave themselves once again
into that melancholy Pattern
sown into our ancient hearts:
“Another Summer, Gone”.
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Slowly now, like smoke, shadows rise
from the darkling land
to take the colors’ place.
In the cooling spaces
beneath the fading grasses
cricket music quickens
between the silent stones.
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The large jet roars down
the long runway:
a baby screams
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Stephan
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Seven miles above
the vast blue Atlantic—
he’s down there, somewhere
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From a jet window
gravestones shine a moment
in the morning sun
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Far below the wings
white clouds drift. Far below them
whitecaps on the sea
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September sea wind:
white cumulus, white gulls and terns,
aspen leaves blown white
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From Hyannis, a jet
roars off. From the quiet bay
a cormorant…..
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The long rock jetty
sea gull whitewash
wisps of cirrus
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Waves splashing on rocks
the silent sea. LOUDSPEAKER!
one-hour harbor cruise
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Harbor floating full
of million dollar sailboats
all empty and silent
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Reading, I listen:
young father laughs with his daughter.
Cool September wind
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September shore—
waves crashing on rocks, warm wind
bends the far white sails….
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After All
How the very old walk.
So slowly, they get out
of their large slow cars
and putz about,
often with small high-strung
overfed dogs
and impatient grandchildren.
Or not.
So often they’re alone.
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Such small steps they take now.
Thin legs, crossing a rickety bridge
over windy waters.
Speaking small uncertain words
into the autumn wind
out of rich memories, they reminisce
mumble foolish suggestions
and deep wisdom.
But who is listening?
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The Lost Hunter
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At the tire shop the other day he was telling me how he killed a deer
last year, 4000 feet away (so tiny, he could barely see it)
using a computerized scope—-one shot burst the heart.
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He showed me on a chart, that distance the high-speed bullet
dropped 166 inches through the freezing winter air:
nearly 14 feet.
The computer also adjusted for a sharp 9 mile an hour wind
slicing down from Alberta through the naked cottonwoods.
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When they reached the kill the large buck with his coveted antlers
lay crumpled, very still.
His life was splattered red across the crusted snow.
They hauled the body out on a 4-wheeler, to show it off in town.
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Due to our intervention the predator/prey balance
is out of whack, deer herds must be managed.
The problem I have is this: He called what he did “hunting”.
Knowing him, and how he used to hunt, I know he knew better.
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Off the north Cape……Stephan’s out there, somewhere
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Big sister and her little sister, at the Build-a-Bear Store, Groton, Conn.
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Farrah and Queenie at the Mall
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Just goofin around together at the Mall, Groton, CN
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Sisters—-by Farrah’s choice to reach out, with love.
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Farrah in her element, taking pictures, Bluff Point Trail, Groton, CN
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Yarmouth Beach, Cape Cod
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Hibiscus blossom
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Trillian, in the bedroom hamper
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For you, Stephan, from Farrah
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Farrah, quite happy with herself atop Doane’s Rock, largest glacial boulder on Cape Cod
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Missing her man, out at sea
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Taking another exceptional closeup, outer Cape Cod beach
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Missing you
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Lament
All afternoon soft September rain weeps in the yellowing trees.
The year’s weary leaves have done their work in the sun;
they give up now, let go, flutter down.
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All afternoon summer’s last cicada rattles a feeble, fading song—
another summer, gone.
We stand at the window, watching, listening: old years come back,
whispering.
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The last roses flare up flames in the lowering sun
‘raging against the dying light’.
Their shadows slide slowly down
the warm September wall.
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A red sunset wind shakes the tall stalks of pungent Basil.
Tomatoes break open on the ground, offering their musk
of soft and scarlet flesh.
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Leathery sage-grey leaves steeped long in the tough sun
breathe a sharp-edged scent like flakes of Indian flint,
wild meat cooked on desert stones
a wisp of Pinyon smoke, the barren west, alone.
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At Summer’s end, Seagull Beach, South Yarmouth, Cape Cod
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Seagull Beach, South Yarmouth, Cape Cod
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South Yarmouth Beach, Cape Cod
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Dune fence and seagull, Cape Cod National Seashore
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High Dunes, Cape Cod National Seashore
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Wellfleet Harbor, Cape Cod
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Seagull Beach, Yarmouth, Cape Cod
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Cahoon Beach, Cape Cod National Seashore
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Chatham Beach, Cape Cod
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From the sea
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Many people have stopped here, Yarmouth Port, Cape Cod
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Bridge to Kelly’s Chapel, Yarmouth Port Cape Cod
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Kelly’s Chapel, Yarmouth Port, Cape Cod
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Kelly’s Chapel, Yarmouth Port, Cape Cod
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Kelly’s Chapel, Yarmouth Port, Cape Cod
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Ship timber, Cahoon Beach, Cape Cod National Seashore
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Bracket fungi and ferns
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Doane Rock, Eastham, largest glacial boulder on Cape Cod
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Rock Jetty, Hyannis Mass.
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Cahoon Beach, Cape Cod National Seashore
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Under the dock, Wellfleet Harbor, Cape Cod
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Sandfence and marsh, Chatham Beach, Cape Cod
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Rock and sand patterns, rock jetty, Yarmouth Cape Cod
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High dunes, Cahoon Beach, Cape Cod National Seashore
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Memorial to Melissa, Chatham Beach, Cape cod
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Japanese restaurant, Yarmouth Port, Cape Cod
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Sandfence and dunes, Chatham Beach, Cape Cod
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Jetty, Sea Gull Beach, Yarmouth Cape Cod
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Highland Light, Truro, Outer Cape Cod
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Spun deep in the sea
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Festival Balloons
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Highest elevation on the Cape, 12o feet above the tide, near the Highland Light
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“Let every creature have your love. Love, with its sweet fruits of meekness, patience and humility,
is all that we can wish for ourselves, and for our fellow creatures.
“For this is to live in God, to be united to Him, both today, and for all eternity. To desire to communicate
goodness to every creature, in the degree that we can, and as each is capable of receiving from us, this
is the divine temper; for it is thus that God Himself stands unchangeably disposed towards all of His creation.” –William Law (1686-1761)
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My response:
Amazingly, we are called to be like God–to be beautiful, with His beauty. To reflect Him–His divine personality, and attributes. And for this “impossible” task, He has given us His Christ, His written word, and the power of His holy spirit: to walk in wisdom, and to love and forgive as He does. Without these essentials, our “loving” is a shallow, self-satisfying pretense. Indeed, in Christ He has actually given us His very heart. This heart is the fuel that fires divine love in us—the heart of God.
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“Dear children, let’s not merely say that we love each other. Let us show the truth by our actions.” (NLT)
—1 John, 3: 18
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“Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: you must be slow to speak, quick to listen, and slow to get angry.
Human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires. So get rid of all the filth and evil in your lives,
humbly accepting the word God has planted in your hearts, for it has the power to save your souls.
“But don’t just listen to God’s word. You must do what it says. Otherwise, you are only fooling yourselves. But if you
look carefully into the perfect law that sets you free, and if you do what it says and do not forget what you heard, then
God will bless you for doing it.” —James, 1: 22-25 (NLT)
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My response to that meditation on practical loving:
It is one thing to talk about love. For talk is cheap, and easy. Tongues are loose, and actions require the expenditure of energy, and at least some level of sacrifice.Truly loving broken humans is quite another thing, far more challenging than merely reading and talking about love. It should seem easy to do—to love God, and others, as I am loved.
But before we get more than just a few steps along the divine path of love, we see that there are many enemies and obstacles to this highest and deepest virtue. Countless volumes have been written on this tough question: how then do we love, as God loves? –as we are called to love. How?
From personal experience as a fallen human, and from watching others, I can see that all of the considerable and powerful enemies to love have but one source: pride. Human pride, and all the ugly deformed children it produces destroy our ability to both give and receive love: self-righteousness, stubbornness, arrogance, the compulsion to control and manipulate others, inability and/or unwillingness to give to others, inability or unwilllingness to receive from others, the reluctance to admit when I am wrong and have done foolishly, lying to cover up (or alter) the truth, impatience, intolerance, a critical spirit, the resistance to receive correction from others, the inability to forgive, etc. etc. etc., pride has a host of children.
Just as love does, pride expresses itself in a multitude of forms in our lives. The good news is that we do have the power of choosing what will manifest in us. It is not easy: it takes a persistent vigilance of faith, and surrendering our will to the Father’s will.
Before we can truly love others from a pure heart, we must first look squarely at these demons that want to control and dominate us; and we must allow them to be seen, confessed, and crucified on the cross of Jesus, the risen Christ. That is the only place such enemies of God belong, where they were, and are, dealt with effectively. Such filth does not belong in our hearts, on our tongues, and in our relationships, which thrive and grow on love, not on its enemies, which only diminish us. But love builds us up, and makes us whole. –Quilla
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Old Pines in Autumn
This, the last day of September, deep in empty mountains
a forest of towering pines stands and whines
like old ship masts against the mist, they stand
and moan, against the coming night.
Their broken, storm-twisted limbs bend and sing
in the strong east wind.
The great black trunks lean and groan
another autumn, its storms and haunting songs
blowing inland from the sea.
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End of the rock jetty, Dunbar Point, Yarmouth, Cape Cod
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Looking at Stars
The God of curved space, the dry
God, is not going to help us, but the son
whose blood spattered
the hem of his mother’s robe.
–by Jane Kenyon
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Graffiti on a burned building, Asheville NC
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Autumn reflections
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Succession
Autumn afternoon, you and I walked through
the cool October woods.
Brisk wind, a glimmering sun played the bright multitudes
of yellow leaves tumbling, spinning down
a dappled woodwind music
spun with threads of sound, and light.
We found a few traces there beneath the trees,
the lives earlier men had left behind—
rusty strands of fencewire, nailed by sinewed hands
to split-rail locust posts, rotting now, leaning, fallen
into shady ferns and mushroom duff,
where mountain sheep and cows once grazed
the open hillside turf.
Piles of gathered stones still stood where the virgin woods
were logged and burned, broken, tilled and turned, then sown
to fields of grain, long since re-turned to forest—poplars grown
seventy feet of years into the air, soaring shimmered gold,
this low October sun.
Secretly, all afternoon long shadows interlaced,
wrapped themselves like nets around, above, beneath
our little steps.
Our easy words were thinner, and more brief
than the summer leaves
fluttering down the fallen light.
* * *
A high wind-blown slope, a cold October hill
I lay down to rest, and slept in summer grass below the wind.
I wakened, chilled, uncertain a few moments
where I was, or where I’d been.
From the cloudy falling sun misty shafts of golden light
fell soft like love, like stairs, down to the purple waves and hollows
of the hurting, peopled land—bound toward storms, and night.
Only a few moments, and grey curtains of mountain rain
closed again the open stairs of light.
Returning home in the dark, I felt the long blue fingers
of the ancient cold still holding my bones.
And yet, the golden ways of light were also reaching down
and shining through the stormy skies of mind.
I thought: how wordlessly good this shelter, this cup of strong black tea,
these flakes of a few wild fish and grains of rice, this woman
and this child, this time, indeed these very words—all, given to me.
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Smokehouse cabin and old fields in late September, upper Lickskillet Creek
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For Martin and Barbara
The other day, you called me to come and see
your mountain homestead farm, hidden away
in a hollow, the cold headwaters of Lickskillet Creek.
You said it’s time to let it go.
Along the old stone wall, the autumn sun, the wind
a hundred black and yellow swallowtails
flickered thick in your Zinnias, fluorescing
like tall flames and quick rainbows,
the finest bed of flowers I’d seen in years.
In the country kitchen, you gave me a cup
of cold fresh cider, hand-pressed sweet and spicy
windfalls, gathered from precious heirloom trees.
Your rooms are cluttered with the projects
of a sculptor married to a quilter, all the years
you’ve loved and worked here, since the Solstice,
sixteen winters back.
On secret trails, you led me from compost gardens
by the house, and up into the older woods
standing deep and cool with shade, and ferns.
We turned and walked the forest slope, up
to the clean spring’s fountainhead,
then down to the grassy parklike glade
and past the smokehouse to the barn.
As we walked I listened to the sunlight
of joy sparkling your voices—
the dreams you’ve dreamed, and done.
And shadows falling in-between your words
—the things you’d left undone.
I thanked you both, and you went back inside.
Before I drove away, I looked around again:
butterflies, and a warm breeze kept fluttering
the Zinnias, blazing their last days
the colors of a dying sun.
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From this high and bright October ridge of rock, of windblown meadow grass—
looking far below, to the darkened east there glows a rainbow’s edge, its soft arc
glistens through the half-dressed scarecrows of fading trees.
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Even as we watch, layers of far blue mountains fade and fade, into the deeper shades
of indigo, distance and mist, the coming night, the approach of grim November.
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Each autumn, we must mingle what remains: the stained glass fragments of hope
and love—still shining in the dark sanctuary of our childlike hearts—with everything
our eyes, our hands, our minds remember.
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October 22. 10–Near the entrance to the Gungywamp wilds, Groton CN
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Today, We Walked Together
Normally, a thousand miles apart
today, we walked together in golden woods,
among stone ruins a thousand years old.
Now late afternoon, the thin October sun
turns off and on, between low clouds
scudding down from the north.
Within a month, snow will be blowing.
The glowing maples are stripped almost bare.
Scarlet leaves chase and chatter, scaring
the empty streets, decorated for Halloween.
The wind has winter’s teeth, no one is outdoors.
Only a month ago, the late summer world
burned warm and green.
Two crows land on a lightpost.
Their harsh calls echo down the twilight rows
of living houses, closed against the wind.
Along the coastal river, a train moans
and moans again, rolling away
and farther away, into the waning grey light.
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“. . . .But that which of all things I have most at heart, with regard to you,
is the real progress of your soul in the divine life. Heaven seems to be
awakened in you. But it is a tender plant. It requires stillness, meekness,
and the unity of the heart, totally given up to the unknown workings
of the Spirit of God, which will do all its work in the calm soul—
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—the soul which has no greater hunger or desire but to escape
out of the mire of its earthly life, into its lost union and life in God.
I mention this to you, out of a fear of your giving in to an eagerness
about many things, which, though seemingly innocent in themselves,
yet divide and weaken the workings of the divine life within you.”
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–from the writings of William Law, 1686-1761
“…I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God which is in you…
for God did not give us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, of love
and of self-discipline”—2 Timothy 1: 6-7
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What can one say—after all that’s gone, and come before this somber autumn day?
Sweet woodsmoke curls again above the frost. Fragrant scarves unfurl from the chimney
the warm feminine scent of shelter, of touch and cherished recollections—are these
all but lost?
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Please say to me what one can say—when it seems the only birds left are crows, snarling beyond
the closed windows, harsh black caws in the oaks all day, that winter talk in the darkened woods.
When just a few tough leaves of summer linger, like closed scarlet hands, like claws of frozen blood?
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What can one say—when what we fear is far too much to feel, much less, to talk about. But tell me
anyway: this time of year when we know that we are older, fragile and infirm, wandering further apart;
and a colder wind starts moaning again through the naked woods of each November heart?
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What can one say—when gazing straight into the mouth of the storm-darkened North
through stripped birch trees, their thin, sere limbs shaking down the last gold leaves?
And silver balalaika tunes come quivering into our midnight rooms, weeping the agonies
of arguments and war, the tender vanquished joy of human love?
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—Please tell me, while we’re waiting here with opened hands, another winter stalking down
the tundra sky with fear, the grey howls of hungry wolves tearing across the humbled land;
and we can’t help but see what’s been shattered, burned and damned, what can one truly say?
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—Only this, but surely this with certain faith: out of the rubble, ravage, greed and death, the untold wastes:
One has risen, a Star at dawn among these fluttering candle flames, these broken reeds, redeeming what’s been
lost. His radiance is gleaming pure, above and beyond all time.
So find His beauty in His truth: a perfect Love that burns in the smoking fragments, the fleeting faces,
in all the moments that shine.
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“Don’t you realize that you are the temple of God,
and that the Spirit of God lives in you?
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“Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit,
Who lives in you, and was given to you by God.
You do not belong to yourself.
For God bought you with a high price.
So you must honor God with your body.”
—The first letter to Corinth, from chptrs. 3 and 6
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“This pearl of eternity is the temple of God within you, the consecrated place
of divine worship, where alone you can worship God in spirit and in truth.
When once you have become well-grounded in this inward worship, you will
have learned to live before God above time and place.
Every day will be Sabbath to you, and wherever you go, you will have a priest,
a temple, an altar along with you.
For when God has all that he should have of you, of your heart, when you are
wholly given up to the light and Spirit of God within you: to will only in His will,
to love only in His love, to be wise only in His wisdom, then everything you do
is a song of praise, and the everyday business of your life is being shaped into God’s
will, on earth, as the angels do in Heaven.”
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–-adapted from the writings of William Law
This cold November day I’ve been reading, working and playing with words: raking them like
leaves, ancient and modern, withered and fresh, and listening to them—unique sounds, rippling
fathoms of meaning. Words are primal tools that work: they rush and scrape our thoughts together,
gather our ragged passions, then bundle them up only to blow away like pages, down the windy roads
of years.
Amazing!–how simple phrases have their way of coloring our personal landscapes forever, the way our
childhood disappears, lost in layers of fragrant, fallen years. The magic waters and rust of scribbled
syllables is entrusted to us—the very private lyrics of grief and joy. The music of words is rustling
and crisp, like leaves in autumn wind across continents and centuries.
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Brittle fire-sticks scratching charcoal on cave walls. Or printer-jets spitting toner, matters little.
“But oh, what power” these symbols have—to speak what frightens, beguiles, entices us. The old
boundaries of piled stones are crumbling very slowly down, into wildflowers and ice, deep in the misty forest.
Skyscrapers suddenly tumble in terror to the street, the running crowds of human dust.
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At dusk I put down the books and notebooks. The pen, the glasses place upon the silent page.
Look up, and through the naked trees a sliver of almond moon descends. The fading blue scroll
of sky unrolls, quietly asks for some response—please be sure to sign our guest register, and
write a few words about your stay, before you leave. . . .
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Tree tops quiver gold with sunset light. Soft wind rises in their limbs, they thrum and sing.
A few leaves linger, whispering little yellow prayers to the approaching night. Dark leaves in me
shudder in the chill autumn air, soft petals of sorrow grieve and fall. And I’m struck dumb with fear,
with wonder, these silent words of praise.
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Summer is long past gone, and even the brilliant ‘leaf season’ has blown away again. A bright day with cool wind.
I’m sitting at a sidewalk table on Main Street, savoring a cup of rich ‘Black Widow’ coffee served by the local
Java shop. The small town square at noon lies quiet and empty in the longer shadows of late autumn, as if
resting from the long tourist season. A steeple rings its faithful noontime chimes. The town’s surrounding
worn brick and wooden walls echo the tones. More than a century, some of these buildings have stood like
sentries, as if still guarding the town square from wilderness attack. Ironic, how the wild lands now need
protecting from the invasive settlement.
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I look around and realize again how I’ve loved this small mountain town, this county, many years. It was the
primitive village of my mother’s people, since muddy wagon paths wandered out of the deep woods homesteads
of the eighteen-hundreds.
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Traffic rumbles around and through the town: hay and cattle trucks, diesel pickups hauling tractors,
business people on lunch hour, and off-season tourists, looking for something that likely doesn’t live here,
or anywhere. Perhaps it’s just getting away, the sojourning that matter. Taking back a story or two of new places
and people to remember. Something to tell the folks back home.
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The last leathery leaves shiver in the empty trees along the streets. The wind makes a watery sound in
the dead leaves, like summer fountains. The bare mountains rise above the town, wrapping their ancient bony
shoulders in gray shawls and purple shadows. Everything seems hunkered down, waiting for another
winter to blow into town.
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The statue of Otway Burns stands vigilant in full uniform, brandishing a sword and a little bronze horn,
fading green with verdigris. On the town flagpole the loose, striped fabric flutters the cool afternoon wind.
The flag-rope rings and rings against the metal pole, as if still celebrating our liberation from England,
and all the wars we’ve waged since then.
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Or could the insistent ringing of the flagrope be heard as a small alarm—counting the moments in the life-span
of a nation, asking the uneasy question: with so many treacherous enemies bent on our demise, how long can
this costly and casual freedom last?
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I pondered the tough question a few moments. But neither the flag, nor the traffic, nor the old buildings, nor the
ancient mountains themselves, not even the sky could give the answer. I finished my coffee, and remembered the
words of a modern day prophet: ”the answer, my friend, is blowin in the wind. The answer is blowin in the wind.”
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Even the goldenrods are gone to seed.
September’s fiery blooms burned down
to silver wind-blown ash.
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Only asters remain, the sun’s last flowers
dance in place: November’s delicate, dying
children, their faces innocent, oblivious
whirling ragged amethyst lace.
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How precise, the cool blue shadows now
etched, late-afternoon, upon grey stones:
the bare limbs of trees, dead weeds, the tall stems
of frozen goldenrods. With wind’s sharp edge
and brush, the low sun sketches fast.
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Last night, after watching a movie I walked outside into the cold darkness to breathe and stretch,
to refresh myself. Whenever I spend an extended time in the world of pretend, no matter how well the art
is expressed, I have a hunger to re-enter the natural world and make contact. I need to look at real things
and consider what I have just seen.
I’ve willingly loaned my soul, my mind, for a few dear hours of life—to a group of people, to let them make
an impression on me, to tell me their story. But now that I have watched, and listened, I want my soul,
and my senses back. Tonight was no different. I opened the door and walked outside.
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A brief cold shower had just fallen. The wet grass and brick walkway were shining in the low moonlight.
Iridescent storm clouds the color of opals and charcoal were breaking up, drifting like smoke across
the large white waning moon. It had just risen over the woodshed, over the glistening silhouettes of the
tall bamboo. There was not a breath of wind.
I stood there in the scintillating night with my right arm stretched out in front of me as if holding out a
greeting, or a farewell. With my hand I blocked the sharp brightness, to better see the winter stars,
glowing faintly in the luminescence around the brilliant moon.
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Standing there, I became aware of a random, gentle tapping nearby and to my right, every few seconds.
Walking toward the sound, I realized it was raindrops, falling from the limbs of the large birch tree to the flat
surface of the trampoline. I walked around the wide aluminum circle to the far side, directly under the tree
branches, and stood there. In a few seconds, a large cold drop splashed on my forehead. Yes, I was fully awake,
and quite present, for the very real display of beauty I was about to see.
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The closest branches of the birch were immediately above my head, and motionless, directly in front of my face.
As my eyes focused on their nearness, I could see each black twig was decorated with one or more large raindrops,
swollen and ready to fall. (Indeed, some of them did drop, even as I watched them.)
Looking toward the east and into dark shadows, I saw instantly that inside each liquid droplet, a miniscule moon
was captured, sparkling. The actual brightness of these many ‘moon-drops’ varied like that of the winter stars
themselves, gleaming in the black sky. A watery prismatic splintering of the white light even cast pale hints
of color into the constellations of reflections, further enhancing their resemblance to yellow Capella, blue Rigel, etc.
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At that rare moment, I was standing literally inside a miniature galaxy of rain-stars! But the most dazzling
feature was their three-dimensionality. We are accustomed to viewing the stars as if they were all the same
distance from us, although varying in brightness. It’s as if they were pin pricks of light in a black ceiling,
with no perception of depth or distance. But at this moment, my head was surrounded by minute glittering
lights—a most wonderful and exquisite sensation.
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Because the closest raindrops were only a few inches from my eyes, and the furthest up to several feet away,
I was viewing a spectacular host of star sizes and brightness. As I slowly moved and turned my head,
the star-drops moved at differing degrees, according to their various distances from my eyes. This created
a truly three-dimensional visual perception of these tiny sparkling stars of watery light. I was completely dazzled,
delighted with wonder, like a child. My knowledge of what was happening, and how it was happening, was
overwhelmed, transcended, by the sensation of awe at such delicate beauty.
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Inside this little galaxy briefly given to me, I flashed back more than five decades to a timeless moment as a
small boy. A few nights before Christmas that year, in my pajamas I crept into the living room alone, and crawled
under the fully decorated magical tree. There I lay down on my back and looked up—into the whorled layers of limbs
and twinkling lights. And there I wondered and dreamed, as only a child can wonder, and dream.
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A cold bright afternoon. I am looking at the large, wind-stripped White Oak on the far hillside.
The light shines through it now, all bare and looking like smoke. Every last leaf of that 1800′s tree
—all hundred thousands of them—lies curled and shining on the drab November ground.
The leaves have scattered out among the tree’s vast web of hillside shadows. All the leaves together
flicker little blazes of the slanting light, like wind blowing across open waters. We remember warmer
days, deeper shades of green.
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I stretch my right arm to the south like a primitive astrolabe, fingers together, pointing up.
A little more than three weeks until Solstice, the noon sun stands just one hand’s height above
the crown of the oak. So the tree shadows stretch out now, long blue strokes, sloping down the
hillside of dead grass, waiting for snow. Somewhere in the silence of the oak shadows we hear
low piano notes, played softly with the left hand. The larger limbs of the tree cast grotesque
shapes onto the land, splayed out like the arms of dancers whose music has ended.
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Of course these wild things mirror clearly the forms and rhythms echoing within:
summer leaves we know have blown from our tender hearts; every human, reaching like
shadows, into the falling light, the fields of late autumn, feeling keenly the need to give away
their love.
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Yesterday, two days after Thanksgiving, I was walking along the trail with out-of-town guests, three
older women who showed up for the Saturday afternoon forest walk. We were discussing the many
various and subtle beauties of the winter forest. I could see in their eyes and hear in their voices, that
each woman in her own way both loved and dreaded the starkness of the woods in colder seasons.
They were listening intently to what I was saying about the forest. I also sensed they could tell me things
about winter I had not experienced or imagined.
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In the first mile of our walk we had seen almost no bird life. Most of the summer birds have flown from
these uplands, down to warmer climes. We were enjoying that portion of the trail winding along Bent Creek,
when I happened to look up, and caught a glimpse of movement in the branches above us. I pointed out the
tiny flickering green Kinglet, flitting from twig to twig, searching out hibernating insects in the branches
thirty feet or so above the trail. A quick little bird, not easy to see.
Suddenly, another of the same tribe—the Golden Crowned variety—flew in and landed in clear view on a
branch directly in front of and below us, less than ten feet away! He perched there in a shaft of yellow sunlight
less than five seconds, but long enough for everyone to see the fiery stripe on the crown of his head, the soft
green plumage of his tiny form. An instant, and he whisked his colors into a thicket of vines and branches.
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We all exclaimed our amazement at such vibrant winter life and beauty suddenly before us, just as quickly
gone. Kinglets summer in the boreal conifer forests, far to the north. They winter in our southern mountain
woods, and are gone by late Spring. What a bright moment of precise contrast he was, to the rich grays and russets
of the November woods, sleeping in late autumn stillness. The winter forest reveals many life forms, shapes
and colors, either not present or hidden in the warmer months. We dress warmly, keep our eyes and ears whetted
for light and sound, motion and music, and our hearts open: to beauty and wonder.
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The first of December, almost 1 a.m.
The steroids (for bronchitis) wouldn’t let me wind down and sleep. I lost track of time reading, looked up to the clock and saw that we’ve already gone an hour into December. Something feels very different about the beginning of the last month of the year. Now we stand on that cold stone doorstep, the night wind has just blown December’s door open for us to enter. So eleven turns to twelve on our little wheels and pages, as we measure the spinning of galaxies, the inexorable mystery river taking us all downstream. We turn to the last page, with the shortest days, the longest nights, the brightest holi-days of the year. Again we’ve come to the door at the end of a long hallway.
Strangely, twelve does seem more whole and complete than eleven, December than November, in the same way autumn’s dark water transfixes into miracles of six-pointed, six-faceted white crystals. The black streams freeze, wind howls through the empty trees like the ghosts of wolves, the land is hushed and covered white. We sense, we know somehow the white fields and forest are emblematic of an even greater whiteness, lost somewhere in the complex landscape of our souls.
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The freshly-fallen snow can, like nothing else, give us the real hope that somehow “all things really can become new again”. No matter how crusty, how wounded and disillusioned our hearts become, the first snow still dazzles something hungering to be joyful in us, simply and utterly. We feel a high blue wonder emerge again to the surface.
But underneath the glittering lies a silent form of fear we tend to ignore, do not want to face. An existential fear, a shadowy current running far deeper in us than the little fear of driving on icy roads.
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The sounds in the room give shape to the midnight solitude. Chopin’s nocturnes ascend and descend softly, delicately with resigned and melancholy hope rippling the notes, so particular to his music. Beside the bed, on the floor gurgles the humidifier, softly bubbling steam. A comforting sound, like an old bedside nurse, slumped and snoring in her chair. The pungent eucalyptus vapors open my congested lungs, so I let her snuffle and dream.
Of course in the middle of the night at 61, I cannot avoid recalling those tragic and beautiful figures portrayed in film, their final months a miserable coughing travail of spitting up sputum and blood, as loved ones helplessly mutter and watch. Somewhere between the abject panic in those visions and this present culture’s narcissistic denial of “nah, not me, no way” —lies the real truth. If not this, not now, with surety something later will close and lock all our future doors. At least those doors in this terrible and beautiful place.
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And there is the monotonous and seemingly innocuous ticking of the clock: a very old train master at some remote station out on the dark prairies under cold stars, endlessly clicking his long yellow fingernails on the surface of the wooden ticket table.
He is waiting for the silver dawn train to arrive, still hours away. Then he will put away his pocket watch for the last time, pick up his worn-out satchel, and leave on that bright and shining express. Until then, he continues tapping his long nails on the old wood. And we’re allowed to listen to the rhythmic ticking music of this cosmos we’ve been given, to enrich our wisdom, to heighten our brief joys. But as with most things aging, we’ve trained ourselves not to pay him much attention. Normally, we notice time only when we need to do something, go somewhere, or regret the party is over.
^
Above and beneath and even through all the other sounds tonight is the steady thrumming of the rain, running down and down the roof. In those wild rhythms we hear herds of horses thundering, storm waves pounding endless shores. Rain has fallen all day and night. By morning the river will be noisy and tall with brown rapids. Much more rain has fallen to the south of us, where the big river is born in a thousand mountain headwater springs.
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For many green months, red and golden days, December sounded far away, the last page on the calendar. And now its first night is here, wrapping thick darkness around our eyes, chilling our shoulders, our homes, the northern half of the planet. Here at the threshold of the month, the front door of winter, we stand before a dark cave opening its mouth into the mountain,where bears crawl in to sleep the long night. Our faces feel the frigid winds blowing out of the cave. In real ways, we do not want to enter another winter. But from somewhere deep inside the cave, we can see a small but steady fire, flickering; softly jubilant music comes echoing.
The joyful songs are ringing from gatherings around the flames, countless firelit faces for many centuries singing deep inside the cold mountain. But the frozen darkness does not, and can not extinguish that little fire, for it burns with perfect love, compassion and total healing forgiveness, for everyone who comes to it, receiving its warmth and light. Nothing is more powerful, or more beautiful in the universe, which itself was created by this fiery Being of pure light.
This is a super-real, holy and eternal fire—not just a metaphor—and it can warm our hearts, our very souls, as nothing else can, or will. And much to our delight we discover this marvelous truth: the longer we gaze into the face living in that fire—which is a Person—we feel it kindling the same fires of love and healing mercy inside our own hearts, burning even into the innermost rooms of our darkened and fearful minds. Wonder of wonders— we rise up out of our selves, and begin reaching, touching others, with His fires of holy love.
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Last evening, just before dusk, Zoey (my smoky gray Shi Tzu runt-buddy) hopped into the Trooper
with me and we drove down to see the big river rocking full of rain. I’d been hearing it roar all day,
when I went outside to split firewood, or go for a walk. The river flows through a low gorge, making
its wild and varied music less than a half mile from our bedroom window.
Over six inches of rain had fallen yesterday and all last night on the mountain headwaters of the river.
The local meteorologist on the evening news had computed that amount of rain equaled
something like 53 Billion gallons of skywater fallen onto the upper watershed of the river basin.
The scientist in me loves knowing those kind of facts. The poet, the worshiper living in me
relishes seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling the sheer creative beauty and destructive power of
that much water crashing over large boulders, jamming big logs under bridges, demanding its way
back to the sea.
^
Along the winding road down to the river we passed a small pond lying in a meadow below the road.
Its bright surface was reflecting a few bare trees,shimmering in the apricot twilight. I had passed by
the pond before, and wanted to get a few pictures, but always resolved to, next time.
But next time never gets here. Either you forget, or the light is not the same, or the mood
or the company is not quite right, or something. But not this time. With no traffic on that
lonely stretch of road, I backed up, pulled over, let Zoey jump out, I got the camera and started
walking down through the meadow toward the pond. The sun was already well below the purple
mountains in the west, so there wasn’t much light left.
^
As we approached the pond, I heard the tender yammering of twenty five or thirty wild ducks, mostly mallards,
getting disturbed at our arrival. Apparently they had chosen this lovely little pond as their roosting
spot for the night. Now they were having second thoughts about its safety. I didn’t wish to disturb
the ducks, I just wanted a few images of the winter dusk light mirrored on the tranquil water.
Not able to abide our gentle intrusion, the wildfowl started circling, yacking and quibbling until one
or two of them could take it no longer, and so we thrilled to hear the whole flock run and flutter,
flapping and flinging silver water off their rapid whistling wings as they lifted noisily, splashing into the
twilight sky. They circled once, gathered into something of a formation and headed toward the river,
quivering little silhouettes fading in the afterglow of day.
^
Zoey and I walked back up the hillside to the car and drove down to the river. It was roaring in the
dim light like a loud storm sea crashing ashore. We walked through the picnic area to find waves splashing
under tables and benches, where we had enjoyed family outings in the past. Along the darkening river’s
edge, I looked out into the swollen river for long moments, mesmerized by the fierce chaotic rhythms
of water in flood. I leaned against a large birch just at the water’s edge and watched the high rapids
standing tall, pitching pale white froth, over and over into the turbulent dusk.
One way to imprint a moment or a place into the mind’s wet clay, is to breathe it in, several deep breaths
while concentrating on the beauty, the essence of it. I’ve read that the olfactory lobe in the brain
is located close to the memory centers, and I believe it. Neither sight nor sound nor even touch, as
keen as these senses are, none can rekindle a place, a time, a person, like the sense of smell.
Horses and dogs breathe in our unique scent when they meet us, recording our persona in their memory banks.
I am told they remember our scent a long time. We can learn from them.
But back to the raging river……
I closed my eyes in the pale light, and breathed in the rushing river air, allowing the moment to enter me more fully.
I pushed aside the inevitable intruding river of random thoughts. I wanted to preserve this raw moment in its pure state.
The cold stream of air carried the smells of washed mud, crushed sand, shattered rocks, the reek of dead leaves, wet herons
and rank weeds. Mountain crevices had been torn open and broken down with raging water. I even detected the faint saline
odor of ocean, the scent of rust, something like the metallic smell of blood.
I felt a wash of grief for the countless lives lost in centuries of floods.
^ ^ ^
“The Lord rules over the floodwaters”. –Psalm 29: 10
Please take (give yourself) the time to read this, and to meditate on what it says. It will bless you. Shalom!
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“God is a Tranquil Being”
‘God is a tranquil Being. He abides in a tranquil eternity. So must your spirit become
a tranquil and clear little pool, wherein the serene light of God can be mirrored.
Therefore, shun all that is disquieting and distracting, both within and without.
Nothing in the whole world is worth the loss of your peace; even the faults which you
have committed should only humble, but not disquiet you.
Please remember always, that God is full of joy, peace and happiness. Endeavor then
to obtain a continually joyful and peaceful spirit. Avoid all anxious care, vexation,
murmuring and melancholy, which darken your soul, and render you unfit for the
friendship of God. If you perceive such feelings arising, turn gently away from them.”
–from the writings of Gerhard Tersteegen (1697-1769)
“You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You,
because he trusts in You.” –Isaiah 26: 3
^
“Be still, and know…….that I am God” –Psalm 46:10
^
“Oh the joys of those who…delight in the law of the Lord,
meditating on it day and night. They are like trees, planted
along the riverbank, bearing fruit in each season. Their leaves
never wither, they prosper in all they do.” Psalm 1
^
Reflections: I sat down, deliberately stilled myself, and breathed deep slow breaths a few minutes.
My anxious mind began to find, and enter quietness. A large serene pool emerged from the thick mists
and tangled masses of mental branches.
Then I read and re-read the above passages, slowly. As I got beyond mere reading, and began to
meditate on the power and meaning of these written words, I realized something fundamental
and yet profound. (Sometimes the “kindergarten” level truths are the very best!) The Master told us
we are most secure spiritually when we become like little children.
^
I felt quite impressed to share with you, what I realized this morning.
Simply this: how and what we consciously think of God, WHO we think of him to be, is the most vital
thinking we do, more important than any of our million random and chaotic thoughts. In today’s
selections we are told something rather surprising in the turbulence of this present culture: that God
is a tranquil Being, who lives in a tranquil eternity. Is this how we usually think of God, or of
ourselves—his children, created to reflect his likeness, his qualities? I think not. It seems we are
above all, desperately afraid of stillness, of quietness, of silence. We are great babblers. Very few indeed
are good listeners. Why are these things so true of us? Should it be so? What is it we are so afraid of?
^
Our “identity thoughts” about God are our most central, core thoughts. Everything else conscious and
sub-conscious flows out of these inner realizations that determine the quality of our being. We are
designed in such a miraculous way that we inevitably resemble the god(s) we worship. And we are
obviously, undoubtedly created to worship something. We are apparently given the exceedingly
dangerous freedom of choosing which god(s) we will feed, and be fed by. It gets down to what we
believe is most beautiful. Notice how we decorate and dress ourselves, design our very lives to reflect
the values we think most desirable.
^
For many years I have thought it most unfortunate that a large portion of Christian preaching
and teaching tends to emphasize behavior, and activity. As valuable as these teachings can be, they
are nonetheless secondary, as the second greatest commandment is subordinate to the first. Jesus
clearly stated the first and greatest commandment is this:
To love the LORD your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength.
And the second is like it: To love your neighbor as you love yourself.
But how often do we put the second commandment ahead of the first? Or even worse, forget the first
commandment all together? This leads to much confusion. We’ve forgotten how to draw near to God,
to love him, and let him love us, forgive us, convict us, guide us.
^
A strong spiritual inertia is persistently trying to pull us down, to live horizontally, and in a great
hurry, rather than vertically, with specific times of silence and stillness, knowing and listening to
God. We make the simplest thing of all, i.e., being still and knowing God, the most difficult of all.
Ironically, even very few devout ‘believers’ share much about direct encounters and epiphanies in
their stillness alone with the Presence of God. Why not?
^
It is deeply ingrained in the western mind to place great stress upon action, performance,
improvement, acquisition, results and “success” in outward endeavors. The result is great
stress. Watch and listen to people. It quickly becomes obvious that “bizzyness”—doing and getting,
and talking incessantly about it—this is the real ‘gospel’ of the land. “Out of the fullness of the heart,
the mouth speaks”. By the fruit of our lips and our lives, and by our silences, we are known.
^
Sadly, when we build upon the wrong foundation stones, all else placed on top of them is unstable.
If our foundational thoughts are habitually focused on doing, rather than believing, and being, we
quickly get depleted, stressed, anxious and frustrated. Why? Because we’ve replaced the way of Faith
with the way of Doing, Acquiring, Accomplishing. There is nothing wrong with any one those, UNTIL
they become the driving horses of our lives, and not the cart, which is to follow the true horse. When
questioned about this central truth, Jesus replied: “This is the work of my Father–-to believe on the
one whom he has sent.” He knew our frantic bent. In this passage and many others the Lord placed the
highest value upon what we believe, what we think to be true. He knew that what we do quite naturally
grows out of what we believe to be true, and beautiful.
^
When life becomes all about how well I am doing, and how well you are doing, I start expecting and
depending too much on others, and on my Self, and it all goes awry. Off-centered, I am truly
functioning without the vital companionship, the tranquil Presence–the friendship of God. My days
vacillate between the odd extremes of pride and shame, depending of course on how well I have done,
or how others may have treated me, recognized me, or not.
But we are created for more and greater freedom than that kind of erratic bondage. Sadly, this
condition tends to be the emotional norm for humans. We actively choose to put our faith in the
wrong god(s).
^
In Tersteegen’s passage above we are told to “shun all that is distracting, and disquieting, both
within and without”. Nothing is more disquieting than the driving and tyrannical inner voice
of self-disapproval, often fueled by guilt and/or greed, the desperate need for the approval and
recognition of others. When I live for that, the rejection of those about me is most disturbing, and
results in so much relational turmoil. Edwin Welch explores this whole topic very thoroughly
in his excellent book When People are Big, and God is Small. (is that a great title, or what?)
^
But this disquieting and destructive mindset gets back into balance and clarity when I see all that
mess for the idolatry that it is; and instead, begin thinking of God as a Tranquil Being, who loves
me patiently, forgivingly, with all patience and joy, and actually wants very much, for me to spend
time with Him. If I am in Christ Jesus, God is not disturbed, or angry at me. He vented his hatred of sin
and idolatry upon his perfect son. In Christ, the penalty has been paid once, for all. He wants me to
believe that, and to receive it, in the greatest way, into the deepest layers of my being.
^
As I meditate on my Father’s perfect and abiding love in these peaceful ways, His deep peace begins to
keep me, just as promised in the scripture above. Please think about these things. God will reveal
himself as the profoundly tranquil Being that he is, bringing his special kind of peace to your hurting
heart, your troubled mind. And wonder of wonders, you (and I) will begin reflecting His peace to others, as He
intended. Shalom!
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Saturday, December Fourth
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Saturday’s midmorning hours, skies lower,
darken. Soft light shapes the shadowy land,
grows more dim. A thin snow begins blowing.
Wyeth caught such austere moments well with paints.
^
In the far pastures, Appaloosas start running
up and down the early winter hills.
And they keep running in the snowy air
across and back the white meadows,
long manes and tails flowing out like wind,
the flickering salty wind.
I stand long at the window, watching, enjoying them.
^
For once, the crows are silent, hunched in the black limbs
of the Walnut tree above the stream.
^
The old Jerusalem donkey stands solitary
in his red mud path turning white along the fence—
he too is watching the running horses.
He kicks his heels, tossing loose snow
from his shaggy wool neck.
^
Are the Appaloosas running for the pure
exhilarating winter joy?
I do not know.
But I choose to think so.
^ ^ ^
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A Winter Moment
Long hours indoors I went outside to stretch, and breathe
the sharp December air, watch the falling sky, remember where
and who I am: eternal spirit in a torn brown Oregon tee-shirt,
worn out moccasins, a pair of faded jeans.
^
I was raising my arms and hands, my eyes
my longing heart, to a break of blue in the winter clouds.
These frail wings lifted over the tangled snowy marsh.
^
I began to hear what I had not heard:
a neighbor’s distant tinkling chimes.
Wind faintly whispered the bamboo leaves.
I watched a large hawk soaring high and bright, silently
above the winter trees.
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Quite early. The house is cold, eighteen degrees and windy outside—cold even for early December.
I put on water for tea, throw some split sticks of dry Ash and a chunk of Harlan County coal onto the
embers in the cast-iron Belgian stove. The wood crackles, flames flutter, the flue rattles as if chuckling,
happy with the new fire. An early winter day comes to life.
^
I toast a bagel, pour the tea and settle down in the sparkling blue morning light on a seat beside the
large den window. An inch or so of fresh powder settled like down feathers during the night. Cold
sunbeams stream through the thick clouds, branches of bare and windy trees splinter the light
into needles of radiance. White pines glisten, shine and sing like eternal trees that will never die.
The wide morning air over the fields is spinning billions of glistening flakes.
^
The breath of music is inspiring—American Indian, a soft low cedar flute, transcending time and
distance, calling to deep ancestral threads of my human roots. Beyond the window, strong gusts whirl
wraiths of fresh snow up into glittering banshees of crystals and light. One large form—seemingly
alive—rushes her playful rage at the window, stinging the glass with a brief curse of dazzling beauty,
only to die on the pavement like magic dust that spilled and lost its power.
^
The excitement of the gusts settles back down, I return to reading. The melodic desert music
weaves its haunting spell, enhancing soul thoughts. Ancient images rise like antelopes, nomads
and smoke. I look up to reflect upon a passage of Spirit words. Individual windless flakes are now
descending to the ground in very slow motion, as if beyond the pull of gravity. Great winds rush down
from the artic, scouring the continent, ebbing and flowing over the mountains with surging
turbulence one minute, a whispering stillness in the next.
^
Another shaft of sun breaks through storm-blue clouds tumbling from the north. From the edge of
thickets lilts the high clear whistling of a Whitethroat Sparrow. He is my wild guest who sings all
winter; his pure notes echo memories of the steep summer slopes of Katahdin, the inland lakes of
Cape Breton; I gladly feed him and many others each day. From the chimney, wisps of blue smoke curl
out into the sparkling air.
^
“The heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display his craftsmanship.” –Psalm 19: 1
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“Have you visited the storehouses of the snow?” –Job 38: 22
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This morning in early grey snow-light I stood at an upstairs window, looking out into blustery snowy air. Large flakes whirled through the limbs of the birch tree beside the house. The window was partially steamed, but I could see a dozen or so Mourning Doves close by in the bare branches. They bowed like the devout silhouettes of old Franciscans, praying against the desolation of the day. The bleak winter sky loomed over the huddling silence of the doves. Gusts of wind moaned at the window, shook the black tree and the birds. The doves rocked and swayed on their thin perches among the frozen catkins of next April, but they did not fly away.
^
The low December sun was completely hidden in heavy snow clouds. As if we’ll not see it again til Spring. The rolling land lay drab and harsh, dusted with more snow blown down in the night. I could not see the horses in the pasture, or the old donkey; they were sheltering close together, somewhere down in the wooded hollows out of the wind. This kind of morning makes winter seem a curse, the land stricken hard by the blue wand of an evil white witch with fierce icicle teeth. The lashing dragon-tailed wind is her unchained mongrel. She has not known love or a warm touch in a thousand frozen years.
^
At the window, looking out at the shadowy land, my eyes lingered on the delicate pastels of the breasts of the doves. Molded feathers of pale roses and ash, the doves glowed softly like winter sunrise on the underbellies of smoky snow clouds. Those pale colors curl inside old ocean shells held up to the light. And we find these same hues hidden as earth-shine on the rounded dark side of a crescent moon—an iridescent shade glimmering soft translucent rouge. This dark winter morning a faded rose blushes the breasts of doves.
We stand in wonder, and must respond to ineffable mystery. With childlike brushes, we crush and mix our paints, lyrics and tunes as if they were divine syllables that must be spoken. The earnest desire fueling our art is to return a few shreds of the immense and intricate glory shown to us, these fleeting days and nights.
^
I see from their fullness, the doves have filled their little furnaces with the handfuls of yellow millet I threw to the frozen ground for them last evening. Deep inside their sleek and rounded bodies hunched in the icy wind, the gold seeds are burning, returning the stored sunfire of grain fields grown tall under a summer sky. Sun flames become millet blades and seed, transforming into winter Morning Doves— those glowing rose-grey breasts, plaintive moonlike songs, softly whistling wings.
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Hard cold all week, the silver blades of knives. The kind of cold we don’t normally get til deep in January. But 29 degrees this morning is already warmer than the high afternoon temperature just two days ago. Most of the earlier snow has melted, but the low blue shadowy places still hold it. An old saying has it that snow hanging around is waiting for more. Makes sense. If it stays cold until another front of moisture comes along, more snow will fall.
Anyway, according to the forecast the old adage is true this time. The bare twigs and curled up leaves are stirring with a slight east wind. Even without a weatherman, you pay close attention to things: read, listen and smell the wild signs, which usually tell the truth. A family of Bluebirds has been checking out the empty box nailed to the River Birch. In severe weather they’ll shelter together in the cavities of trees, even nesting boxes.
^
The eastern sky is hazy with clouds, a pale of frozen curdled cream. Large flocks of alto-cumulus are running across the west, hundreds of sheep escaping a pack of wolves. Straight through their midst, and racing in the other direction, two sharp contrails are tracing white streaks rapidly into the west/ southwest, toward New Orleans, Houston, San Francisco? So high and far, the great silver bird-machines themselves are not even visible. Just a sharp fingernail scratching a thin line across a frosted window. I imagine the hundreds of fragile lives sitting inside thin steel tubes five hundred miles an hour, reading, talking, looking forward, remembering.
^
The milky skim of clouds filters light onto the winter land, softening the shadow edges. Millions of green needles in the White Pines glisten with hazy sun, rise and fall with soft wind, like waves. Gazing into the shining greenness, the younger one in you sees it sparkle, the sheen of summer glinting distant waters. You want to clap your hands with glee, run barefoot into the emerald light and play the rest of the day.
^
The large house on the far hill sits like a sad, silhouetted storyteller among large oaks, bare and empty of their leaves. The children of that home are grown and gone away, all the years full of their little laughters and dramas are quiet now, folded away in photo albums, shelves of videocassettes. So there is no one to listen to the storyteller.
The mother and father have gone their separate ways too, each trying to “move on” from the wreckage of a broken, dried up love. It happens to many, like a disease. We are all so weak, our wayward hearts perpetually tempted with the seduction of longing for something else. Another god would surely love us better, tell us what we want to hear.
^
Oh, if they could talk, the old oaks spreading their patient decades of great limbs over us. . . They have borne so much more than birds and wind, standing above our little lives as we love and dream, fight and try to repair the damage, always rushing in and out, we pause to open birthday cards and Christmas presents, blow out the candles, burn the wrappings in the fire. Ah, the colorful flames.
^
My eyes return to the Bluebirds, flitting from the branches to the nesting box in the cold air. I love the deep blue they carry on their backs, the rich rust of their breasts, their happy warblings. I hope they use the nesting box to weather the storms. I hope they make it through til spring.
^
“Offer up to God all your affections, desires, regrets, and all the bonds which link us to home, kindredand friends, along with all our works, our purposes, and labor.
‘These things, are not only lawful, but sacred, and they become the matter of our real thanks giving, the true offering of ourselves to God. Bring to him your total self: all your memories, plans for the future, wishes, intentions, works just begun, half done, not completed, all but finished; bring to God your emotions, your brokenness, your sympathies—all these things which throng tumultuously and often dangerously in the human heart and will, separating us from each other, and from God himself.
‘The only way to master these is to offer them up to God, to let them go. For in such letting go, giving up, offering our total selves to God, do we become free, do we truly become His own.”
—adapted from the writings of Henry Edward Manning, born 1808
^ ^ ^
Reflections: this whole idea of letting go has been presenting itself to me in a variety of ways, from several independent sources over the last couple of years. When this sort of harmony plays itself out on the the different strings of my life, I know that the Spirit of God is singing to me, trying to get a message–some key lyrics of His song to me, trying to grow me in the capacity to love and to forgive, and thus grow me in real dimensions of wisdom, and freedom. Practical, useful wisdom. True freedom. I share a little of this with you, hoping it will be fruitful in your heart and life. Perhaps He has been singing to you as well. The real question is: am I listening? (or am I too busy, even too religious to listen to God?!)
For the most part our spiritual leaders and mentors say little about this vast, interior wilderness—the ‘back-country’ of the spirit-led life. (They can not talk about a topography they themselves do not know). So the great emphasis tends toward the outward, more public view: give, get busy, take more on, join in, participate, create and construct, build and contribute. All of these can be very good in themselves, and have their place, but a busy life of good works is also one of the biggest decoys, or stumbling blocks to real progress toward growing in the likeness of Christ. I realize that these words border on blasphemy to many.
But it’s quite possible that outward activities have little if any to do with the larger, more private side of the spirit life encouraged in today’s passage and the scripture below—that of emptying ourselves, offering ourselves, giving up, resigning, confession and earnest repentance, identifying strongholds that bind you, learning how to let go of them, even demolish them. This is the necessary inner, deeper plowing of the heart, so that the seed sown there will fall on broken loam, and bear healthy plants, truly good fruit for sharing and nourishing others. Quite often, less is indeed, more. Much more.
These “deconstructive” movements are absolutely essential to spiritual growth. Scripture is very clear throughout that God is not interested in our productivity, how many ‘good’ things we do, as He is in who we are, what we believe, our true heart motives, all that baggage we keep hidden and lug around in our hearts–stuff that is not pleasing to Him, because it limits our capacity and willingness to love, to live freely, to give ourselves away. God sees through all our posturing and pretense. Please do not ever forget it was the leaders, those outwardly moral ones, who murdered the Son of God. –Because He saw through them, and exposed their self-righteous hearts, who had no need for a righteous Savior.
But we would never be like them, would we? Be on guard for the motives and actions that proceed out of the ‘religious’ side of your nature. It is the counterfeit, the very enemy of the Spirit of God that lives in you by grace, through faith. This Holy Spirit will always lead you to the Cross of Christ, to humble yourself, and hide your good works, not to show them off, glorying in the little goodnesses you do.
We tend to carry so much: on our shoulders, on our tongues and in our hearts: our memories, storing up wounds large and petty, for years; these can grow into resentments and scars, which evolve into bitterness and many other stunted unloving patterns in our dealings with others, often keeping us bound-up spiritual “runts” well into our latter years. It is not beautiful, what cherishing garbage does to the human soul. By simply listening to someone–what they say and do not say– you come to understand the burdens, the wounds, the joys of her heart, what she truly believes, where she has placed her hope.
And so I chose to post today’s meditation, an exortation from Henry Manning, from two centuries ago. He was right on point with one of the most vital and ongoing movements necessary to the health and joy and love of our spirits: letting go of our self, offering all that we are and have been and hope to be, to God. Yes, he said all of it. God can take it. He is the only one who will, and can. This is the absolute prerequisite for any work that is truly good. Good works that have been laundered of self and all its impurities, washed in the only Blood that cleanses the very threads of our lives.
These are often very inward, private matters, and they vary for each of us. But our inner awakenings have profound effects on how we relate to others: how well we give, forgive, and receive love. It can easily be seen, and felt, by others: how tentative, how conditional and judgmental our “love” is. How touchy and irritable, how easily offended and retractable we are, or are not.
This offering of one’s total self to God is for you, it is for me. It’s not for someone else. Please receive, meditate, and begin acting upon this enormously important area of surrender, letting go, and offering your whole self to God. This is the life we were designed for. In fact, it is the only real Life. Everything else is groping, “chasing after wind”.
Genuinely offering one’s self to God is nothing less than a type of dying to our little self, so that we may live to a great God, who makes our lives significant, of lasting value. In His perfect love and redemption we truly live, and love, clean, forgiven and forgiving, free indeed.
There is some inevitable pain that goes with some of these movements, depending on how deeply rooted they are, how much has been lost. But also great freedom, transcendent joy flows in as we move in these ways. Absolutely necessary, if we are to live in God, and not remain bound up in ourselves.
“I urge you therefore, brothers and sisters, to offer your selves to God as living sacrifices, because of all that He has done for you. Let this be a living and holy sacrifice, the kind He will find acceptable.”
–Romans 12: 1-2
–Quilla
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“Aslan is on the move.”
Deep winter days, yet I can feel the ice caves
melting, however slowly.
A new sun wakes within, heavy limbs are springing back
in the tall, snowbound trees of my heart.
Mists are lifting from the frosted woods.
Icicles dripping, splashing into rills.
Somewhere very close, plates of the ice-choked river
are breaking, crashing through the frozen hills.
^
The great Lion spoke—we heard his simple words,
they pierced, gripping like the fangs
of a fierce and deathless love:
“What’s done is done. There is no need
to speak to Edmund about the past.”
^
And how they wanted to!
Like each of us, he’d spoiled everything,
traded a Kingdom for a few pieces of candy.
We must give our shame to someone.
^
But like true brothers and sisters, they didn’t.
They knew he’d listened to the wrong voices.
Instead, they loved him.
They had found Aslan’s “deeper magic”.
And by the restoration of their hearts,
Edmund became a greater king.
^ ^ ^
Please read yesterday’s post, “Offering ourselves”
“Then I realized my heart was bitter, and I was all torn up inside.
I was so foolish, and arrogant–I must have seemed like a senseless animal
to you. Yet I still belong to you. You hold my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel, leading me to a glorious destiny.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
I desire you more than anything on earth.
My health may fail, my spirit may grow weak
but God remains the strength of my heart, He is mine forever”
–Psalm 73: 21-26
^
“Lord, you are the God of all nature, and everything obeys your voice. You are the soul of every living thing, and even of every non-living thing. You are my soul even more than this very soul that you gave to my body. You are closer to me than I am to myself! All things belong to you; should my heart not also belong to you—this heart that you made and to which you give life? –It is yours, not mine.
“But you, Oh dear God, you also belong to me, because I love you. You are everything for me. I have no other possession, Oh my eternal inheritance. What I long for is not earthly consolations, pleasant feelings inside, brilliant enlightenment or even extraordinary inner graces. I am not asking for any of those gifts that come from you, but which are still not you yourself.
“I hunger and I thirst for you, and you alone. I want to forget myself, to lose sight of myself. Do with me according to your will. Nothing else matters. I love you, my God.” –Fenelon (1651-1715)
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“As the deer longs for streams of water, so I long for you, Oh God.
I thirst for God, for the living God. -Psalm 42: 1-2
^
“Oh God, you are my God; I earnestly search for you.
My soul longs for you in this dry and weary land
where there is no water, I thirst for you”.
I have seen you in your sanctuary
and gazed upon your power and glory.
Your unfailing love is better than life itself,
how I praise you!
You satisfy me more than the richest feast.
I will praise you with songs of joy.” –Psalm 63: 1-5
^ ^ ^
Reflections: Fenelon (1651-1715) is one of my favorite mentors. His writings are still much in print after 300 years, and many seekers all over the globe derive spiritual guidance, comfort and inspiration from him. My favorite book is his Meditations on the Heart of God. Reading his words is like having a personal conversation with him.
In today’s meditation, Fenelon does what he does best: he simply and directly draws us with passion nearer to Christ. Everything else–morality, theology, sectarianism—must wait.
He emphasizes what is primary, and most important, which we often forget—our relationship with God himself. So often, the first commandment, Love the LORD your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength” gets lost in less important “religious” and political concerns. Love and mercy are more or less continually being displaced by the need for my side to win, to be right, to be in control, etc. etc. It is especially tragic—to witness what has happened to the Christian faith in America: defaced by the so-called “religious right”, which ironically bears little resemblance to Christ.
^
Fenelon seldom puts the stress on behavior, as so many do, but on direct and regular encounter with the Holy Spirit of God. If we are faithful and regularly about that, everything else will follow in its place. Indeed, many things will be left behind, as detrimental to our walk with God, maturing in him, reflecting his likeness. Very few of us have more than inkling of how much and how perfectly we are loved, how important we are to God. Because of this sad fact, we waste a tremendous amount of energy, money, time, and life on secondary pursuits, many of which could be called “good”.
But ‘good’ has always been the most serious enemy of the best, hasn’t it?
If we carry about us the “stench” of religion, or ‘right-wing politics, or the reek of rebellion against God….. then the aroma of Christ can not be present in us. As the Spirit encountered me directly a few years ago with this ultimatum: ”you can have your righteousness, or you can have Mine. But you can not have both……Do you want to be a religious man, or do you want to be Mine? Make your choice.”
Today’s meditation sounds alien to hearts saturated and overstimulated constantly with advertising, appealing to our many baser appetites. But what about Hunger for God?!! What’s that?
Are you hungry, for God?
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—Quilla
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From Quilla’s Journal, for December 18. 10
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Last Saturday at noon several carloads of Vineyard folk (aka ‘Love in Action’) headed west toward the Snowbird Community Center deep in Graham county, a two-and-a-half hour drive. A large old light blue school bus packed literally full of toys, bicycles, food, toiletries etc. for the Indians in the Snowbird Community, had left a couple of hours earlier. (Thank you so much, Derrick, for driving the bus!)
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Before leaving, we gathered in a circle and received some concentrated, last minute encouragement and ‘instructions’ from Tom, our Pastor. This was Tom’s fourth visit to Snowbird, for their annual Christmas gathering in the community building beside wild and rushing Snowbird Creek.
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Tom explained to us that we are just “on the cutting edge of something much bigger than we can know, or see”. We were encouraged to mingle among the native people who would be there, to get to know them, to be available to them. Like the Apostle Paul, Tom reminded us to ‘be praying in the Spirit’ quietly to God while we were there, opening ourselves to the Holy Spirit’s insight and leading.
^
I took that to heart, knowing that we were charting a course into deep and ancient troubled waters—many generations of woundedness and pain. It was our Anglo-American ancestors who, over five centuries ago, began systematically murdering and driving out the natives who had lived here for millennia. Ultimately, our fathers stole the Indians’ ancestral lands and destroyed their culture, committing every imaginable atrocity in that long process of destruction and removal. And all of that ravage was endorsed by our federal government under the high-sounding term, Manifest Destiny. Tragically, the sin our forefathers’ perpetrated against the Cherokee (and many other native tribes) was motivated by a conscious and abominable mix of “Christian” doctrine, greediness, cruelty and racial pride—all of it masquerading under the guise of “Might makes Right”.
God have mercy on us, as we enter these ancient “killing fields”. May we walk there with truly repentant hearts bathed in the humility of Christ’s holy love for these dear people, who were created by God, and precious to Him, as even they bear His image. Ironically, they may bear it with more grace and clarity than we.
^
After we got there, a brigade of sorts was set up from the back of the bus to the large gathering room. Twenty or more of us carried presents, gifts, packages, boxes, until the bus was finally emptied. Along with others, I found myself wondering just how could all that stuff come from one bus!!? I was reminded of how Jesus took a few pieces of bread and fish, and by the mystery power of perfect love multiplied what had been little, into such abundance.
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I began to get the feeling of the setting. Underneath the gifts, smiles and activity, I could sense the awesome heaviness of that place. I had lived and worked in this area daily for four years as a forester, and left there twenty-five years ago, last month. I had worked with and known some of the Indians. In addition, my mother’s great grandmother was full Cherokee. I have often wondered how much, if any, that tiny trace of genetic history is responsible for my lifelong proclivity for the American Indian, and for the natural world as a revelatory source of God’s beauty and wisdom, majesty and truth? The whole earth is full of His Glory!
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That day, the Snowbird ground was muddy from the thawing snows of previous weeks. A cold afternoon sun was already dwindling into the silhouettes of tall pines on a high ridge to our west. A few of the natives who had arrived seemed glad to see us. But on the stoic faces of others I saw a type of chronic oppression, or at best, resignation. I could not help but wonder what they thought of our bringing these gifts to them. It was difficult not to think: “Way too little, way too late!”
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My prayers in the Spirit and in my mind flowed along these lines: Father, open the eyes of my heart, to see these people, these individuals as YOU see them. Thank You my LORD, for letting me be here. Please direct my steps and my words, to those persons You want me to reach. Give me Your grace, sensitivity, timing and humility. Help me to be a good listener, to not be shallow and patronizing, but real, with Your love to them. Remind me that I am not here to make up for what was done to the strong multitudes of ancestors of this ragged remnant gathered here today. I am here to reach into this present with redeeming love and hope. Thank You for Your Holy Spirit, filling me and guiding me, in Christ Jesus.
^
I also prayed other words and terms I did not understand with my mind—to penetrate the generations of darkness, to be a warrior wielding the weapons of love, in the Kingdom of Light–these were the fierce images that were given to me. The Spirit pictures carried with them a spectrum of emotions: fear, guilt, shame and deep pathos, strangely mixed with pity, compassion, and hope. And somehow, a distant but triumphant Joy I knew would ultimately overcome all the horrors of man in his sordid dealings with his earthly brothers on this planet. Halleluliah to the restoring power of our God!
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It’s strange, and so typical of us, to be content as long as we are occupied with something to do. But we usually are not comfortable with stillness, or with silence. We need to be. So much is revealed there.
^
After the bus was unloaded, like some of the others I found myself standing there wondering what to do next? In the large room, most of the Indians were sitting over to the left at a long table already beautifully prepared with decorations for the evening feast. Most of the Caucasians were mixing and mingling over to the right. It was as if there were a great chasm, an impossibly deep divide separating our two races, our cultures. That wide canyon has been widened by time, and darkened by complex ugly realities we are very reluctant to face. It’s far easier, just to keep our distance, and ‘be nice’. But Jesus does not call us to be nice. He calls us to Himself, to enter into the power of His suffering and the glory of His joy—to die to our selves, that we may live to Him, and discover what it means to walk in real mercy and redemptive Love.
^
My eyes settled on two or three older Indian women sitting together, but not talking. There was nothing that especially attracted me to them, but I felt the Spirit’s certain nudging to go and sit with them. I did not want to. I wanted to talk to the guys I had ridden there with; or in my solitary nature, to go out back and stand beside the creek awhile and listen to the ancient flowing waters, to listen for the voice of God. But God wanted me indoors just then, talking with those older women with grim faces and thin hair. “LORD, aren’t there some men You want me to talk to? Some tribal elders who could share the ancient wisdom with me? I would love that.” But I already knew the answer to my questions.
^
After a few awkward minutes, the women began warming up to me, after they realized I was not going to leave, that they were stuck with me. As our talk moved through various phases, they actually started laughing, and smiling with me. I got to know each one of them a bit: Ms. J and her son; her aunt, Ms. S and her son who came in later. I came to like and know him quite well, finding myself wanting more time to know him and the others better. They invited me to their annual Heritage Festival in late May. Then, they demonstrate ‘the old ways’ of doing things. Later, Ms. J brought me a cup of coffee, with a shy smile that bridged the chasm.
^
An excellent pottery presentation followed, given by Judy, our worship leader and Potter in Residence, demonstrating so vividly how we are each living clay, to be molded in the hands of our loving Father. All the children gathered around, giving her their rapt attention. Her teaching was so hands-on and so inspired, touching us in the innermost heart-place of truth. The mess of fallen clay she held up in her hand helped me better understand our individual and collective fallenness in a very real and visual way. (As Mark commented later, the wet blob of clay strongly resembled a human heart). Judy’s story also illustrated the Father’s ( the Potter’s) power to restore us, to make something of each of us, once we are broken and surrendered. Thank you Judy for that beautiful picture you gave to us from your passion and wisdom with the ways of clay, and the ways of God.
^
After the wonderful meal and the giving of presents, we all joined in with the cleanup, helping some of the older ones out to their cars in the cold. Before we left, I finally got my chance to go out back and stand beside the cold stream rushing through the darkness. A high, nearly full winter moon was standing tall over the dark waters. I became somewhat mesmerized with the wild rhythms of the stream singing in the cold moonlight. The twenty five years that have passed since I had lived here were as nothing, to the stream flowing timelessly through the dark mountains. Even the hundred and seventy years that have spun away since the Trail of Tears are as nothing, in God’s view of human happenings. In those few minutes beside the listening stream, He showed me a just a bit more how very brief, and how eternal we are. His story is not yet complete.
As I stood there beside the rushing water, reflecting on the dear faces of those I had just met, the softness of their voices, the things the Spirit had shown me in my short time with them—then it was that I heard the silent whispering of the Voice. The Spirit message can only be roughly translated into something like the following words:
“So. You like to think you know something about brokenness. And by my grace, you do. But can you now begin to glimpse how very little you know of suffering? You can not begin to imagine the pain and loss of these people, many generations of them–untold thousands born to hope, only to live and die in hopelessness, alienation and agony.
“Know that this wild rushing stream is a real but tiny symbol of my eternal cleansing boundless river of holy redeeming Love— for all the brokenness of man. Let it continue to cleanse and heal your heart. Share this with others.”
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These Early Winter Mornings . . .
. . . I love to watch the grey doves flying in
to feed, wings opening wide
under painted clouds.
A wan sun glimmers the frosted trees,
a few flakes sparkling down.
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An upstairs window near the tree,
I hear their sleek wings whistle
descending, spreading pinions to alight,
to balance in the leafless limbs.
^
I love to watch the dappled Appaloosas run
the drab meadows early winter mornings
as if there were no fences, and no end.
Up and down and back across the frozen slopes
they gallop, tossing full manes out
to the sharp north wind.
I know if they had wings, they’d lift
their weathered hooves, leave the hard grey land
and fly away, painted ranges of morning sky.
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Already the cold evening sun is falling
into the darkened edge of clouds,
the gnarling mesh of winter trees.
Another storm approaches with the night.
Gentle doves flutter down to feed.
This night, of all nights the ancient Stillness
utters, beckons to our need:
“Come. Be silent, be still, and know.”
^
An invisible timeless star
still is gleaming over our deserts,
yearning to burn the chaff in windblown hearts,
settle peace upon the turbid earth.
Why is the light so hard for us to see?
We will not look at it.
We love watching the yellow smoke
churn from our chimneys
filling our lungs with dust.
^
Across the hazy winter sky, a web of contrails
interweaves the thin white strings
of a thousand delicate lives—each one
desperate to get home before the storm.
^
All of us know: some pure, fragrant Flame
keeps flickering, burning without smoke.
Far above the greed, the fear, pride and pain
the Fire calls to us—come in from the cold
and warm ourselves, accept our need
become like children again:
kneeling at the feet of the Evergreen
giving and opening gifts
beneath the holy lights.
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Florida sunset, clouds flare up
coral flames and smoke.
Mild breezes from the sea
rustle the large dead fronds
of banana trees, killed by hard frost
just last week.
The damp humus earth decays, redolent
of fallen flowers, crushed shells, prehistoric marsh.
Far from home I sit in warm windy shadows
recalling fragments of the fallen year.
^
Palms whisper and sway above the quiet pool.
Cormorants set their wide black wings, descending
into dusk, an inland lake beyond the trees.
One after another airliners roar overhead,
landing at the jetport ten miles south.
The year’s last day, everyone hurries home.
^ ^ ^
The hazy blue sun slips into bare trees along a snowy hill, taking with it the cold day’s light. Violet and grey shadows steal out from everywhere, like the fear of darkness. The approaching cloud front is briefly washed with pale departing sun-colors, painting the steep white hills. Another winter storm gathers with the night.
^
I just wakened from a nap in the cold car, while waiting for my daughter to finish cheerleading practice at the Wellness Center a few doors down the snowy street. Yesterday’s eight and a half hour drive from Daytona still has me tired, entering back into the blue mountains cloaked with white.
I’m parked at the large grocery store on the Marshall by-pass. The brown slush on the pavement is already freezing, crunching under the tires of the cars that come and go, winter-weary people stocking up with food before another storm. Headlights glimmer across yesterday’s snow. Every minute or two, another young driver roars out of the parking lot, sliding on the ice, showing how fearless and loud each one can be. Tragic headlines, statistics, even the laws of physics must not apply here. Maybe it was the noise of the cars that woke me. Or just the cold.
^
On the opposite hillside stands a church beside its large empty parking lot. The steeple points a tall bluish-white silhouette into the dusk, into the approaching storm, like an inverted icicle with a tiny frozen cross perched at the top. The hillside below the church is wooded with young trees, bending into arcs with yesterday’s heavy snow. Partway down the hill, the trees have been cleared away for a small opening, where three home-made crosses stand and lean—three crossed black sticks looking rather stark , pointless and impotent against the somber snowy twilight. Perhaps they will be decorated with purple robes in Eastertide.
But now, in the frigid evening the crosses have that pathetic look of a broken toy, or the props of a play we tired of watching. I wonder how many of the thousands of souls coming and going from the market even notice the thin crosses standing there on the opposite hillside in blue winter shadows. The continuous rush of appetites—-for food and drink and movies—-always conceals our deeper hungers, the unquenched thirsting of the spirit for something that can not be bought. A perennial irony, how the drive for mere survival, distraction and entertainment displaces life itself.
^
Up the slope from the crosses stand three tall metal flagpoles beside the empty church parking lot. The flags are fluttering in the stiff northwest wind. The one in the center is the American flag. To its right flaps the banner of our state, and to the left perhaps some church insignia. My daughter has just called, letting me know her cheer-leading practice is done.
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3 a.m. moon-set:
shadows of trees, darkening
the sparkling snow
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Steps we took last week
are still there, walking
fields of snow
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Into cold blue air
the smoke of dark jungles
three million years ago
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Over tea and toast
my wife’s blue eyes
reflecting snow light
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(Letting go)
My daughter’s first tatoo–
loud and angry profane rap
the artist’s bleary eyes
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Bamboo wind chimes
we bought ten winters back
rattle in the wind
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Empty winter shore
the lifeguard stand—
its long shadow
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A week of deep snow.
This morning, the soft crashing:
tree limbs let it go
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That old donkey
standing in the morning sun
watching the snow melt
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Unable to be God
we bow, and eat the broken bread,
drink the warm red wine
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Winter morning sun
snow dropping off branches
gutters, gurgling
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My books in winter:
clean white pages, stained
coal dust fingerprints
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Solitary souls
walk the winter shore
pulling long shadows
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Deep snow, melting.
Robins work the thawing ground
pecking for worms
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Indian flute song
long blue shadows of old trees
reach across the snow
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fire and ice
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Listening:
silent fields of moonlit snow.
Far off, a dog barks
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Middle of the night
winter moon on the dark land—
I thought it had snowed
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In the house alone.
Restless dreams, I get up
write poems until dawn
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Between winter storms
robins hop the thawed garden
looking for worms
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Snow melt, the dark ground
seeps and steams. Waxwings singing
in the windy trees
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Morning snow falls
bamboo chimes rattle, the kettle
simmers on the stove
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Sitting very still
in winter morning sun—
heartbeat in my wrist
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Forty winters later
I still can hear it—raven wings
whooshing through the firs
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Wakened from a dream—
high winter moon
shining on our bed
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After the movie:
outside, such stillness
moonlit fields of snow
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Morning sun: snow melts
gutters gurgle, roof tiles steam
a few sparrows sing
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Sunlight in dark forests
fallen eons ago
warms us tonight
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Meditation on a Winter Night
Deep in winter night, crystals of snow
come spinning down the misted glow
of thin porchlight.
A chunk of Appalachian coal
long-sleeping in the earth, a cold black stone
two million winters, wakens tonight—
primordial sunlight flickers down
tall forest leaves and marshy ferns,
lost solar flames
burn and flutter in the stove.
The lamplit shelf beside my rows of books
a gnarl of driftwood sits, beached now
high above the crest of tides.
An ocean shell is curled here, quiet.
A forest deer’s bleached thigh-bone rests,
she leaps no more through summer ferns.
A tumbled grey-green creek-stone, gives
the giving light in my daughter’s eyes.
Meandered years these separate things
found me, each in its turn, I brought them home
and placed them here—a wandered cairn
to mark my way.
^
This trail is graced with whole and broken shells
that wake sometimes, wail in the night.
The path is crusted highland crags of rime
and washed sometimes with holy streams,
their warm green stones of love, cast up.
God’s wild and beautiful animals freely graze in me.
They wander the starlight of my mind,
hide in the thickets of these bones.
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–Quilla
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cold night, a large crowd
came out: a woman talked
about her book
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all the people are gone.
a lamp lights the dark walkway.
night wind fills the trees
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high blue wispy sky
we go indoors, a small room
make music to God
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Lonely, exultant
Kitaro’s song: tree shadows
miming on the frost
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winter morning sun
rising through frosted trees,
today we meet old friends
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turning the page
of holy words, the winter sun
shines through it
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from the bookstore window:
people walk the rainy streets,
mountains lost in snow
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another winter storm
blows in. I pick through
the last chunks of coal
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day star, piercing
ninety million miles of space—
sparkles each snowflake
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windy winter day:
across wide fields, a man
whistles for his horse
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the garden now:
dead stems rattle the wind
tracks criss-cross the snow
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finally, the snow
is gone. I dig up dead pine stumps
for more kindling. . .
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outside, the old oaks
roar in the night wind.
My wife turns in her sleep
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long walk in the snow.
fragrant steam from strong black tea,
a bowl of warm oats
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long winter night
I read by lamp. My stick
leans against the wall
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As we are talking
the old black pine boughs
grow heavy with snow
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halfway up the hill
I turn back. the early rain
frozen on the trail
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unable to sleep
I read Basho.
Low fire in the stove
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All the snows are gone.
Horses, and their shadows
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The grey hills remain
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Up through the dead
snow-matted leaves:
spears of Daffodils!
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man without a home
feeding saltines to a crow,
empty parking lot
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Ackerman’s guitar
evokes unspoken things.
Rain clings to the bare trees
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Lee Smith said it:
“writers are always dealing
with ghosts”
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a new argument.
the same old argument for years.
the pale winter sun . . .
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once I carved a name
deep into a tree. But now
I can not recall where. . .
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winter morning rain.
the trampoline mirrors
black trees, white sky
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Kyrie Eleison
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O LORD, have mercy on me. Your graceful power
reach into this tidal cave, your ocean break
and wash this moon-bent heart,
your salt and sunlight search dark rooms of mind.
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Deliver me—generations of a cursing, hell-bent
faulting spirit, bitter venom
poisoning thought and tongue.
So many summers withered, kitchens and bedrooms
bitten and ruined long before I was born
and since—oh how much damage have they done!
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By your powerful grace, replace
that spirit. And fill the filthy rooms your Christ
swept clean, with the gift of PRAISE, heartfelt
PRAISE: to You sweet LORD of morning light;
always here unseen, silent in the storm-tossed night;
LORD of those who proudly claim they’re found
and still more grace given: those who know
(and those who don’t) they’re lost;
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LORD of each beauty, truth and perfect love
wherever we find them—high wind-torn crag,
hard salt tears, soft worn hand,
the long year’s fallen wing of a butterfly.
LORD of this human, this eternal life
your ocean break, reach into this cave
and wash your tides of mercy over me.
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–written after reading and meditating on Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s poem, “A Final Cry”
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Surely I have been a sinner from birth,
sinful from the time my mother conceived me.
Surely You desire truth in the inner parts,
You teach me wisdom in the inmost place. ” . . . . Psalm 51: 5-6
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ceramic glaze, by Akira Satake
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artist in comtemplation, River arts district, Asheville NC
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February Twenty-First
Warm late-winter day,strong east wind is blowing dust.
A day of few words, long silences, clanging chimes.
Rags of crows blow across the faded hills.
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Weeks before any new green or flowers appear.
Snow will be blowing a month from now.
No resolve to anything—just arid wind, smoky sun, crows.
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East of here, a mountain fire has blown to a thousand acres.
Today even faith tastes like a burned love-letter on the tongue.
All the holy words seem pressed beneath the floor of winter leaves.
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At sunset I leave for a walk up the long hill.
The wind grieves with the incense of distant burning forest.
A whole red moon is rising, the limbs of an empty tree.
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I realize it’s a bit early yet for Springtime poems–vernal equinox still several weeks away–and yet, in late February perhaps our spirits can stand some color, warmth, different themes, fresh word-songs. Although our lower darker selves are persistently craving familiarity, comfort, the musty dusty same-old, same-old–(very sadly and paradoxically, this is especially true in religious matters)–but doesn’t our higher self, the Holy One living within us hunger for emergence?
Christmas usually gets reduced to a wearisome sort of fun.
Resurrection!— is glorious, transcendent, far beyond our memorized little catechisms.
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I recently re-discovered this piece written a couple of years ago, and reworked it on a number of points. Strange and wonderful—how our perspectives evolve, given distance and time. I hope you find something here to enjoy.
-Quilla
(as with most poems, written to be read aloud)
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Cacophony in Spring
The wide Spring fields are shimmering again
those wild fresh yellows: wind from the sun’s face
flashing the Field Lark’s breast and song,
warm swaths of buttercup and mustard bloom.
Plum blossoms have already blown.
The last wet flowers of snow are gone.
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Just yesterday a grey wind groaned the trees,
clattering naked limbs, blowing gusts of spray.
Today, the weathered wooden wind-chimes chatter
and play, chanting an ancient mantra with worn out teeth
the way the old Zen priests mutter truth.
Neither do they say or know : the haunted ways of wind,
of seasons and faces—how they turn,
return, and turn again to go.
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A flock of Grackles gathers, screeching in the branches
of the gnarled Ash tree. The cacophony of birds recalls:
a creekside grain-mill waterwheel, squealing
and squeaking its axle, falling water, coughing
into a mossy wooden trough that never fills
but flows back to the creek;
or a childhood Ferris wheel turning round and very tall
in the happy music of its calliope—gone from us
so far away, that now its sound is like
“the little lone balloon-man, whistling far and wee”.
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Suddenly frightened, the Grackles fly away as one
into the green and yellow wind. They will be back.
Always, everywhere it seems things bend and sing,
turning rusting waterwheels, Ferris wheels
and clocks. Leaving on fast wings
like a frightened flock of birds
our endless childhood is suddenly gone.
Cloud shadows race across a windy field.
But all these things we’ve lost keep turning up,
circling back to us on long white wings of mind—
deep-buried things and faces, missing places
—a searching sea-gone Albatross.
The sounds come back to play, and grieve with us,
turning the axis of a vanishing galaxy, spinning, falling
further away, rusting the warm salt wind of years.
Tall grasses keep whispering secrets to the listening shore.
A zig-zag sand dune fence leans among the rustling oats,
the latch on its slatted gate is broken, always swinging
open, shutting closed.
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Kaleidoscopes of the dark and bright pieces,
harsh and soft remembered and forgotten words
still screech and sing to us like nesting birds,
like the children we still are—wandered far, yet always
turning back, yearning for our home.
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“Learn from me. For I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”
–Jesus (Matthew 11:29)
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“O God, I am coming to sit at your feet to be taught and examined by you. You are present here. You are drawing me here by your grace. I am listening to only you. I believe only in you.
“LORD I worship you. My heart loves only you. It longs for you alone. It is with joy that I bring myself low before you, O eternal Majesty. I come to receive everything from your hand, and to renounce myself without reservation.
“O God, send your Holy Spirit. Let your Spirit become mine, and let my own mind and spirit be forever brought to nothing! I give myself over to your Spirit of love and truth. Let him illumine me today and teach me to be gentle and lowly in heart!
“O Jesus, you are the One who is teaching me this lesson in gentleness and lowliness. Anyone else who might want to teach it to me would only repel me. Everywhere I would see only imperfection and pride. So you are the One who must teach me.
“Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
—from the writings of Fenelon, 1651-1715
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Closing the Books
For Stephan
Sometimes we put down all the books, close them
even the holiest ones. We’re done with words
facts and thoughts awhile, drunk as we get on them
we rise and leave, walk deep into the silent woods.
It’s time we turn off the noisy gadgetry
and free ourselves: incessant man-chatter,
electric toys of silicon and plastic: stealing
our days in time, our very hearts!
Take that old stick leaning in the corner,
walk straight out the door.
You’ll find it very good—standing quiet
under old Sugar Maples, or tall bamboo, feeling
them sway with soft spring wind, whisper
the living green leaves.
Believe they are whispering to you.
Watch those high slow wisps of cirrus
sweep a fathomless mind of blue.
Walk far into the forest, the desert
alone. Maybe find a large grey stone.
Sit down, and let yourself be still.
Wait a long time, until you are truly there.
Then listen: to the One who IS.
He’s been waiting for you,
a thousand centuries.
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Please read Mark chapter one, verse thirty-five
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The First Day of March
In memory of Jane Kenyon
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Yet another Spring has risen, faithfully
into the limbs of the old Red Maple.
Its branches burst ten thousand crimson blooms
humming with honey-making bees.
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The burgeoning trees, glowing scarlet mist–
oh, if they could know: how their beauty
lifts and carries us toward Radiance,
out of the darkness of our hearts, and the winter land!
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The fecund earth is fragrant again, thawed
with growing throngs of verdant light.
The air itself awakes, vibrates bird songs
and toad arias, tremoloing from the pond.
All day, a pair of mating Red Shouldered hawks
goes screaming over the barren fields.
Higher, higher circling on thermals
rising together in thin blue haze.
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In the far meadow, the wealthy ‘gentleman farmer’
by himself, burns a pyre of last year’s leaves.
He stands a long while near the fire, watching smoke
rise into haze and the high, circling hawks.
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His frail wife of many years endures her third cancer.
Today she is out walking in the warming light.
Her thin shadow faithfully follows her solitary steps
slowly up the steep and patient hill.
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Note: It’s often quite rewarding to receive various artistic mediums simultaneously, e.g., written (or spoken) words and/or paintings with music, drumbeats and dance. Our marvelous, created bodies and brains can thus receive and intensify and clarify one theme, or the descant harmonies of themes. ”ah, but we are fearfully and wonderfully made” (from Psalm 139)–both to express, and to receive.
One of very many musical possibilities when reading the poem above: ”The Lass of Glenshee” by Daniel Kobialka on his CD, Celtic Quilt. It has been one of my favorites lately, and has in some ways woven its elegant chords into my being. If only the poem could evoke a few of the emotions living in this piece of music. Thank you, Daniel.
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“Do not forget to do good, and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.”
-–Hebrews 13: v.16
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“For this is the message that you heard from the beginning: that we should love one another.” — First John 3: v. 11
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“Be useful where you live, that they may both want and wish your pleasing presence still. Find out men’s wants and will, and meet them there. All worldly joys are less than the one joy of doing kindnesses.”
—George Herbert (1593-1632)
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“Let the weakest, let the humblest remember that in his daily course he can, if he will, shed around him almost a heaven. Kind words, sympathizing attentions, watchfulness against wounding others’ sensitivities—these cost very little, but they are priceless in their value. Are they not the staple of our daily happiness? From hour to hour, from moment to moment, we are supported, blessed by small kindnesses, freely given”.
—from the writings of F.W. Robertson (1816-1853)
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March 5: In the brisk wind of a March morning, two older women were carefully placing silk flowers on a grave. They were silent and graceful in their motions, not talking, as if what they were doing was the most holy act. As if the dear one whose body was lying in a box deep underground were still present, right there, watching them, gratefully receiving their kindness. When I walked past them on the cemetery lane, they were pleasant, and smiled at the small dog walking with me.
I thought it something of a coincidence that the grave they were decorating was near the very place in the road where I had lain down at 4:00 a.m. last May 18. That was the long night of sharp pain and nightmares from pain pills following extensive surgery on my dislocated shoulder. Unable to sleep, I had gotten up, gotten dressed and walked to the cemetery, about three-fourths of a mile from our home. Still hours until dawn I lay there on my back for an hour or so, gazing up into the setting spring stars. In a mysterious way, the deep sky gave me more relief than the potent medications. I recall bright gold Arcturus of the Herdsman following the Great Lion back down into the earth. That was one of the longer nights of my life. But thankfully now the shoulder has mostly repaired.
This March morning, across the distances the western mountains were turning darker blue in the cloud shadows of approaching rain. I could already smell the pungent scent of rain, blowing out of the southwest across the thawed land. I felt deeply the goodness of it and whispered thanks to the One who gives the rain. We are once again living in a drought year.
At the far corner of the graveyard, I stopped at a sprawling grey thicket of thorns. The first of thousands of Quince blossoms were just beginning to open scarlet petals. This is the same overgrown hedge where Mockingbirds hide their nests each spring, deep in the foliage and thorns. But the leaves would not appear for another month or so. Neither had the noisy Mockingbirds yet arrived.
This was the first longer walk I had taken in the last ten days, since I tore the Achilles tendon in my right ankle. The tendon was feeling tender at the back of each stride, so I sat down on a rickety bench to rest in the last cool rays of hazy sunlight, before the approaching storm. The wind was rising and falling in a grove of great old White Pines growing alongside the road. The small dog curled up below me, underneath the weathered bench.
I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the pale warmth, breathing deeply the rain scented wind, listening to its long sighing through the tall pines. I was there alone. The two women had finished placing their flowers, and had driven quietly away. But I was not alone. I was surrounded by a field of thousands whose eyes were also closed.
The paint is peeling from my weathering life, just as it is from the bench where I was sitting. High up in the pine trees, some of the larger branches have been broken off by winter storms. As I sat and listened, the wind rustled through the thousands of silk and plastic flowers. But I did not feel afraid, nor angry, or sad. Somehow I knew, as deeply as one can know this kind of thing, that although I am only passing through, I am already safe, at home.
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Love and Beauty unfolding from the center
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“In returning and in rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in confidence is your strength”. –Isaiah 30: verse 15
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A meditation on walking in the power of Love:
“Strive to see the God who loves you in all things, without exception, and acquiesce in His will with absolute surrender. Do everything for God, uniting yourself to Him by a mere upward glance, or by the overflowing of your heart towards Him.
“Do not be in a hurry. Do everything quietly and in a calm spirit. Do not lose your inward peace for anything whatsoever, even if your whole world seems upset. Commend all to God, and then be still and be at rest in His loving presence.
Whatever happens, abide steadfast in a determination to cling simply to God, trusting to His eternal love for you; and if you find that you have wandered forth from this shelter, recall your heart quietly and simply.
Maintain a holy simplicity of mind, and do not smother yourself with a host of cares, wishes, or longings, under any pretext.
—-adapted from the writings of Francis de Sales (1567-1622)
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I love you very much, sweetheart.
May God richly bless you on this, your day.
Always,
Your Dad
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“Each One of Us” –Graffiti, River Arts District, Asheville NC
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Dining Room, 100 year old Richmond Hill Inn, after arson
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Highway cut, quartz seam through granite
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Cemetery fence, edge of winter
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How to Stop the Pain
In recent months we have been reading and thoroughly enjoying a wonderful book that our gifted counselor gave to us: How to Stop the Pain, by James B. Richards. I can not find strong enough words to express my gratitude, endorsement and recommendation of this insightful book. It is most definitely very useful and practical, decidedly not theoretical. It faces life the way we live it and feel it, most of us. Richards identifies the root causes of much of our pain, and offers with great clarity a regimen of real cure. If you are hurting (emotionally, relationally), this book is ‘Big Medicine’. It will help you.
In this and future posts I will be referring to the book, with a few choice filets excerpted from the text. I realize that mere quotations, in themselves, have little efficacy with a quick scanning, the way most of us read these days, esp. on-line. But I offer them as tasty morsels, in hopes that you will acquire the book, and spend some slower, ind-depth time reading and meditating on the truths you will find there. Blessings! –Quilla
Here’s today’s sample:
“Pain would have no opportunity in our lives if we lived in harmony with one another. As social, emotional, relationship-oriented beings we have no greater need in our lives than that of harmonious, loving relationships. Yet relationship skills are emphasized very little in the church, or in the secular world. Much of the emptiness in our culture is the result of this tragic neglect. As people develop intellectually, they seem to fall further and further behind in their relational skills. (And like knowledge) neither can money, entertainment, nor technology ever replace or meet our need for relationship.”
“Because we have made works (and judgment) the highest priority, our understanding of God (and thus, of love) has been inconsistent. Paul wrote: “Above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony” -Colossians 3:14.
“The only antidote for a life of judgment is a life of love. The only real cure for pain is to allow God to love it away. Know love, and know God—there is no other way to experience the realities that Jesus taught and modeled. There has never been another message from God than this: Love one another. Yet corrupt, fearful and judgmental minds have managed to skirt the issue for six thousand years. We have tried to make this walk be about knowledge (and performance, etc.). But as Paul said, ‘Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up’.
“You will not live a life of love accidentally. Let me say it again: We must make a daily choice to follow Jesus wholeheartedly and to walk in love. That is a choice I make every day. That is my antidote for living in fear and the tendency to judge.
“So pursue the love life with all your heart. Make a commitment to renew yourself daily. You are committed to God only to the degree you are committed to love!”
--adapted from “How to Stop the Pain”, by James B. Richards
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My meditations early this morning directed me to the few verses of holy scripture given below. The direction was given by Frances J. Roberts, one of my favorite mentors.
Words are like medicine: for the greatest potency and effect, I urge you—let the Spirit take you beyond a quick reading of the passage, to a quieter place in your heart and mind. There you can meditate on the thoughts, pondering the depths of their specific meaning and application, for you.
“You will find courage in the hour of calamity if you have disciplined your spirit to rest always in the LORD, and to praise continually regardless of circumstances.
Any lesser plane of thinking is not only disquieting to the soul but will also open the door to a host of sins. Anger, resentment, petulance, bitterness—none of which can live in the atmosphere of praise—these will thrive if the eyes of the soul are diverted to the natural situation, and are not fixed on Christ. He deliberately rewards them who adore Him, with mercies denied the self-concerned.
Relinquishment of burdens and fears begins where adoration and worship of God becomes the occupation of the soul”.
—The Highroad of Surrender, Frances J. Roberts
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“See that no one pays back evil for evil, but always try to do good to all people.
“Always be joyful. Never stop praying. Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.” –1 Thessalonians 5: 15-18
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After Cold March Rains
Saffron flames, wild Forsythia
breaking out everywhere, south-facing slopes.
Those tongues of yellow fire lick the long thorns
of blue ice, lingering like splinters
lodged in our hearts. Why else Spring?
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Pale winter people carry their musty bags
of February books in and out
the stone library’s dark mouth.
Somehow, words carry light and flowers,
bread and night, secret fires live in them.
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That old dogwood by the north door
knows. Her gnarled grey arms
hold a thousand invisible blooms—
little fists of snowy blood-stained flowers
wanting to open, unfold a bright mist,
give us soft crossed petals of healing light.
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The Spirit (who is Holy!) guided my meditation this morning to a choice writing by George Spring Merriam, born in 1843. His reference passage is First Peter chapter 3: verses 8-11, included below.
I find his thoughts so refreshing, especially in our day, when much rancor exists in our nation between the supposed ‘right’ and left, so-called ‘conservative’ and liberal factions, etc., etc. So much for labels, which become meaningless and worse—quite destructive, as they build walls of division and hatred between men.
One of the most noxious smells arising from the fray is that particular stench being generated by the so-called ‘right’ side (where I myself was fervently camped for many years, so I am qualified to speak). Now I believe myself to have been certainly led by the Spirit to a position distinctly apart from both ‘sides’, a place where lives and breathes my LORD, the LORD of love—at once the most conservative and the most liberal man who ever lived. Holy scripture reveals him to be the leader of a radically other order—a Kingdom, not a democracy or a republic, and certainly not a theocracy. He is the one true eternal King. He has called me, even created me, to be his subject. He is my King.
Perhaps the main reason the odor (from the ‘right’) is so offensive is that it issues from a ‘party’ that frequently likes to identify itself as representing Christ himself. As an ardent Christ follower for several decades, I (among many others) am disgusted and ashamed at much of what I hear on that wavelength, both in personal encounters and on the national scene. It often carries the rank odor of a mean-spirited and arrogant self-righteousness. Nothing is farther from the spirit of Christ.
The ‘left’ represents several valuable issues that the ‘right’ has traditionally and predictably overlooked, denied, or made weak promises to attend. It’s not all about money, “free” markets (given the nature of man, what a reprehensible joke!) and entitlements—to those who have, of course. Mixing that agenda with Christ’s words and ways is like trying to blend water with oil. Notice how perennially it does not, can not work?
At the same time the ‘left’ is pushing matters that can not be supported by an overviewing of God’s will as clearly revealed in scripture. But unlike the ‘right’, the left for the most part does not seek validation from the Bible. They’re intuitive enough to see that too many scriptures would have to be overlooked. The ‘right’ could certainly learn from the lack of hypocrisy in that regard.
Over the past several years Christ has patiently but insistently shown me that He desires and deserves the worship I have given to the side called ‘right’. Worship is not too strong a word here, as it amounts to measurable (and considerable) quantities of time, energy, resources, verbage, emotions, the need to win, to be Right, to defeat the other ‘side’, etc. ”Do not put your trust in the princes of men,(or their parties) for they will fail you”. And yes, they have failed (and will continue to fail) us, in more ways than we know, or readily see. Political parties (and their blindly polar agendas) make miserable gods. And like the gods they are, they demand so much!
So on to today’s meditation:
” A little thought will show you how much your own happiness depends on the way other people treat you. The looks and tones at your breakfast table, the conduct of your fellow workers or employers, the faithful or unreliable men you deal with, what people say to you on the street, the way your cook and houseman do their work, the letters you get, the friends or foes you meet—these things make up very much of the pleasure or the misery of your day.
“But turn the idea around: and remember that just so much are you adding to the pleasure or the misery of other people’s days. And this is the half of the matter which you can control. Whether any particular day shall bring to you more of happiness or of suffering is largely beyond your power to determine. But whether each day of your life shall give out happiness or suffering rests with yourself.” –adapted from George S. Merriam
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“Finally, all of you, live in harmony with one another; be sympathetic, love as brothers, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.
‘For whoever would love life and see good days must keep his tongue from evil, and his lips from deceitful speech. He must turn from evil and do good; he must seek peace, and pursue it.” –1 Peter chapter 3: vs.8-11.
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Pastoral
Frederick Buechner’s hunger nourished me
through the long dark, a hundred winter nights.
Now a warm Spring dusk, blue haze
lays across the greening hills—old farmers
burning the ancestral fields again, as every year.
This day’s sun retreats into bare trees
with accolades of smoky gold.
Trilling from lowland creeks, Spring Peepers
(tiny frogs) ring out jubilations: amphibian throngs
like tocsin bells, swelling up from winter mud.
One Robin pours out his lyrical evening songs.
Black limbs glow the snow of wild plum blooms.
The rising moon flickers white as a shell
through the new leaves of tall bamboo.
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A Gift of Birds
Saturday morning early Spring, cloudy
windy warm and cool (January and June
trying to blend, we call it March)
Sitting on the patio reading, sipping hot tea,
listening to the little choruses wake,
smelling the rich thawed female land, pungent
cool rain-fragrant wind sighing the pines, when
suddenly gusty waves of wings–Robins–
a hundred or more of them flying, blowing in
they settle one at a time separately, all together
chirping silhouettes of Robins on bare limbs
filling the empty trees with songs.
Several long minutes I watch, listen
cacophonies, fountains of wild sweet Robin music
stored up all winter: can you imagine—
a hundred Robins and more? yes! —lilting, warbling, trilling
laughing, chuckling the way Robins do, all at once?
It happened.
Spring has officially begun!
And just as suddenly, as from a cryptic signal
waves of thrumming grey wings lifted fluttering
from the leafless trees, morning air rushing through
thousands of feathers, hundreds of trilling birds
just up and left together, pulled away
some unseen tide, ebbed and gone
as quickly as they’d come, undulating across
the bare forests, wide fields, the open sky.
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For some odd reason I can not help feeling
even knowing: this large flock of Robins singing
all around above me happened, like unwrapping
a personal gift, just for me.
In fact, I’m quite sure of it.
And just as it was given me
I share with you.
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Bronze sculpture, Native American, NC Arboretum near Asheville
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What about a Man?—
—an educated man, many millions
of words filtered down his decades,
his ‘little grey cells’ storing countless
fragmented files of data random facts
too many layers of memory and experience
to remember: the swarmy, mother soup
of endless troubling and exhilarating thoughts—
practical, spiritual, scientific, artistic, technical,
political, social, (not to mention fantasies and fears)
wishing sometimes
he had the simple presence of being
the stillness, the care-less contentedness
of a fat spring toad by a dark pond
basking in the warm spring sun?
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The Wild March Wind Today . . .
Blows rough, blows grey, will never end.
All afternoon, hard gusts sand and scrape
and scour, rake raw the drab and tender land.
Even hungry birds stay sheltered in the wood.
Delicate plum petals get stripped, torn
and tossed to the dark ground, useless
pink flesh, tattered lace.
This year their fruit won’t make.
But the bright lemon, saffron daffodils
seem to relish, even provoke the raucous air
prancing rudely about, kicking everything.
Those joyful flower faces, exuberant
little hands wave at us, bold children
holding yellow flames out like spring daystars
to the hard wind—asking it to dance.
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Haiku is an ancient Japanese poetic form, usually 3 lines, approx. 17 syllables. In their brevity, haiku captures the essence of moments, insights, feelings, impressions. Traditionally, haiku are sensitive to the beauties of the passing seasons, and man’s relationship to the natural world. Since many of us have lost touch with these values, haiku is a gentle but potent means of reconnecting with the wild, created universe. The art form is now practiced by millions in a wide variety of countries and languages, with a multitude of haiku societies, periodicals, etc.
Basho, the most prominent haiku master, from several hundred years ago, said: ”Haiku is simply what is happening in this place, at this moment”.
–that’s a good place to begin, and to remain, while exploring the many internal and external possibilities that haiku offer. It’s a wonderful way of seeing, ‘capturing’ and expressing poignant moments in our lives -Quilla
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(from a weekend in Blowing Rock/Boone)
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I left my camera
at home. Oh, how many
photographs I see!
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Sick in my gut
sick in my heart, indoors
watching the Spring snow
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Two wild geese
on the boathouse roof
softly falling snow
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Large lake lost in fog:
a snowy path, criss-crossed
with sparrow tracks
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Solitary crow
flies off. Snow drops–
the quivering branch
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Old willows, greening
tender limbs cascading
silent spring snowfall
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Snow falling off
tree limbs, into dark water
interlocking rings
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Thick snowy fog
invisible lake, unseen
wild geese honking past
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Old willows, new leaves
soft Spring snow. Bamboo flute
breathing deep within
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Students walk beneath
these old maples where I walked
forty Springs ago
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Snow-bent daffodils
I get down on my knees
hold them in my hands
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from NC Arboretum forest, 3.29:
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Mountain waters
echo ancient streams
flowing through the mind
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Along the quiet trails
people come and go.
Flowers bloom, wind blows
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3.31
Gray spring river
flows beneath empty gray trees
under gray snow sky
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4.21
Dogwood blossoms
dancing with the windy rain
a soft piano tune
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4.20
I turn out the lamp.
The dark room—suddenly full
of bright spring moon!
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4.9
the old barber:
his young spinach, his new peas
another winter past
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4.10
Warm April morning
cherry trees in bloom
the sweet almond wind
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4.10
withered apple tree—
grey bark peeling off
petals drifting down
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4.4
hard rain drums the roof:
the booming spring darkness
flashes like fast hooves
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4.1.11
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Bach’s morning flutes—
sun rays pierce the dark snowclouds
willows bring new leaves
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Words
Our words are just breath:
like the spring mist, cloud shadows
plum blossoms fluttered down
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Our words last forever:
like boulders. Only a long river
licks their edges smooth
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4.2
Hard cold winds blow
and blow the petals down, like snow.
Rooster screams and screams.
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Dark basement
the dead grandmother’s peaches
unopened, on the shelf
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Not agreeing, I walk out—
how white and free
the high spring clouds
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Bringing wood indoors
the cold spring night
pear trees glowing white
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Her newborn calf
is dead. the mother cow
moans the cold spring wind
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Valley floors, pastel
with flowers, bright new grass.
Mountains rimed with ice
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4.3.
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1800′s oak:
a wide net of shadows cast
down the April hill
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“To know that Love alone was the beginning of nature and creature, that nothing but Love encompasses the whole universe of things, that the governing hand that overrules all, the watchful eye that sees through all, is nothing but omnipotent and omniscient Love, using an infinity of wisdom to save every misguided creature from the miserable works of his own hands, and make happiness and glory the perpetual inheritance of all the creation—this is a reflection that must be quite ravishing to every intelligent creature that is sensible of it. ” -from William Law, 1686-1781
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“What may be known about God is plain to them, because God has made it plain. Since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.
“For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God, nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. Thinking themselves wise, they became fools.
–Romans, chapter 1
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“We all possess knowledge. Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. The man who thinks he knows something does not yet know as he ought to know. But the man who loves God is known by God” –1 Corinthians chapter 8
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“the mystery of God, namely Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom, and knowledge.” –Colossians, chapter 2
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“Do not deceive yourselves. If any one of you thinks he is wise by the standards of this age, he should become a “fool”, so that he may become wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in God’s sight.”
–1 Corinthians, chapter 3
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“to know this Love, that surpasses knowledge” –Ephesians, chapter 3
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April Fourth
Just returned, another visit
with the doc, analyzing my wild heart.
The latest name, these aberrant rhythms
—Tachycardia, SVC’s.
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Back home, warm April sun
I watch the scarlet tulips drop
large petals of flesh to the dark ground
the long spring wind.
Black limbs in the old pines
barely move at all.
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One daughter is showing her art
in a popular coffee shop.
The other is dancing the lead
on a well-known city stage.
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“Appalachian Spring”
By Robert Towe
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Just the other morning I was visiting a couple of farms across the county from each other. A light snow had blown in overnight, dusting the grey mountains above 3000′ or so. The ridgelines were crusted white with rime. The loftiest mountaintops were still hidden, heaped up and cloaked with heavy snow clouds. Only a few days before, the temperature had reached the upper seventies. This is Appalachian Spring.
Although large patches of blue were breaking open, the turbulent sky that morning was still spitting snow. Retreating winter was turning around on us, baring its teeth one more time. The valley bottoms and pastures were glowing green with new grass in brief strokes of cold spring sun. Everywhere flowers and blooming fruit trees brushed the landscape with bright pastels: this is the gloriously unpredictable Appalachian Spring.
Riding across our county that morning, I recalled Aaron Copland’s well-known composition with the same title. His powerful music evokes so well the changing harmonies of the mountains in springtime. Yancey’s four- thousand-foot range in elevation from the lowest river bottoms to the crest of the Black Mountains makes for some exquisitely beautiful and highly varied weather conditions. Especially in early spring.
At the farm on Double Island Road the owner, an elderly gentleman, showed me the old farmhouse where his parents had lived. The house had been kept closed up, fully furnished, for several years since they had died. Down the stairs in the dark basement cellar, wooden board shelves were still well-stocked with unopened jars of peaches and half-runner beans his mother had canned in her latter years. It occurred to me that keeping the beautiful food unopened somehow preserved a few dear memories of her.
Back outside, we walked the twenty or so acres of muddy pasture in a bitter wind. A mother Angus, whose newborn calf had died just a few days before, was moaning into the cold gusts. The owner commented: “she still looks kindly slab-sided, don’t she?” That she did. Near the fence, a large Black Cherry tree was just beginning to open its pale clouds of fragrant blooms.
I shook hands with the owner, and headed toward the other farm, on Price’s Creek. But on the way I stopped in town and warmed up with a delicious cup of fresh-ground dark-roast coffee. Ah, the perfect complement to Appalachian Spring!
Robert Towe is a local Naturalist, with degrees in Biology and Forestry. He owns a real estate company, Mountain Acreage, Inc.
. . . I walk out into the warm spring dark.
To the west the old Hunter—-Orion, and his dogs
Sirius and Procyon, go to their summer rest
in the branches of the black oak woods.
Overhead, the bright gold Shepherd Star
Arcturus, wanders the fields of April sky.
The low places ring jubilant frog music.
Life again breaks loose the bonds of ice,
of death, and sings! O praises, hear Life sing!
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Tall birches sway the soft night breezes
rushing through young leaves, like soft waters,
like young girls laughing at our unsolved mysteries.
I leave all this—much more than I can see or hear
or know (much less, understand)—go back indoors.
How out of kilter, we humans are:
spending years of nights watching other humans
saying inane things upon a screen.
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Mattie Ray’s Red Door
For Nell Masters
This morning on the telephone, you shared
a recent find that brought you joy:
a handmade closet door—its hinges opened
and closed more than a century—recently retrieved
from your great grandmother Mattie’s empty house
still standing: the valley far beneath the high black peak
called Winterstar, the clear headwaters of the Cane.
The door was painted red, forever stained
reminds you of the blood that binds you
back to her, your mother’s veins.
Mattie came and cared for her, near death
and you at birth—-more than a month early
just 3 pounds, no fingernails and little hair.
The milk and prayers she brought and fed
to you and God, these no doubt let you live.
Your older sisters told you how you nursed
her fingertips, dripping sugared water,
your tiny lips.
Her door now leans against a wall,
your country kitchen gladly made it room.
Your hearth-fire flickers its silent face.
It seems content, no longer any need
to close things in, or out.
Once a small red closet door in her front hall
now it simply stands, opening
a kindred place across the years:
Mattie’s hard and simple faith, her love
in your first days—a birthright of easy tears,
your lifelong gift— a giving heart.
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–Quilla
Warm spring winds blow through the heavy twisted limbs of oaks, greening them
with April lace again: the soft translucence of young leaves, a late spring afternoon.
Blue Buntings trill those bright and wistful lyrics our summer minds recall across the distances.
Grey doves moan some deeper well in us the passing clouds, even the ancient oaks have never known.
Appaloosas are frolicking with delight on the emerald hills, like rocking horses they dapple
the deep green fields, their grey winter hooves kicking the golden sun.
These days and nights of Passiontide the swollen river rolls unceasing
through our waking hours and nightly dreams, unfurling musical pages of pathos and wild joy
down and through the greening hills. It sings some distant sea, long rhythms in the shoals forever
breaking stones to sand.
A fine restaurant today. Through the west windows, crimson azaleas blazed in the spring sun,
casting rosy shadows into the crowded room. Beyond them, cross-starred blooms of dogwoods
were dancing ghosts of snow in the warm April wind.
An elderly woman with thin blue-veined hands played old show tunes on the yellowed keys of the upright Steinway.
I ate thick slices of sweet spring lamb, savoring our joyful talk, the bitter salad leaves, the bread and oil,
the old piano music, dear family members once gathered here, now gone—
this very room, the taste of broken Lamb.
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This morning I am on upper Elk Shoals Creek, one of many tributaries falling rapidly from high ridge-tops down to the Cane River. I parked the Trooper at the road, and now walk an old trail bordering a small headwater branch. The little stream is crashing musically, rushing full. Hosts of early spring wildflowers dapple the forest floor of empty woods. Young leaves are budding out, unfurling as the days get warmer. In a few weeks the forest will glow deep emerald with shady light.
Along with myriads of Woods Violet, Trout Lilies and colonies of May Apple, tiny Fiddlehead Ferns are emerging out of the brown leaf mat. Clipped off 3-4 inches long, these delicate ferns are succulent and tasty, sauteed with real butter and a mash or two of garlic, a dash of salt and pepper. Collecting and cooking an iron skilletful of them is a joyful rite of spring, good for body and soul.
I walk above the springhead of the branch, climb a steep dry finger ridge to the right, and follow it to the high boundary line below Thunderstruck Knob, 1800′ above the paved road at the bottom. A typical mountain cove.
The complex forest world suddenly ends at a fence, opening into a bright expanse of sky—high pastures fall steeply away below me to the north. I am ready for a rest, need to get out of the fierce winds gusting across the ridge. An evening storm is approaching fast, blowing out of the southwest. Tornado warnings are posted for the low country to the east. The wind is so loud in the large oaks I can hear little else. It roars like a wild sea, as strong currents deep in the ocean of air break across the islands of mountaintops. The branches and trees clatter, twist and moan.
I sit down in the lee of a large Ash tree whose tossing limbs are singing an ancient hymn to the high wind. The sun flashes in and out of fast dark clouds. A steep hill on the other side glows luminescent green with new grass, as quick swaths of sun run up, across it and away.
The summer cattle have not yet been brought to these high meadows. Few spring birds have yet arrived at this elevation. A pair of Red-tailed Hawks is soaring and wheeling in high circles. Their long screams pierce the strong wind.
Across miles of grey and softly greening ridges big Flattop Mountain sits solemn and ancient beyond all imagining, already dark with gathering mist. Further off to the northeast and darker still the lofty mass of Roan Mountain stands, brooding and eternal, seemingly distant as the cliffs of Newfoundland. It is easy to understand how aboriginal peoples deemed the high mountains to be the homes of deities: places of wildness, mystery and power.
Sitting against the Ash, for a long time my eyes scan the dark shoulders of these Unaka Mountains, reaching far and purple and finally vanishing blue into the northeast. Recollections come to me—many enjoyable years of hiking, traveling and working with the people of these mountains—dear faces, the sound of their voices already lost to the decades. . .
I sometimes wonder at the keen sense of melancholy in springtime, especially poignant on a day like this, on high places with all the land rolled out below, the mountains darkening with storm. Although spring is usually celebrated as the most joyous time of year, and rightly so, it often brings with it a deeper sense of remembrance and longing for all that has been lost
—or can never quite be grasped—even more than autumn, the traditional season of melancholy. While autumn is redolent with the tang of bitter sweet fragrances and thought, spring’s very tenderness and delicate blossoms intensify in us a sharp awareness of how quickly beauty withers, the brevity of life itself.
On my way back down through the property, I find the remains of an old barn the owner had told me about. Local history has it that a man and his wife raised five children in that barn. Strangely enough, the shambles of a mud-chinked stone chimney stands against the north wall. A portion of the interior of the barn had been cribbed in with logs—also odd for a barn. Indeed, someone had lived there. The floor was dirt. The fireplace had crumbled.
As I stand pondering the lives that had passed by there and now were gone, the feeling of life’s briefness comes to me again. I stand watching, listening. A gust of wind blows up the hollow, and rattles a loose roof tin.
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Quit other Leadings:
“That which befits us, embosomed in beauty and wonder as we are, is cheerfulness and courage, and the endeavour to realize our aspirations.
“Shall not the heart which has received so much, trust the very Power by which it lives? May it not quit other leadings, and listen to the Soul that has guided it so gently, and taught it so much, secure that the future will be worthy of the past?”
–R.W. Emerson
“I will bless the LORD at all times, His praise shall continually be in my mouth. . . . Come glorify the LORD with me, let us exalt His name together”.
–David, Psalm 34: vs. 1&3
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Old stone mud-chinked chimney, Elk Shoals Creek
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Mindy’s grave
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“Your beauty should not come from outward things and adornment;…..instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” –1 Peter 3: vs. 3-4
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“Every morning compose your soul for a tranquil day, and all through it be careful often to recall your resolution, and to bring yourself back to it. If something discomposes you, do not stay upset, or troubled; but having discovered the fact, gently humble yourself before God, and bring your mind back into a quiet attitude. (This is very key, this deliberate act of will —to constantly be re-turning your thoughts and actions back to a restful place in God’s loving presence).
“Say to yourself, ‘Well I have made a false step. Now I must go more carefully, watchfully.’ Do this each time, however frequently you fall. When you are at peace use it profitably, making constant acts of gentleness and meekness, seeking to be calm, even in the most trifling things.
“Above all, do not be discouraged; be patient with yourself. Wait. Strive to attain a calm and gentle spirit.” —Fenelon
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“I have stilled and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child is my soul within me”. –Psalm 131: vs. 2
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For Bonnie Parker Towe, Mother’s Day 2011
Thanks ever so much, Mother, for not quenching the fire of Wonder
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the I-240 cut, Beaucatcher Mtn, Asheville NC
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A Seam of Quartz/the Soft Spring Stars
Maybe twenty-five years ago
wanting a wider faster road, they cut the mountain open
after long and fierce debate: carve a tunnel through
or chop an ugly cut through shale, granite and slate?
After all the talk they went with cut.
How many tons of dynamite, it takes
to slice a mountain into air and light?
Now 30 thousand cars a day roar through the cut
completely unaware: unknowable millenia
a mountain kept its silent being there.
Today, driving through the thousandth time
my mind buzzing with everything but millenia
I glanced aside—morning sun was glinting
a long white seam of quartz that jagged across
and down the tall black granite slabs,
a stone cold lightning bolt.
How humans scribed their fears on dark cave walls.
The passionate beauty of science, the cool efficiency
of art—white frozen sparks of molten fire—
fixed there in stone, for all there is of time.
Long tines of crystal, molded when the earth was young.
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Tonight, with quavering rhymes of little owls
I stand in waves of soft starlight: silent tunes
of luminescence, glinting through the ageless dark.
That pale radiance: it finds these wondrous orbs of gel,
called Eyes—deep wells gathering the water of light;
it shimmers these delicate inner mirrors—long halls
of rooms we’ve called the Mind.
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By the window, reading scriptures
with morning tea, first I saw his fast shadow
sliding toward me from the shady wood.
Early yet, the shadows were still long
and leaning from the east
across the wet, the glistening grass.
A second or two he passed before me
—wide grey wings set in a steady glide,
the edge of a knife—the Cooper’s Hawk
sliced the stillness of the morning air.
All the other birds fell quiet,
frozen wild with fear.
My gaze returns to the holy words, sleeping
centuries in their stately place.
But it’s not the same: the Hawk has shown
how brief how beautiful, fierce life is.
The words of Life wake up, spread strong wings,
fly toward me from the page.
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By mid-afternoon, I had returned from a long walk in hot yellow sunlight beside the windy blue-green sea. Resting on the balcony and drinking iced green tea I was watching the luminous ocean waves shattering on the sand like old glass bottles with ancient secrets in them.
A brisk sea-wind whisked foam off the crest of each translucent wave as it rolled high, fell and crashed open at last, sliding up the smooth grey sand. The random tidal rhythms and sea gulls laughing in the wind lulled and soothed, the cadenced wash of music from the sea.
A hundred feet out from the ocean’s slathering edge, something like the shadow of a small cloud darkened the shimmering green water. The shade moved as alive, voracious with hunger and fear. Indeed it was alive—the surface glittered—a great shoal of fish, perhaps Menhaden or Whiting, countless thousands of them, moving as one organism between and through the rising, falling swells. Their great numbers and density created a swirling darkness beneath, the sunlit surface churned with fins and flashing scales. Quickly I ran down to the sea to join them.
When I reached waist-deep water I was standing in their very midst. The large school was shivering the water all around me. Gulls and Arctic Terns were wheeling above me, screaming, laughing and diving into the whirling fish. A rush of childlike emotions welled up, erupting with a happy laughter of delight, thrilled with such wild currents of living energy pulsing round my arms and legs. I wanted to tell someone, to share this experience, but no one else in all the world was near.
The water was almost solid with the liquid mercury of their mass, the school of fish swam so close together and so close to me, darting with electric scintillations and sparkling quickness. Within a radius of twenty feet, hundreds of green-speckled fins swished and sliced the surface. Incoming waves rolled and lifted up into the light, shining full of sleek and silver fish. For brief moments they rose higher than my head. I could see their fast black eyes, glistening sides and fins, beautiful bodies rising a few translucent seconds, falling back into the shadowy and oblivious waters.
I remained among them perhaps half an hour, mesmerized, as the dark mass glittered southward along the foaming shore toward the sun. I felt, or imagined I felt something like a tide pulling my salty blood toward them, leaving the high-rise hotel and its cool furnished rooms forever, to join this wildly shimmering beautiful community, to follow them as far as they went.
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The Ice Cream Truck
In the warm beach breeze do I faintly hear
the sing-song calliope of the ice cream truck
rolling up and down the childhood shore?
O, did the ice cream man ever think, ever know
he was dipping into, giving something far sweeter,
more lasting, than flavored globs of melting cream?
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The evening meal is over, dishes put away. My wife and mother are watching ‘Dancing With the Stars’ just as if they were at home. I retire to the bedroom to read, and open the large sliding door. Fresh sea-wind fills the long blue curtains and the room with the sounds, the fragrance of the night ocean.
For a while I read something by Stegner about the American West, but put it down, turn off the lamp and walk out onto the balcony, five floors above the rising night tide. A warm breeze blows in from the dark Atlantic. I breathe it deeply, slowly, the salty humid air as if my lungs can not get enough, so unlike the cooler drier mountain air I am accustomed to. Just below me the tops of tall palms rattle rough fronds in the night wind. The air is rich with the complex turbulence of ocean smells –odors of life and of death—wet sand, broken shells and seaweed, sea creatures washed up, all of it cooling and drying in the dark sea wind.
I sit down for a long while in the shadows, quietening my mind from the day’s busy thoughts. My tired sunburned body breathes in and out, with the gentle breathings of the sea. Endless rows of white foam come breaking out of the infinite blackness of water, merging into limitless night sky. Tonight there are no fishing boats nor ships, no sea-lights etching the sky line. Just warm wind, a few hazy stars, long rhythmic lines of shattering foam.
From somewhere down the dark shore, voices and laughter mingle with the sea wind and the crashing waves. A few colorful firework streamers rise glittering and whistling, bursting into sparkles that quickly drift away. A moment later the little pop!pop!pop! of explosions reaches me but the sound is tiny, like a child excitedly stepping barefoot on bubble-wrap in another room. The orchestration of night waves continues tumbling like soft cymbals and muffled drums, booming up and down the long shelf of sand. This eternally mysterious music draws us deeply, inexplicably all the years of our lives, “we must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and sky”. Not knowing exactly why, something in us answers the haunting call.
Several miles down the shore to the south tall high-rise hotels are glowing halos of sea mist lit up with rows of sodium lights. Thousands of people are lodging there far from their homes in a yellow radiance that burns all night. Even at this distance, I can see a large Ferris Wheel turning a kaleidoscope of colors, dazzling everyone with something we do not see at home. It is all part of the man-made vacation spell of a week at the beach. You see and smell, feel things here you do not feel at home.
Through my field glasses I watch the brightly glowing color wheel a minute or so. But I put down the binoculars and turn my gaze back to the pulsing, night blowing sea, breaking endless rows of foam out of the dark. I breathe deeply the warm fragrant wind. The Scorpion of summer has pulled his long curved tail sparkling out of the black ocean. His red heart, Antares, glows like deathless love, like the fierce heart of cosmic war, a giant scarlet fire burning in empty space, three hundred years of light away.
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What is it—dying in these golden wisps, summer’s first tall hay
mowed and lying loose: long rows scribbled down the green hills,
drifts of dead grass sweet, drying gold in hot June sun?
What is it—whispering this brief, eternal hush of summer noon,
the faintest breezes stir the soft birch leaves, ruffling
their mid-day dreams, yet not enough to wake the metal chimes?
What is it—spreading the great green domes, old oaks
along the ridge, daily opening centuries of limbs and time
and shadows, under the massive white castles of passing clouds?
What is it—dancing the snow-white galaxies of daisies
whirling in the field, bending each white wisp of breeze?
The rooster screaming harshly, tearing the red-gold heart of noon?
What is it—flying with the young hawks’ wings, soaring
the long morning over the green land, teaching them to see
everything that moves: to live, to dive, to seize and kill?
I ask again: What is it—living, flying, dancing, dying
having its holy way, these wild created forms?
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Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty!
The whole earth is full of His glory!
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Cutting the First Hay
Somehow, through the noisy clattering blades—
steel scraping ragged edges of steel, the noxious roar
the tractor motor, its blue fumes
—pierce the sweet lyrics, little wild tunes
of Field Sparrows across the green distances
like lost joy, forever ‘far and wee’. . . .
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Recent Haiku:
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Up from the warm land
into cool night air—
fireflies!
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Summer morning
glistens with night rain
sunlight and yellow finches
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My elderly mother
sits at the window, watching
the grey evening sea
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Ocean crashing
beyond the open door,
how small our words
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How absolute, and brief
one feels, a vast spring morning
standing in the sea
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Old sand-dune fences
rusting, singing secrets
the warm sea-oat wind
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At last I feel close
to my dead father: riding waves
with his ghost, spring morning sea
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Lovely woman at the shore:
bony gawking boys around her,
yearning, yet afraid
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Sunset paints the clouds,
the white breasts of the terns,
crests of the long waves
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Out of darkness
under cool spring stars:
lines of white foam, ever
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From my Nature Journal, 7.13.11:
I put down my book as the last rose light was fading from the sky. I was weary of words—powerful symbols of things concrete and abstract, but mere symbols nonetheless. That magical hour between daytime and darkness was falling upon the land. Tired of sitting, yearning for movement and direct contact with nature, I rose from my chair on the deck, stretched out my back and legs. In the darkening trees, doves were crying softly their sad purple notes into the purpling softness of evening. The sun had already set behind indigo mountains, its paint washing from the dusky sky. Far off to the southwest a tall silent thunderhead the color of roses was burning down to grey ash with coming night.
I took my favorite walking stick leaning against the wall and my feet started reaching out into their familiar stride. What a beautiful thing to go for a good walk under the sky, whatever the season. And yet in today’s culture so many of us take this simple and healthy act for granted, choosing to give our time mostly to sitting, mesmerized by television or computer screens. In just two generations preoccupied with hi-tech gadgetry, we have lost most of our native connections and intuition with wild nature, developed over many centuries of struggle, survival and wonder.
As usual, the little dog was excited to go with me this evening, running ahead up the long driveway through the darkening oakwoods toward the quiet country road. In warm gathering shadows the first Katydids were already chattering their ancient telegraphic lovesongs in the trees. For several decades I have noted these night-cicadas beginning their yearly singing on sultry evenings between the first and second weeks of July. It is one of the most certain and predictable marks of midsummer, an hypnotic chant like dry seeds rattling in a shaken gourd. This is the song of life, of fertility, urgent syllables uttered in the hot nights as prelude to autumn’s dance of death. Listening more closely, we hear in the Katydids’ sibilant love-music the earnest hunger for creation, and re-creation, mystery connections between male and female. Tiny pearls of cicada eggs will be laid to winter over, under fallen leaves, deep in the ground. On and on the music goes, reverberating down the long summer hallways of our lives. Most of the time we tune it out for more ‘important’ noises.
As a boy I recall hearing the old-timers proclaim like prophets: “‘the first Katydids hollering means it’s eight weeks til frost!”. But I never could get the math to work out, as that prediction made the first frost fall in early September. Maybe it frosted a lot earlier back in the old days. Or it could be that just the thought of cooler weather is so thrilling in these hot ‘Dog Days’ that we stretch the truth a month or so, just to hurry along the approach of autumn, breathing a mythical coolness into our midsummer minds.
Indeed the brilliant ‘Dog Star’, Sirius, gleaming icy blue as it follows Orion across the long winter sky of nights, is now rising near dawn in late July. Hence, the kryptic name “Dog Days”.
After a half mile or so I left the road for a path through a large open field. Thick perfume of wild honeysuckle hung sweet on the moist air. Thousands of fireflies (lightnin’ bugs) were already lifting from the warm land, sparkling as they rose into the twilight. We call these dazzling fairy-lights bioluminescence, that fascinating chain of chemical reactions which produces luciferin in the firefly’s abdomen, reacting with oxygen to release energy as cold light, so named since little heat is produced. Do you remember catching a jarful of them and setting it blinking on a shelf near your bed, the walls glimmering dark meadowlights as you entered the realm of dreams? The wavering yellow-green lanterns that enchant us so as children are part of the insect’s complex mating language and signaling across warm summer evenings. But knowing a bit of firefly biology does not diminish the sweet mystery of these wild little lamps glittering all the summers of our years.
Then my eyes catch a greater flashing: that tall thunderhead I’d seen just after sunset had grown taller, closer. The form that had looked placid as a painted cloud in a Thomas Moran landscape had woken up, come alive with an infinitely different type of luminescence. Countless billions of electrical charges were arcing and vibrating with warm colors and hot light, within the belly of that beautiful monster of vapor and unwired voltage. It was a wild billowing vertical furnace where fire and ice collide—the heat of the summer land mixing with the cold of space. The thunderhead was still ten miles away, but I could hear the elemental grumblings of the fundamental disagreement between cold and heat. I hoped it would come even closer. The land has been dry.
Quite in contrast, back to the east a hazy full moon was rising silently into the black branches of a pine. The soft silhouettes recalled Japanese drawings done with a few bamboo brush strokes of ebony ink. And how fitting, that our native peoples called the midsummer moon the Thunder Moon. A warm wind was rising, sighing in the pines, gusting from the approaching storm. The warm air was deeply thrilling, fragrant with the pungent smell of rain. It was time to head back home.
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–Quilla
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“You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind. ” –Luke 10:27
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“To love God ‘with all our heart’ is to know the spiritual passion of measureless gratitude for the loving-kindness of God, and devotion to His goodness;
“To love Him ‘with all our mind’ is to know the passion for Truth that drives Science, and the passion for Beauty that inspires the poet and the artist, when all truth and beauty are regarded as the self-revealings of God” . . .
–adapted from J.H. Thom, (pub. 1851)
From Daily Strength for Daily Needs
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“I wondered again for the hundredth time what is the principle which, in the wildest, most lawless, fantastically chaotic, apparently capricious work of nature, always kept it beautiful?
“The beauty of holiness must be at the heart of it somehow, I thought. Because God is so free from stain, so loving, so unselfish, so good, so altogether what He wants us to be, so holy, therefore all His works declare Him in beauty; His fingers can touch nothing but mould it into loveliness; and even the play of His elements is in grace and tenderness of form.”
—George MacDonald (born 1824, Scotland); C.S. Lewis referred to MacDonald as his greatest inspiration
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“If the people about you are carrying on their business or their benevolence at a pace which drains the life out of you, resolutely take a slower pace; be called a laggard, make less money, accomplish less work than they, but be what you were meant to be and can be. You have your natural limit of power as much as an engine—ten horsepower, or twenty, or a hundred. You are fit to do certain kinds of work, and you need a certain kind and amount of fuel, stillness and rest.”
—adapted from George S. Merriam (born 1843)
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“In your occupations, try to possess your soul in God’s peace. It is not a good plan to be in haste to perform any action that it may be the sooner over. On the contrary, you should accustom yourself to do whatever you have to do with tranquility, in order that you may retain the possession of yourself and of a divinely settled peace.”
—Madame Guyon (1648-1717)
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“In patience, you possess your soul..” –Luke 21: 19
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Stephan
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“The soul loses command of itself when it is impatient. Whereas, when it submits, it possesses itself in peace, and in doing so, possesses God. To be impatient is to desire what we do not have, or to desire not what we do have. But when we submit, what we perceived as an evil is no longer such. So why make a calamity of things by your selfish resistance, insisting that you get your way?
“You must learn this fundamental truth: that peace does not dwell in outward things, but within the soul. We may preserve peace even in the midst of the bitterest pain, if our will remains firm, and submissive. Peace in this life springs from acquiescence even in disagreeable things, not in an exemption from bearing them.” –adapted from the writings of Fenelon
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Old barn, overgrown meadow, Yancey County NC
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“The chief pang of most trials is not so much the actual suffering itself as our own spirit of resistance to it.” –Jean Nicolas Grou
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I know more than a little about the ways of impatience, from early childhood having been exposed to more than a fair share of it and its ugly siblings, anger and criticism. The thorny, twisted brier of impatience always bears sour fruit, producing turmoil inwardly and outwardly, and is not from God. Indeed, two of the fruits of God’s Spirit listed in scripture are Peace, and its beautiful sister, Patience. Gentleness, kindness, goodness and meekness all live in the same family of virtues. Like peace, they each need to be cultivated, with time and grace, given freely by God.
In recent years, through a variety of means and measures, God’s Spirit is gradually working patience into my impatient soul, even my body and mind. I am deeply thankful for this gradual transformation. As I am being set free from this evil, I become enabled to truly see others, quieten the need to talk so much, ask questions and listen to others more care-fully, and love them more freely.
We each have presently before us this powerful choice: will I allow Christ’s spirit to deliver me from the inner monsters that do their worst to ruin my life and relationships? Or not. As the smoke clears, certain bright and liberating truths begin to reveal themselves. Like friendly Angels, they walk alongside, whispering comfort, and words of guidance like lamplight glimmering a path of shadows.
Regarding impatience, one of those revelations is the exposure of a fundamental lie which dominates our culture, spoiling countless families and individual lives. It is this: all will be well (i.e. I will have peace) if I can just get what I want, have my own way—with things, people, circumstances, etc. Life really is about me–expressing my preferences and many opinions.
All of us give ourselves to this deception, in a variety of ways, and degrees. It is vital for each one to ask, and see: how do I do this? If I do not see where I frequently stumble, there is no hope of removing the obstacle. The old pattern of falling will remain. ‘Christ lives, to remove the old stumbling blocks of performance’ hindering us all. His light shows me how to walk, where to step among the stones.
Nothing is quite so far from the truth as the enormous lie—that I will be happy if I only get my way. Real Peace does not come riding as a passenger in the noisy reckless coach of impatience. It does come, quite paradoxically, walking quietly down a side road like an old dear friend bringing sweet fruit to my back door, unannounced. I am asked to deliberately open portions of my soul’s house–my will–to God. Otherwise, he passes me by….seeing that I am not ready for him. In his place, a sad and empty wind sings through my torn screens….
This intentional letting go of my lower self usually comes with some pain, as it represents certain death to the personal ego: that inborn animal in each of us that craves its own way, loves its own flesh above all others. It will fawn, grovel, laugh and lick the giving hand; the next moment it snaps and snarls, depending on its mood, and motives.
Ironically, it takes much more spiritual strength (and maturity) to be submissive than it does to be aggressive, demanding and stubbornly insistent on my way. In the same way, (for most of us) it is a greater challenge to listen well, than it is to talk.
Please meditate: “Greater is he who rules his own soul, than he who takes a city”.
“Be slow to speak, quick to listen.”
“Let my words be few.”
“Great peace have they who love your ways, O God”.
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May God richly bless your day, with His perfect peace, as you submit to His will.
–Quilla
“The whole earth is FULL of His glory!”
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Sunflower
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Daylilies by the Cane River, mid August
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Country Sunset
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The summer pasture gate, Walnut trees
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Burnsville NC craft fair
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Near Blue Ridge Parkway
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Old Scottish friends, Franklin NC Scots festival
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The Black Mountains, highest peaks in the eastern U.S.
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Someone I met on the trail
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The last hay of summer
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Tiger Swallowtail
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Woodbine on an old brick wall
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Tail feather of a wild turkey
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Bamboo
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Latesummer sky
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Appaloosa
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Wild Morning Glories along the trail, Craggy Mountains, NC
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Tornado Warning!
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Mussel shells, dried river mud
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Old farm, Paint Gap Road
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Latesummer pasture, off Hardscrabble Road
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Barbed wire hieroglyphic
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‘Your Present Circumstances’. . .
“HOW can you live sweetly amid the vexatious things, the irritating things, the multitude of little worries and frets, which lie all along your way, and which you cannot evade?”
“You cannot at present change your surroundings. Whatever kind of life you are to live, must be lived now, amid precisely these people and circumstances in which you are now moving. It is here that you must win your victories or suffer your defeats. No restlessness or discontent can change your lot. Others have other circumstances surrounding them, but here are yours. It is wisdom and peace—to accept what we cannot alter.”—adapted from J.R. Miller, Daily Strength for Daily Needs
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My response:
I value the words of Mr. Miller, written over a century ago. The human/divine dilemma still faces us, hour by hour. It is a wonderful movement of God’s grace in us—to learn how to accept our present circumstances, which are seldom, if ever, exactly what we wish them to be. But it is more graceful still, to embrace God in each situation, be it difficult or pleasant, learning to see that God is sovereign, in everything, every moment of our lives.
Of this I am very sure: it is vain, and a foolish waste of life and love—to criticize, whine and complain about things or people, to wish for yesterday or tomorrow. We are called, and we are empowered to a much more beautiful and present life than that.
As we allow the Spirit of Christ to live in us, and through us, we gradually lose the need to have and get our own way in everything; we stop demanding that others please us by doing this, or that thing we wish they would do, or not do. These self-centered attitudes only illustrate how much we are controlled by the words and actions of others.
But by depending less on others, and relying more on the love of Christ, we are able to live above circumstances, by walking in certain steps of faith. Christ really does set us free–to love people as they are–broken and afraid, hungry and selfish–not as we wish they were. Isn’t this the way Christ himself loves you? and me? –Quilla
“The LORD gives, and the LORD takes away. Blessed be the name of the LORD!”
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“Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.” –Ephesians 4: 31-32
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Mailbox and daylilies, on a country road….waiting to hear from you
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August Butterfly on a stone
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Riverside meadow, wild Clematis
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Tiger Swallowtail
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Cicada Days, Screech-Owl Nights……Late August, 2011
(Published in the Yancey Journal and Common Times, August 24, 2011)
These dwindling latesummer mountain days, each morning the closest star (the one we call ‘the sun’) rises a minute or two later, over the eastern trees. Through empty space the tilted earth is always turning, whirling like a top (though we can not feel it) and leaning—toward the sun or away from it, giving us seasons: warmth and chill, shadows and radiance. Plants and animals respond in wise and beautiful ways to the growing or diminishing light. Already there is a yellowing in the leaves. Along roadsides and rivers, Buckeyes have been coloring shades of orange since late July. Birds are mostly silent now, compared with their mating jubilations those noisy mornings in spring and early summer. The fledgling broods have been raised. Countless thousands of them will be leaving in the next month or two, as they have through many centuries of turning light, winging south across the mountains to avoid the coming chill and lack of food.
I sit quietly and read the ancient holy words for thirty minutes or so, sipping strong coffee, watching and thinking, listening to the day awaken. It is my favorite time of day, regardless of the season, seeing life rise again out of darkness. Many of these latesummer mornings begin under a damp blanket of fog, as earth’s moisture condenses in the cooler morning air. The last several days have begun quite refreshingly, temperatures in the fifties. Such relief, after another unusually hot summer.
I’m off to look at a mountain property on upper Doe Bag, secluded high above the Double Island community. One of the joys of my work is driving the back roads of our beautifully varied county: from Cabbage Patch to Flat Top, headwater springs of Indian Creek to the confluence of North and South Toe rivers, and further downstream where they pick up the cooler Cane waters, forming the wild Nolichucky—crashing over boulders down that steep-walled Lost Cove gorge into flatland Tennessee. Some of the most picturesque scenes in Yancey are not the better known ones. It is a lifelong joy—discovering new places and people, revisiting familiar ones rich with the memories of earlier seasons, younger light.
This morning I park on the side of the quiet mountain road, and listen a few minutes. By ten o’clock the trees are already singing with cicadas in the hot sunlight, a sound like coiled rattlesnakes. Growing up, I heard them called ‘Jar Flies’. I’m not certain why. Nearly impossible–to catch one in a jar. (and who would want to?). We rarely see them, as they mostly remain high in the summer trees, singing that sibilant drone the very stones might sing, sizzling in the sun, perhaps something about the end of time….
From the emerald shadows of a wooded cove echoes the haunting latesummer song of another creature very few ever see—the reclusive Blackbilled Cuckoo, sometimes called “Rain Crow” by country folk. Its hollow repetitious one-note lament always sounds far off, softly whimpering, not unlike a panting wounded dog. Old folks said the Rain Crow’s plaintive song foretold rain later in the day. But I’ve listened for many summers, entranced by that hypnotic chant, and many days no rain falls. “Oh well”, as Chief Dan George said dryly in the movie The Little Big Man “sometimes the magic works, and sometimes it doesn’t.”
These latesummer days backroad fencerows are dazzling with a chaos of wildflowers, briers and butterflies. Just to name two of our many late-season blossoms: the soft blue Chicory that closes it sky-colored blooms by mid-day, whose bitter taproot was roasted and ground as a coffee substitute during the early wars when coffee was hard to get. And the tall heathery Joe Pye Weed is one of our favorites, named for an itinerant Native American herb doctor of the 1700’s.
One of the singular joys of latesummer is the host of night sounds, the cacophony of music trilled by a thousand insects in the warm darkness. And in the last week or so I’ve begun hearing the quavering songs of young Screech Owls, crying like ghosts in the orchard trees. Their eerie whinnying is both beautiful, and a bit frightful, evoking a sense of wonder with a childlike sort of shuddering goose-flesh fear. Just two evenings ago I was standing under the hazy stars, listening to this little owl’s enchanting music at the woods’ edge. I am always quietly thrilled with the sweet mysteries of the sound. It is easy to feel how indigenous cultures ascribed dreadful forebodings to the songs of owls: dark music moaning Who?—these fierce flying predators with large eyes that pierce the night. They descend swiftly on silent wings, curved talons opening to seize helpless creatures in the thin light of stars.
Suddenly the whole southwest sky flashes and flickers violet with large sheets of far lightning, too distant for thunder. Perhaps we will wake later in the night, the sound and smell of warm rain falling on the leaves.
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“Latesummer”, by Jonas Girard
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Meekness:
“….Make a special point of asking God every morning to give you, before all else, that true spirit of meekness which He would have His children possess. You must also make a firm resolve to practice yourself in this virtue, especially in your intercourse with those persons to whom you chiefly owe it. You must make it your main object to conquer yourself in this matter;
“Call meekness to mind a hundred times during the day (for it is the very nature of our LORD himself, and we would resemble Him), offering your efforts to God. It seems to me that no more than this is needed in order to subject your soul entirely to His will, and then you will become more gentle day by day, trusting wholly in His goodness (and not your own).
“You will be very happy, my dearest child, if you can do this, for God himself will dwell in your heart, and where He reigns all is peace. But if you should fail, and return to your old faults (of pride, stubbornness, impatience, etc.) do not be disheartened, but rise up and go on again, as though you had not fallen.”
–adapted from Francis de Sales, 1567-1622; Daily Strength for Daily Needs
“Walk worthy of your calling, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, showing tolerance for one another in love”. –Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, chapter 4: vs. 1-2
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Following an old Fence-line/A warm September Dusk:
(Printed in The Yancey Journal and Common Times in the column “Roaming Around Yancey”)
This luminous green and golden afternoon I have been climbing the steep boundaries of an old homestead farm on the headwaters of the South Toe River. I was following the faded cross-hatch fencelines scratched on a wrinkled survey plat the out-of-state landowner had mailed to me. But only a few loose strands of rusted barbed wire remained in the woods. Most of the fenceposts had rotted with the passing decades. We would need a new survey, to re-establish boundary lines and verify exact acreage, which often varies from the numbers given in old deeds. Over the years, survey techniques have improved somewhat.
Scattered piles of stones were left from the early years of clearing, several generations back. But while no one was watching, the children had moved away; upland pastures and hard-worked rocky ‘cropland’ had returned to the ferny solitudes of deep forest—the natural habitat of the high country for numberless millenia.
Working and walking in the mountains in all seasons is a joy, discovering new things and people, plants and animals, along with familiar ones viewed in different shadows and light. I relish bits of the history of each property in its passage on an invisible time-chain of various owners, the long migration of humans wandering through these timeless mountains. A trace of old forest road climbs high into a deep hollow to a pile of fallen chimney stones; a scant path traipses out to a spring gurgling fresh from beneath the roots of a giant Sugar Maple. Autumn’s first tiny warblers go twittering through the yellowing birches. Far above the treetops a Raven croarks! as she soars over the high black ridge of Balsam Fir.
But today as usual it’s also good—to come down from the rugged slopes and kick off the tired boots. The day’s last lights die down like flames along the blue rim of western mountains. The air is pungent with smoke drifting from my cooking fire of Red Oak embers, the dripped meat grease smoldering. Finally I sit down, breathe deep restful breaths of the cooling air, watching September’s amber radiance lifting softly from the land. Like a brief and beautiful acquaintance, another day of life has slipped quietly down the trail behind us.
Through the rosy twilight, silhouettes of little bats dip and wheel silently, consuming hundreds of mosquitoes each hour. I watch a fat half-scoop of Vanilla moon float through the deepening blue. Like an orchestra tuning for its evening concert, choruses of insects fill the dusk with the sweet night music of early fall, vibrating into the shadowy forest depths. Having lived but one season in the sun, many adult insects will die when the night dews crystallize into frost. Untold billions of them will replenish the hungering autumnal earth.
A quarter mile up the road, a neighbor’s old Redbone howls a music of such dark beauty—a primal sound echoing and lost in the sombering mountain hollows. The hound’s is a lonesome, soulful sound, haunting our civilized bones, hearkening back to a time when men were hunters—dragging in bloody and exhausted from the mountains with their panting dogs, fresh wild meat killed and gutted. A strong woman would cook it on the fire, to fill her large family’s gnawing bellies.
If sounds have color, the hound’s low wailing is a dusky maroon, painting the moonlit halls of an autumn night. Those long, hearty notes recall something of raw blood-lust, of tooth and fang and claw, the thrill of a chase through the night forest, the kill that briefly quelled our beleaguering hungers—for food, and for conquest of the overwhelming wilderness.
What strange currents course through our veins, as individuals and as a culture. Our fascination and (relatively recent) reverence for wildness flows against our bristling irrational fears and ignorance of it. For several centuries we have easily justified (and gratified) a persistent need to dominate and “develop” the wild lands, irrevocably.
That tamed dog’s dirge-like howl—it tries to stir something buried deeply in us, now all but utterly lost. The Redbone’s mournful music is a gutteral requiem to the vanished ways of a much harder but simpler, more sane life. It wakens vital connections between our own kind, and the furtive creatures who keep their delicate lives in the remaining vulnerable wilderness.
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The response of the great Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas, when asked about his beginnings in poetry:
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“You want to know why and how I just began to write poetry. . . .
“To answer this question, I should say I wanted to write poetry in the beginning because I had fallen in love with words. The first poems I knew were nursery rhymes, and before I could read them for myself I had come to love just the words of them, the words alone. What the words stood for, symbolized, or meant, was of very secondary importance. What mattered was the sound of them as I heard them for the first time on the lips of the remote and incomprehensible grown-ups whom seemed, for some reason, to be living in my world.
“And these words were, to me, as the notes of bells, the sounds of musical instruments, the noises of wind, sea, and rain, the rattle of milkcarts, the clopping of hooves on cobbles, the fingering of branches on a window pane, might be to someone, deaf from birth, who has miraculously found his hearing. I did not care what the words said, overmuch, not what happened to Jack and Jill and the Mother Goose rest of them; I cared for the shapes of sound that their names, and the words describing their actions, made in my ears, I cared for the colors the words cast on my eyes. I realize that I may be, as I think back all that way, romanticizing my reactions to the simple and beautiful words of those pure poems; but that is all I can honestly remember, however much time might have falsified my memory.
“I fell in love—that is the only expression I can think of—at once, and am still at the mercy of words, though sometimes now, knowing a little of their behavior very well, I think I can influence them slightly and have even learned to get the best them now and then, which they appear to enjoy.
“I fell for words at once. And when I began to read the nursery rhymes for myself, and later, to read other verses and ballads, I knew that I had discovered the most important things, to me, that could be ever. There they were, seemingly lifeless, made only of black and white, but out of them, out of their own being, came love and terror and pity and pain and wonder and all the other vague abstractions that make our ephemeral lives dangerous, great, and bearable. “
—Dylan Thomas
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In My Craft or Sullen Art
In my craft or sullen art
exercised in the still night
when only the moon rages
and the lovers lie abed
with all their griefs in their arms,
I labor by singing light
not for ambition or bread
or the strut and trade of charms
on the ivory stages
but for the common wages
of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
from the raging moon I write
on these spindrift pages
nor for the towering dead
with their nightingales and psalms
but for the lovers, their arms
round the griefs of the ages,
who pay no praise or wages
nor heed my craft or art.
–Dylan Thomas
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Today, the Warm September Wind. . .
. . .went rustling high, large dry leaves
of withering oaks, talking
in rough whispers
far above the path I walked.
Their voices recalled the shuffling pages
of scripture—hosts of thirsting people
down the long centuries, turning
the sheets of thin dry paper
young and aging fingers, searching
book and chapter, verse and line, certain
quenching words of truth—
—Heads bowed like deer, each one drinks
those lucid pools of living water:
ancient fountains, flowing down
beyond the bite of time’s yellowed tooth,
above the rustling autumn wind.
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“As the deer pants for the water brooks
so my soul pants for You, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.” –Psalm 42: vs. 1-2
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Three Meditations on White
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Those high wild wisps of Cirrus
like spirits, or sails, long white tales of mares
crossing the prairies and seas of sunset sky;
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Those soft glimmerings in the far
shadowy meadows—the backs of Appaloosas
stepping slowing, gracefully into the trees at dusk;
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And close at hand, near my chair:
one white September rose, soft curled petals
barely stirring, the cooling twilight air.
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(and a fourth):
“Every good thing given is from above,
coming down from the Father of Lights,
in whom there is no variation
or shifting shadow” --James chapter 1, verse 17
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“The truest use to be made of all the imperfections of which you are conscious is neither to justify, excuse them, blame on others, nor to condemn yourself for them, but to present them before God, giving them to Him, conforming your will to His will. In this surrender, you may return to peace; for peace is the divine order, in whatever circumstances you may be.” —adapted from Fenelon
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“You will find it less easy to uproot your faults, than it is to choke them by gaining virtues in their place. (Although it seems a holy thing to do) do not think overmuch of your faults; still less of the faults of others. Rather, in every person who comes near you, look for what is good and strong in them: honor that, rejoice in it, even. Christ’s light is far brighter than all the darkness!
Keep your eyes, your thoughts, on what is holy, and you will gradually find your self transformed, your faults dropping off like dead leaves……
—-adapted from John Ruskin, born 1819
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Waking, 3 a.m., I go downstairs
to sit in the darkness with the Spirit of Light,
breathe slow and deeply
listen to the cool September night.
A waning half-moon radiates the land.
Thick clouds are blowing from the south.
Night wind sighs long, the black limbs of pines.
The chimes like crusted sea-bells ring,
rocking midnight waves.
Crickets keep their sweet singing,
little rusted wheels.
Far off, a lone dog barks.
All the indoor noises hushed, the clock awakes,
takes measured steady steps into the dark.
These restful breaths, this human heart
walks in time the certain rhythm.
They have an inner knowing:
one night they’ll lie down, quiet, for good.
The clock walks on, toward Dawn.
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For Olav Hauge
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Cool gold-green lights, I’m reading old Olav
again—-that weathered rustic poet from Ulvik,
the vast rock-slabs of west Norway.
Again summer’s emerald radiance tarnishes
toward shadows, bronze and rust.
Thrushes hushed now in the forest.
Tall yellow grasses, insects chant
their last feeble songs before the frost.
My old coat and hat feel good again.
His words read rugged and tender,
raw pain, sparse passion
arctic blossoms, the tall ice walls.
Ragged sea-mists gusting upward,
the deep blue fjords of his heart.
His steep crags of mind—jagged rocks,
high and windy scarps
—he takes us there in mountain wind,
closer to Creation’s wild heart
joyfully alone.
Sweet tangs of apple smoke drift up
from the pruned orchard fires,
smoldering far below.
Salt breath, fresh from the North Sea
sings the holy wildness in my bones.
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—Quilla
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Mountaintop thistles in September
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“I lift my eyes to the mountains. From where does my help come?
My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.”
–Psalm 121, vs. 1-2
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Katahdin, north face from Pamola
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Katahdin
Today through thin September mist
old Katahdin’s grey north face stares at me,
looking back across six autumns.
High on his wind-scoured granite brow, I know
cold gusts are rattling the bristling Krummholz—
waist-high twisted birch and spruce,
gnarled roots clawing the steep scree slopes
at timberline, a hundred winters worth of wind.
Above these last few tortured dwarfs
lie open fields of rock—the broken teeth
of glaciers, gnawing ten thousand winters back—
crusted lichen, ice-withered grasses, I hear them
whispering words to the empty sky.
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Krummholz skeletons, on Katahdin
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Waking
(For Farrah)
Slowly the night songs diminish.
With dawning lights, our dreams
lift their thin dark wings, depart.
Shadows walk back into the woods.
Veils of thick autumn mist move through
the old fences, vanishing.
Along the far meadows’edge, tall poplars
stand quaking, yellow, the slightest stirrings
of cool September air.
Like so many people we have known
each summer leaf finally lets go.
And we can do nothing less, or more
than let them.
We hear soft whispers, each one falls
and fades.
Bare limbs remain, so full
of grace, sweeping downward, silently
lift with praise.
Far below winter, or summer
their deep roots drink freely
from the secret springs.
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–Quilla, 9.25.11
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September Wind
(For Natallie)
Morning again, opening
the doors—moist wind
rushes through the birches,
rustles yesterday’s papers
in the quiet room, slams
an upstairs door.
Each long gust swirling down
roily grey skies
tears loose a small flock
of yellow-green leaves,
setting them free,
their long summer work
in the sun.
I watch them spinning, fluttering
flying away by the hundreds,
taking summer with them.
And so much more.
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–Quilla
9.26.11
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Before…
. . .there can be any taking on,
there must be a letting go.
If we’re to see a thing,
first, we stop gazing at its enemy.
To go there. . .
. . .we must leave here.
Too simple, you say?
Yes—one of the shallowest
and deepest rivers that flow.
Paul said: take off those rags.
Then, put on this robe.
We can’t wear both
although we try.
Once the LORD told a man:
“It’s time to break camp.
Let’s climb higher now, the view
gets so much greater. You’ll see.”
“–be right with you. Let me pack
my binoculars, my camera, put on
my mountain boots, get my. . .”
“You won’t be needing those.”
He said, and beckoned, turning
to climb into the higher rocks.
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–Quilla
9.27.11
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September Persimmons
Plump with the sweetness
and heat of summer, ripe persimmons
are falling, dropping to the leaves,
the quiet morning street.
The fat little globes of meaty fruit
glisten with cold dew,
glow with early light.
From a high open window
–an old house of student apartments—
fall the sparkling notes of harpsichord
and flute, composed by Bach
three centuries ago.
The music fuses with the spangled strings
of misty light, the whispering leaves,
the quiet morning street.
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–Quilla
9.28.11
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Our Memories of Indians
Still early, blue night mist
rises up the mountain slopes, like smoke.
Already the high ridgelines glow scarlet.
Autumn approaches, the wild painted face
of a ghost.
Each winter walks down to us slowly, like this—
ice crackling beneath his fierce old steps
the ancient snowswept trails.
And this is how summer always leaves us:
silently, flowers rusting in our hand.
Birds fly across the wide land at night.
Their fragile skulls keep the earth’s deep pulse,
they listen to the ticking stars.
The crows will stay all winter.
Like our charred black memories of the Indians.
Cool winds chant and rattle the golden poplar trees.
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—Quilla
9.29.11
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As Small Children
Cicadas were always rattling loud, singing
like serpents in the summer trees.
After picnic sandwiches, and naps
in the green shadows of the large pines,
we ran through the mowed clover meadow.
But at the bottom of the field—
we had to cross a weedy creek,
barefoot on the reptile stones.
That was the scary part.
Before we could get to the clean blue
laughing swimming pool, first
our little feet tiptoed past
the dark stream, walked across
the sleeping rocks.
Brown snakes sometimes slithered there
in muddy shadows.
Above the chuckling waters
the electric Nimbus air glittered
with Damsel Flies—quick black wings
flicking like snake tongues,
thread-thin bodies like turquoise needles
flitting through the weeds.
Teasing us, the older children
tried to act brave, calling them “Snake Feeders”.
But I knew they were afraid too.
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–Quilla
9.28.11
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Mountain Ash, clouds and rime ice on Great Craggy Dome, October 1.11. . . . .(can you HEAR he wind?)
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October First
The One who lives outside of time
has given us again these yellow leaves —
the ones we call October.
I was born into the time of yellowing leaves.
This morning, breakfast with my mother.
Outside the steamy window, cold wind shakes the trees.
Clouds wrap the mountaintops like shrouds.
Over coffee, we gather a few bright bits
of memory the wind blew down
from all the forests we have known.
Later, I drive up into the mountains, alone.
Winds from the far Saskatchewan prairies
blow rags of mist across the peaks.
Like an autumn woman, sweeping every corner
of her house—the dried petals,
the last of summer’s ribbons and dust.
Clouds are freezing on the tossing trees,
the first rime of winter crusts the rocks.
Brief shafts of sun, one Raven
flies fast across the shadowed slopes.
Lord of the mountains and the turning sky:
“Our times are in your hands”.
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Snow clouds, Watershed for Asheville NC, from Craggy Mtns., 10.1.11
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–Quilla
10.1.11
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After Talking with a Friend
October’s topaz light.
Hang up the phone, stand at the window
a few moments in the autumn sun
and dry my eyes—
—our kindred sharing across long months,
a thousand miles of earth.
How words can cross great distances
break the surfaces
turn up deep and shining furrows
Opening our fields to the light:
the secret subsoils, the broken stones
lying buried in the heart.
October’s topaz sun
paints with dazzled light
the shimmering wind, the thinning trees.
Windy shadow-branches dancing
care-less, playful at my feet,
make shadow-patterns on the patio
These ragged childlike mimes remind us
the reckless beauty,
the quickly burning year.
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–Quilla
10.4.11
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October Pears, from Natallie’s childhood tree
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Sumac Leaves
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October Pears
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Down in a forgotten weedy corner
of the garden, the sun’s last rays burn
the crimson pennants of a Sumac tree.
I walk down to get a picture,
closeup.
As often happens, you find more
than what you went to find.
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The evening air, already chill
sings with dying crickets.
In tall yellow grasses, Yellowjackets
are feeding on ripened golden pears
fallen, already half-eaten—coyotes
and raccoons foraging there
these cool clear nights of moon.
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I recall planting that Bartlett
—a spindly twig in a plastic bucket—
ten springs or so ago, with my Lisa
when she was golden-haired, and eight.
I believe she gave it a name
but I forget. Anyway, it was her tree.
Now she’s moved away.
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I take the Sumac picture.
And pick an armload
of the large green-gold pears, I forgot
were growing there, while she grew up.
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–Quilla
10.4.11
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Singing the Old Hymns
This morning twelve of us from church
drove to the Baptist Nursing Home
to sing the older hymns.
Down the florescent linoleum hall and through
the locked double doors, we found them—
fifteen or twenty crumpled white ghosts
of humans in bathrobes–mostly women
and a few men, sitting in a very warm bright room
silently staring, waiting, waiting.
Blue-veined delicate hands
had held and given so much life
lay folded quiet, or twitching, in their laps.
Our songleader/guitarist good-natured Nate
with the red beard, introduced us.
His joy briefly displaced the obvious
yet unspoken truth, spelled out
in precious faces gazing pitifully,
blankly back at us.
Were any of them here, to hear us sing
because they wanted to be?
Using the Home’s old brown hymnals, we sang
fervently: the Cross, the Blood, the Spirit
with fresh exuberance (I felt the sweat
like blood, trickle down my spine).
Everything living in us
wanted to dispel the horrid spell
cast upon those withering lives,
cast upon us all.
We were born for more than this!
After the singing we greeted them,
held a moment the bones of thin blue hands,
poured love into their wistful eyes.
And then wanting to escape the truth
we said good-bye,
and walked back down the empty hall.
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–Quilla
For Everyone
A giant oak stands in the meadow, glowing
low October light, throwing shadows
dark with long wisdom.
Many thousands of summer leaves
are burning quickly down to gold, to rust.
Soon every one of them will fade and blow.
Each year we hear their song we softly weep.
My daughter has called, we talk at length—
her struggles with friends, trying to find
the love she wants, she needs
to get and to give.
We were made for this.
Beneath the branches of the autumn oak,
below the bitter winds that come, and go,
under the frosted grass
down where the deep roots drink
the earth is warm, its water sweet.
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As it sets, the sun shines perfectly round
and gold. Pure light falls on a silhouette
grotesque: a strong and twisted tree:
bare knotted limbs have filled themselves
with angry snarling crows.
Each of us knows their bitter words, by heart.
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There also stands unseen
like a true promise—a Tree of Life:
never sheds its leaves, but sings
an emerald river song, an ancient fountain
flowing over tumbled silver stones.
The Tree’s fruit is perfect forgiving love.
We may eat freely of it, if we dare.
It is more real than anything
we have ever felt, or seen, or known.
We eat and swallow, our old self dies
and falls away, like autumn leaves.
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–Quilla
10.7.11
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Weathered Locust Fenceposts
Shine silver, leaning in the autumn light.
Their shadow rows grow long
across the horsepaths, the dying grass.
Wild turkeys walk out into the open,
fattening for winter—the swollen seeds.
An evening wind rises again
stripping limbs of their summer leaves.
A neighborhood woman who loved well
withers with cancer, like a grey wind.
Her wealthy husband keeps mowing the grass
in endless droning circles, mowing the grass.
He will see things, sleepless and alone
long winter nights
he thought he’d never have to see.
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–Quilla
10.8.11
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October Night
Autumn storm blows in
across the deep night, rainy limbs
scratching the windows of dreams.
Beyond the dark glass, tall birches–
half their leaves already gone, branches
rise and fall, slowly rise and fall
like young girls jumping rope
in slow motion, as in a dream, singing silently
soft wind-rhythms of the black birch limbs
like slow waves swelling, always falling back.
The black shapes of remaining leaves
move like choirs of singing lips, whispering lips
saying silent words, singing silent music
into the deep night, beyond
the dark glass, the windows of dreams.
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–Quilla
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Apologies
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I’m sure by now you’ve noticed
how some ‘apologies’ go—
yes, the ones you’ve tried to pawn,
and the ones you have received.
You know the routine: you listen to him–
the first few seconds, literally,
how he might have wronged your soul.
But now you hear the comma coming,
and not true Godly sorrow
ending softly with a period.
A plea for recompense.
Instead, the tone is sourly tinged
with that familiar sting—-the watered-down vinegar
of self-righteousness, bent on some revenge.
And after the comma, of course
comes the real reason for the call—-
—the next minute or two, or three
gushes out, letting you know all
the ways you wronged him:
“oh, if only you would be
how I want you to be!”
–Quilla
10.10.11
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A Wild Turkey mother walks out of the woods
into the morning sun. Her six young,
nearly grown, still follow her, remaining
from the clutch of fourteen eggs,
so many claws and teeth wanting them,
the cold and rainy spring.
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The gold October sun glints iridescent
their dark folded wings.
How carefully they inspect the tall grass stems
and weeds for insects, for autumn’s ripened seeds.
They step cautiously, bent over, clucking
examining everything, like old women
picking through bric-a-brac and dishes
at a flea market, early in the fall.
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–Quilla
10.10.11
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North Fork Reservoir, near Asheville NC
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Mountain Ash and Rime ice, October 1, Craggy Gardens NC
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Morning sun through nightmist and Asters
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October Moon
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Sumac leaves
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October morning sun
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Wooden bucket in spring house, near Barnardsville NC
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Trail through rhododendron and Mountain Ash, Craggy Gardens NC
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Spider web, birch leaf, morning dew
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Old Jake, Heritage Festival, October 8.11, Dillingham NC
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Craggy Gardens, October 1, 11
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A gaggle of gourds in October
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White Pine needles
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From Craggy Gardens NC, 10.1.11
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Spinning Wheel, Carson Cabin, Dillingham NC
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Looking down from the high country, North Fork of Swannanoa River basin
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October Daisies
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Morning sun through birch leaves
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Autumn reflections, Ivy River NC
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Heritage Festival, Dillingham NC
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Old Fence and Asters
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Spider web and Asters
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Mountain Ash, Rhododendron and Rime ice, October 1 Craggy Gardens NC
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“Black-eyed Susans” (rudbeckia) and Asters
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Hand-caned chair in spring house, Dillingham NC
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October Rose
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October Rose
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‘In the early mornin rain..”
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Yielding our Wills
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” It is not in the multitude of hard duties, it is not striving and contention that advance us in our Christian course. On the contrary, it is the active yielding of our wills–without restriction and without choice–to walk cheerfully each day in the path which Providence gives us:
to seek nothing out of selfishness; to be discouraged by nothing; to see our duty in each present moment;
to trust all else without reserve to the will and the power of our loving Father God. “
–adapted from the writings of Fenelon, pub. in Daily Strength for Daily Needs
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“Godliness is the devotion of the soul to God, as to a living person whose will is its law, whose love is its very life.
Godliness is this habit of living before the face of God, and not simply doing certain (good) things. “
–J.Baldwin Brown, b.1820
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“In whatever state you are called upon to do, endeavor to maintain a calm, collected, and prayerful state of mind. Self-recollection is of great importance. ‘It is good for a man to quietly wait for the salvation of the LORD’. He who is in a spiritual hurry, or is anxious, or who runs without having evidence of being spiritually guided and sent—he makes haste to no purpose.”
–T.C. Upham (1799-1872)
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A Tragic Irony
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How deeply sad—we and millions like us
bathe religiously, dress up
every Sabbath morning,
and make our well-memorized way
to the open church door, once again.
We leave them waiting at the door
an hour or two—
the long, heavy rattling chains,
the small and large cages
we’ve been dragging, dying in for years.
The festive circus tent, the ring leaders
stir us up, make us want to smile,
forget a while, pretend there’s nothing
waiting at the door for us
when we leave to go back home.
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–Quilla
10.18.11
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“But I warn you—unless your righteousness is better than that of the teachers of the religious law and the Pharisees, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven!” –Jesus, Matthew 5: 20
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From the above “warning scripture” spoken by Jesus himself, if we stop and ponder it, we are prompted to ask, to wonder: so what is true righteousness, or goodness? If those super-religious guys weren’t good enough, who is? Certainly those listening to the Master’s enigmatic words wondered the same thing.
To understand this fundamental truth, we must first know those to whom He was referring. The ‘teachers of the religious law and the Pharisees’ represented the powerful ones, the leaders, who were in control of the Hebrew faith. They were the elite, ostensibly ‘in touch with God’. Their equivalent today are the professional religionists, the teachers and preachers who (presumably) know more about God than the layman. They assume the heavy responsibility of teaching others about God.
As always, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing; talk is cheap, life is expensive, and true love is often messy and very costly, indeed.
As we can tell by their fruit, many religious proclaimers and teachers are Godly men and women; yet many of them are pretenders, hollow frauds who do more damage than good. We need to remember that even the best of them know they are fallen, broken humans, the “poor in spirit”, in daily need of a Savior and LORD. To such as these belongs the Kingdom of God, as Jesus makes clear in His first blessing, Matthew 5:3.
But of greater relevance to all of us is this: these leaders were complacent, content and somewhat proud of their righteousness. They had ‘arrived’, thought they had it made, since the system was under their control. Also, their goodness consisted of thinking themselves better than others: “I do this, I don’t do that”, etc.
If we are totally honest with ourselves, isn’t the ‘righteousness’, or goodness, of each of us often stained with such polluted thoughts, sometimes a very subtle arrogance of exclusion? (Unfortunately, in the last 30 years or so, this pharisaical virus has infected the Body of Christ through the medium of politics).
As we open ourselves to evaluate these ugly truths, it becomes clear that we each and all need a much greater, more truly radical sort of goodness. Pure righteousness is found only through faith in Christ Jesus–the One who fulfilled completely the requirements of the oppressive Law, for us.
–Quilla
10.19.11
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Christmas Parade (!?), Asheville NC
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“Don’t let evil conquer you, but conquer evil by doing good”. –Romans 12:21
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” If we wish to overcome evil, we must overcome it by good. There are doubtless many ways of overcoming the evil in our own hearts, but the simplest, easiest, most universal, is to overcome it by active occupation in some good word or work. The best antidote against evil of all kinds, against the evil thoughts which haunt the soul, against the needless perplexities which distract the conscience, is to keep hold of the good we have. Impure thoughts will not stand against pure thoughts, and words, and prayers, and deeds. Little doubts will not avail against great certainties.
Fix your affections on things above, and then you will be less and less troubled by the cares, the temptations, the troubles of things on earth.” –Arthur Penryhn Stanley, (1815-1852)
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The Late October Light
Last Saturday morning, I was putting out new signs on three farm properties in northwest Yancey. With the last sign in the ground, I headed back up the road along the winding river. Cold winds had been rising all morning. Slate gray clouds from the north were roiling a heavy mist across the mountain ridges. Once again, summer is gone.
Such stormy autumn light is ideal for taking photographs. Softer radiance saturates the intense colors. As I was pondering a river scene bright with lavender Asters, late-season thunder rumbled down the mountain hollows. Large raindrops began dimpling the surface of a dark pool.
A few nights earlier, hard rain and wind had torn down many leaves. Now the gold October land fades in the beauty of daily falling light, longer shadows. Between the Equinox (a month ago) and the winter Solstice (two months, yet) the northern half of earth tilts back into the frigid darkness of black space. So the sun rides lower through the winter sky. We’re given these few mellowing weeks–to reflect, and to prepare. The air flickers with summer birds, leaving for lower elevations until spring. We hear chain saws gnawing in the distance.
Crows are cawing, pecking among the stubble rows of cornfields shorn bare of their crop. A few ragged stalks stand around the edges like starved prophets, whispering—some cryptic words of the lost green summer, the coming winter with its spears of blue ice. Backyard gardens have gone rank with weeds and rotting squash. Large Dahlias the colors of Burgundy wine and melons bring us a shallowing joy, these deepening days. Each sunset comes earlier.
Traveling upriver, I see the gray skeletons of big Hemlocks bending over the rushing waters. They are dying from the ravages of a tiny exotic insect: an aphid-like Adelgid, killing millions of this ancient Appalachian evergreen. There is little we can do but remember their green lacy beauty and watch them die.
Gradually my way winds back toward the settlements. There is always infinitely more than can be caught with camera, brush or pen. I relish my bonds to the Yancey mountains and people— deeply genetic and generational, yet rich with personal discovery and remembrance, these last several decades.
Leaving the painted river valley, I stop at Davis Farms vegetable stand on Cane River Road. The people are friendly among baskets of the fragrant harvest: apples and pumpkins, ripe candyroasters, peppers, honey and beans. They give me a spoon to taste their best molasses. I savor the sweet amber goodness, craving a pan of hot buttermilk biscuits—the kind my grandmother baked in the smoky morning shadows of Mt. Mitchell, an earlier time, the cold headwaters of the Cane.
–Quilla, 10.21.11
This article is written for The Yancey Journal
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First Frost
Sunlight gleams, first frost—
the summer land glistens,
smokes and steams.
Having killed the last flowers
now ice crystals dissolve
and dissipate like mist, like curses,
or blessings lost,
like summer dreams.
–Quilla
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” I have noticed that wherever there has been a faithful following of the LORD in a consecrated soul, several things have inevitably followed, sooner or later. Meekness, and a quietness of spirit become in time the characteristics of the daily life:
A submissive acceptance of the will of God as it comes in the hourly events of each day;
Pliability in the hands of God, to do or to suffer all the good pleasure of His will;
Sweetness under provocation; calmness in the midst of turmoil and bustle;
Yieldingness to the wishes of others, and an insensibility to slights and affronts;
Absence of worry and anxiety; deliverance from care and fear;
—all these, and many similar graces, are found to be the natural outward development of that inward life
which is hidden with Christ, in God.”
–Mrs. Hannah Whitehall Smith (pub. 1875)
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As I have been pondering these beautiful Christlike truths the last few days, I find my soul both convicted by the lack of each particular quality in me, along with a deep hunger for each to manifest more clearly in my daily life. I also desire these sweet fruits to grow in the lives of my close friends and loved ones.
Indeed, one must seriously wonder why these fundamental reflections of Christ are not seen in greater abundance and depth, among those of us who claim to be His followers. It is a perplexing matter, both for Christians, and for the world who is watching and listening to us.
All too often we hear convicting statements like: “I have no problem with Christ; it’s Christians I have difficulty with”. We are too frequently known by self-righteousness, stubbornness and pride; our strong and critical opinions; hypocrisy and judgmentalism; irritability, impatience and anger; our tendency to be loud and talk much about ourselves, rather than carefully listen. Sadly, none of these reflect the person or the Spirit of Christ Jesus. In a very real sense, everyone is needy and waiting, for Christ to appear, if only in the ‘small’ events and persons that inhabit our days.
I think part of the reason for these tragic inconsistencies so obvious in us is this: we want the Christ nature, yes; for nothing is sweeter, stronger, more peaceful, loving and full of truth. But, and here is the catch: we also want to hang on to our old natures, and indulge them as well. We think we can put on the robe of Christ over our old rags of self; we can not. It will not fit. We fail to reckon our old natures crucified with Christ, daily. He clothes us in our naked helplessness before Him, or not at all. Jesus was very clear: “I did not come for those who are well, but for those who are sick, in need of a Savior”.
We also carry many old deep wounds and unforgiven offenses. These embitter and cripple our soul. Thus we do not and can not reflect the image of Christ clearly.
As His devout followers, we are to be known by our forgiving love, and a quietness of spirit—all the qualities in the above meditation. Please read them each again, slowly, and ponder them. Allow Christ’s Holy Spirit to remove the obstacles to their radiance, in you.
—Quilla
10.23.11
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Counseling Retreat on Echo Mountain
for Brian and Linda Jacobson
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Late afternoon, late October.
My fourth long session of the week
is over—the buried body of pain exhumed,
now joy can rise on strong white wings.
Flickering amber light of afternoon
I sit quietly, the cool radiance
a rescued conscript
wounded in the human war.
Storm clouds approach over the blue mountains
under the lowering sun.
A large Poplar behind me rushes
waves of evening wind, like the autumn sea.
Leaves come whirling, fluttering down
around my feet, all the lost years.
A thousand summer leaves, like voices
scrape the empty parking lot.
(A white jet curves around the mountaintop,
dropping toward the airport a few miles north.)
Mid-night I woke from troubled dreams.
Through a window the twisted dead limbs
of an old Dogwood shone, like bones
in the streetlamp, grim ancestral bones.
I woke at dawn. Three tall Poplars
glowed like hammered gold,
like holy fire: the first day,
the rest of my life.
–Quilla
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An Early Morning in Late Autumn
After leaves have fallen
before the snows
the room is cool with soft blue light.
A dream comes sifting down
at dawn:
Two old friends from years ago
are walking across frozen mountains
trying to find me.
They call and call, by the cold ashes
of old fires.
But only echoes answer them.
I had packed up, broken camp
moved on.
–Quilla
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November Morning
And the white roses
are bristling with frost.
The land is still, silent now—
an old man grizzled blue
with whiskers of ice.
Out of the somber grey trees
a few Titmice and Chickadees
fly down to feed.
They chatter such warm little songs at me
into the vast frozen air: could it possibly be
“thank you for the seed” ?
–Quilla
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“In everything give thanks;
for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” –1Thessalonians chptr 5, vs 18
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A Vision
They have known, and loved
one another so long and so well
the usual prickly separateness
—the hell of being human—
is no longer there.
They move around and even through
one another, like smoke, or ghosts
—the truly beautiful ones who’ve died
to the need to be first.
Their life together makes a rare music—
strong and delicate strings, thrumming.
The fragrance of apple blooms
mingled and humming, softly
the warm spring wind.
–Quilla
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“Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words
and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior.
Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted,
forgiving one another, just as God, through Christ
has forgiven you”. –Ephesians chptr 4, vs 31-32
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Plum leaves, frost
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Orion is Rising
This morning early, a Cardinal
came to the frozen birdbath pool.
His sturdy yellow beak pecked through
the hard skim of ice, and he drank.
In deep evening chill, Orion is rising—
tiny sapphires, sparkling in the black trees.
A crescent moon the color of fire
is setting on the purple hill.
–Quilla
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Blueberry sunrise, November
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Worn-out Garments
Such crisp stillness.
Thick furry crystals of frost.
The last yellow leaves let go
crashing, hushing down
the barren limbs.
These waning days, the weakening star,
daily lowering light.
Old woman Earth strips naked again,
folds her ragged worn-out garments
into the long shadows,
puts another year away.
Yet as we watch our withering pages turn,
we’re not left comfortless: another Book
keeps burning like a desert tree,
its flames of Love will not go out.
–Quilla
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“Heaven and earth shall pass away,
but My Word shall never pass away”.
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All night, cold rain rattled the trees.
In sparkled morning light, the summer lane
is a carpet of wet, dead leaves.
Feeling winter’s black hunger
and strong white teeth, a bear came close
in the rainy darkness.
She tore down, ravaged the feeders of their seeds.
I cursed.
But something in me praised.
We look inside, hear the inner courts:
the lawyers of fear, and of love
both stir up good arguments—
how tender nature suckles, nurtures
and murders her own, no explanations.
How silky birdnests fill with snow
and bits of tiny bone.
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Beside the River in Autumn
Here, the dark and shining waters sigh.
The cold November sun falls
molten silver, sinking
under a ridge of tall black trees.
Its last rays glimmer on the shoals.
A small island of tumbled boulders stands
wracked with drift and broken things,
years of storm debris.
A few gold leaves remain, flickering.
These endless chords of water song
remind—the early years, long hours
by the shore, listening: timeless rhythms
rumbled the beautiful, the terrible
giving, taking ocean.
Now, in grey falling light one grey Heron
glides downriver with the wind:
broad wings opening, closing.
Yet another day floats downstream
into the dark gorge—
such quiet elegance at twilight,
slow and rhythmic motion.
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–Quilla
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In the sixth grade at age 12, my teacher was a rather harsh aunt, one of my father’s older sisters. I seemed to be her ‘pet project’–to criticize and humiliate in a variety of ways, at the tender age of 12. She might have believed that she was being hard toward me ‘for my own good’, of course. (That’s the way teachers and parents of those days justified a great deal of damaging behavior).
One of the ways she humiliated me was to make me memorize “To a Waterfowl”, and recite it in front of the class. I do not remember any of the other students having to do this. It was probably a form of punishment or discipline, I don’t remember. So I did recite the poem, but I was not led to enjoy or understand it, which I rediscovered a number of years later to be quite lovely indeed.
Now, 5o autumns later, I had occasion last evening to write my own ‘to a waterfowl’ poem. It didn’t actually occur to me until after I’d written it, that this was the 5oth anniversary of my having to memorize a poem about a waterfowl winging its way home in the twilight.
–Quilla
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November Moon
Far to the north, my daughter calls me
just after sunset, to share
the risen autumn moon.
Her New England skies, already black
are bristly with stars.
Here, a few long stratus clouds hang low
over the western mountains, burning
coral and smoke, shades of winter love.
In my pale blue east, a nearly full moon
shines white as a tumbled river stone.
It climbs over the woodshed, through bare limbs
into empty sky.
The stream of pure light enters her eyes
and mine, the same instant
a thousand miles apart.
We laugh with each other, recalling
the wonder: a little girl’s skies.
Finally, we say goodnight, and hang up.
Doves have gone silent in the black pines.
The coral clouds have turned to ash.
I go inside, to cook the evening meal.
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–Quilla
“Be exalted above the heavens, O God;
Let your glory be above all the earth”!
–Psalm 57: vs 11
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–Quilla
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November Eleventh
This high bare bone of ridge—
dead grasses and wind.
Stripped of leaves, a few wind-bent trees
moaning softly, God’s winter words.
Dark mountains to the north.
Low clouds gust across the sun.
Flower meadows burned with frost.
A few Bluebirds left from summer
flit from tree to tree,
warbling into the hard wind.
Large oaks living below the ridge
still keep their leaves, resilient
like wisdom—thick leathery November leaves,
the year’s bright rust, rejoicing.
They rattle with tough joy, like coins
or prayers in the coppery light, as I walk past.
How well I know their song.
Each passing year strengthens my spirit-bones.
Far below in the valley, wide patches of sunlight
are crossed with shadows.
Another cold evening comes.
On winding roads, tiny yellow buses
are taking the children home.
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–Quilla
” My soul waits for the LORD,
more than the watchmen wait for the morning.
I wait for the LORD, my soul waits,
and in his word I put my hope.”
–Psalm 130: vs 5&6
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Faces
Deep November.
Surrounded by darkening forests
the faces of pale fields rest now,
radiate the softer light.
In the same way
Rembrandt’s tender faces
gaze at us from deep shadow
with love, with sorrow, with truth.
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–Quilla
“In Him we move, and live, and have our being.
For we are his children.”
–Acts 17: vs 28
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For Cairn
Today I cut down all the stems of dead flowers
cultivated and watered for you
through the long warm months.
I rake their sad rattling bodies together,
gather them into large armloads,
carry them to a pile to be burned.
You ask me to cut the last few roses
that escaped the frost.
You take the year’s final bouquet,
and give it to an old dear friend.
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–Quilla
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“Those who sow in tears shall reap
with joyful singing.
He who goes to and fro weeping
shall indeed come again with a shout
of joy, bringing his sheaves with him.”
–Psalm 126: vs 5&6
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Night Psalm
An hour or so before dawn
I sit in darkness, quietly looking out—
the frozen moonlit land.
The woman I’ve loved these many years
lies upstairs, curled in her warm sleep.
A long coal train rumbles low beside the river.
The wall clock ticks and ticks . . .
Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply, slowly,
still and knowing
the Spirit’s timeless peace.
O how many: angers, lusts and fears
small and large, new and old
want to haunt, to harm our tender souls!
We must banish them, tell them all to go.
Yes. One by one, like night shadows,
we choose to let them go.
I open my eyes.
The full white moon descends,
shining through limbs of empty trees.
The purple east begins to glow.
*
–Quilla
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“Be still, and know
that I am God.” –Psalm 46: 10
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“My heart is not proud, O LORD,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters,
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
O put your hope in the LORD,
both now, and forevermore.” –Psalm 131
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Investment
A mild mid-autumn afternoon
moist wind scudding pewter clouds
out of the southwest hills
Now I bury in cold red clay
handfuls of bone-white bulbs
from Holland: Daffodils and Tulips.
What hidden pastel hues, lush petals
folded like secrets, unborn light and music
deep inside these little skulls of flesh.
From a window, opened wide
to the springlike wind—Bach, then Haydn.
A gaunt old oak rattles its withered leaves.
*
–Quilla
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“I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls
to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed.
But if it dies, it produces many seeds. Whoever serves me
must follow me.” –Jesus. (John chptr. 12, vs 24,26)
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Waking
The storm has finished.
We wake to soft silence,
rooms of silver light.
The wild horses of hard rain
the long autumn night
inexorably depart.
Hemlocks along the dark wood’s edge
release silk fingers of mist.
Fog wraiths walk through the broken stalks,
our frost-ravaged garden.
Without a word, they vanish into the black trees.
Something wayward—some fear in us
wants to leave, and follow.
Through these bright windows
storm-darkened hearts gaze out, longing
faith stronger than the summer leaves.
Stark November branches show us—
raindrop jewelry, diamond filigree.
Every morning we’re given
awakened life: invisible streams
in a wandering desert,
opportunities to give, receive love,
the taste of breakfast tea.
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–Quilla
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“Because of the LORD’s great love
we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself: the LORD is my portion;
therefore, I will wait for him.
The LORD is good to those whose hope
is in him, to the one who seeks him.
It is good, to wait quietly
for the salvation of the LORD.”
–Lamentations, 3: 22-26
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Praise
Late, I walk out, raise a tired face
to the cold night sky:
wisps of ice-cloud, red Aldebaran
Betelgeuse and blue Rigel
sparkle through the leafless trees.
A few windless snow crystals
sift down the infinite darkness,
touch my face, my eyes.
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—Quilla
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“Who makes the Bear, Orion and the Pleiades?”
-Job chptr 9, vs 9
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Present
Thick fog fills the wooded hollows
of morning, long white silences.
Far off in the void, a flock of crows barks.
Tiny globes of water glisten
swell and drop from the winter trees.
On the invisible hill,
a hammer knocks and knocks,
nails banging into wood
someone building something.
Each sharp blow, like a shot
starts, stops: drops into the silent past.
Whatever we make this morning
—wood, paint, words, touch, song—
will last long, long into the future
many years, yet far off.
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–Quilla
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Radiance
For Natallie
Morning sun turns the frozen blue land
to plumes of rising mist.
Ghosts of steam walk the meadow frost.
Out of dark thickets, the last scarlet leaves
reach like flames, burning flakes of life
in streams of light.
The night shadows see all this, and leave.
What power winter holds: earth turns away
from the sun. Long nights, molecules of ice
lay everything to waste. All seems lost.
Our life is kindled by the Light, however far.
We choose to let the Day Star enter
the ravaged thickets, the thorns and shadows
of our heart.
Unborn flowers and fruit lie dormant there.
We lift our scarlet rags like banners, torn
with burning joy to the risen Son.
–Quilla
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“In Him was life, and that life was the light of men.
The light shines in the darkness,
but the darkness has not understood it.” –John chptr 1, vs4-5
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‘Remains of the Day’
Now the leaves are down
the dim November sun reveals
—high up, in hickory limbs—
a large Hornet’s nest, spun
of hard wild paper, bleached grey
and fastened tough
against the autumn sky.
It hangs there somewhat ominous
oval and vigilant, a large grey owl
fallen asleep.
The cool November sun glistens
a few remaining threads of silk:
woven silver webs, spun in warmer days
and yet unfrozen nights.
Tattered remnants shimmer in the wind.
The hardy rose bush, a dozen or so
folded buds, unfolding soft white blossoms
stopped—burned by hard blue frost.
Now they wither— brown dried paper,
crumpled pages of a summer love letter
wadded up, never sent.
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–Quilla
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This Wooded Place
This wooded place was meadows, once.
Fallen mossy fences scribble
the broken lines and sentences—
a windblown script, lost chapters
of that forgotten story.
Now a copse of Black Birches
and winter fern takes back the space
of sloping earth and mountain air
so naturally, it seems
it was always theirs to take.
An older wood, much older—
tall Red Oaks, mostly, looms above
the supple Birches, like elders
in a country church.
Bright pastures flourished here.
Or highland swales of meadow hay?
Now, November trees and shadows.
Who was it once, split and nailed these
rails, all crusted grey with lichens?
–Quilla
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Soft December Rain
for Natallie
Exams over and done, she’s home
for the holidays. First morning back
in her own bed, sleeping late,
soft December rain is falling on the roof.
Her mom is still asleep upstairs.
The little dog lies curled in the basket
by the stove, twitching in her dream.
I sit in the den reading, sipping black tea,
a thankful father looking back, and out
beyond the rain, the winter trees.
Through large window-doors I watch
the pebbles of water falling, dancing
little puddles, mirrored bits of sky.
The grove of birches glistens droplets,
moments drop from empty limbs.
Behind them, the tall and somber pines
share my quiet morning joy,
darkened branches lowered
dripping silver needles
soft December rain.
After all the needless hurry
how utterly peaceful, giving and still
this quiet morning listening—knowing
the Father’s heart of love is beating
at the center of everything.
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–Quilla
