August 5.14
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Observed, in Passing
for each, and all of us
I drive past the cemetery, high noon
a late-summer day, bright blue sky.
Crisp north air, like September
ruffles the square red funeral tent,
fills the green maple trees,
flutters the high striped flag on the pole.
Men in black suits and women
in dark dresses stand around
the rectangular shadow, cut
into the hard clay. The pile
of red dirt is covered with green carpet.
The extravagant box is shrouded
with large bouquets.
A man in a robe is standing, facing
the people, holding a book,
saying some words.
Nearby, the arms of a tall white statue
reach out, the fingers on both hands
broken off.
On the statue’s stained head, a sparrow
perches, singing.
A few crows fly across the open field,
long rows of artificial flowers.
The line of parked cars sparkles in the sun.
In the distance, high blue mountains
stand along the horizon.
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–Quilla
July 28.14…….What Can We Do?
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What Can We Do?
After the day’s lights go out,
after supper is eaten
after “the world news”
We can turn it off.
Walk out into the warm night
listen: choruses of frogs, mating
in the soft wild dark, fireflies
blinking across purpling hollows,
small bats dipping in the twilight. . . .
We can look up into the silent river
of stars, flowing around us, away
forever, centuries and nations
fading, in waves of light.
We can look into the deep windows
of one another’s eyes, and see….
In the distance we hear sirens
clattering and yelping through the night.
We can be afraid, and hate.
We can be forgiven, so we too can choose
to let go of all hurt.
We can love.
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–Quilla
Friday, January 11.13
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Departure
The night of winter rain is gone.
Sun breaks through departing clouds—
ragged silver edges of the storm.
A host of raindrop diamonds glistens
every shining twig, each black brier thorn.
The slightest gust now shakes them down.
My heart is quiet: listening like a flute
to winter’s harsh and delicate muse: throngs
of angry crows, one White-throat Sparrow sings.
Swaths of sudden sunlight wash
the gleaming pages of the Book.
Like carved stones, only the holy words remain.
Rain shadows, heart shadows slip away
like ghosts. A low fire flutters in the stove.
Wisps of smoke ride the morning wind.
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“Heaven and earth will pass away.
My words shall never pass away”.
–Jesus (Matthew 24:35)
“My soul, wait in silence for God only,
for my hope is from Him.
He only is my rock, and my salvation,
my stronghold, I shall not be shaken”
–Psalm 62: 5-6
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–Quilla
Oasis…..(you’ve crossed long years). . .
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Oasis
(A poem for Communion, for Eucharist;
a ‘Medicine’ poem of surrender, of restoration—
for you, for me; in three parts. –Quilla)
1. Loss
Looking back from here—a rugged waste
of lost terrain stretches out behind you.
You’ve crossed long years
of desperate miles, made-up faces,
wandered empty desert places,
weathered the dry flood
of broken rocks and broken faith,
faded smiles, the fallen petals of roses.
Your favorite clothes, and your heart
are torn by long thorns,
now deep-stained the rust of blood.
Your neglected springs have gone, turned
to mouthfuls of bitter dust. Your soul drinks
and breathes the unrelenting siroccos
of human and satanic wind.
Those high-blown scarps of sand
keep screaming beguiling lies at you.
You walk outside the tent, look, and listen:
but wind erased all traces of the trail.
So you’ve learned to hole up in the shadows,
blame others, back against the wall
licking your righteous wounds
til falls the dreadful veil of dark.
2. Oasis
But here, a small sunlit stream comes to you,
bends before you now: the bright green lace
of water licks the broken stones.
In this place, the stream widens out for you
under the cool palm shadows of truth;
with easy grace, the peace of fragrant lilies
pours into a quiet pool.
It is time for you to stop.
Sit down here, take off your dusty shoes,
let Someone wash and kiss
your bleeding feet.
Allow your self: to feel the deeper coolness
wanting to soothe your fugitive, weary soul.
There is no other time.
Let your self receive, rejoice at last.
Allow your heart to grieve, to weep
the salty oil of past, and present sorrow.
Feel what you must feel, then let it flow
into the perfect stream.
No longer hide, or be busy, tough, religious
or even “spiritual”—to impress yourself,
your friends, or God himself.
Give up on all of that. In its stead, stay here
before Him, wait, and be still.
Let hurt go, watch it rise like wreathes
of smoke, like hungry flames
at last burned out of you.
Allow yourself to praise: express the deepest
thankfulness, for all of it.
Let your precious bitterness dissolve,
wash away like yellow fungus, crusted
layers on your hard and tender heart,
let it wash into the quiet, fathomless pool.
It is poured out here, for you.
3. Surrender
This holy war. Fierce battles,
so much blood, and time, already lost.
But Someone you ignored
walked up the rocky hill
and poured your empty goblet
red and full.
The fragrant living Bread
of His being is broken open, waiting for you
to feed: hundreds of pages, furious love, scribed
in the hovering shadows of doves.
Eat and drink—this risen Bread,
this crushed and holy Wine.
All of it. Stand completely healed
in the luminescence of forgiving love.
Savor the alien flavor, delicate scent,
the subtle radiance of halos, spun
with unnamed colors of holiness.
You can begin to hear the songs of birds
and feel the open sky.
Give thanks. It is given, for you.
Yes. It is for you.
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“Your lovingkindness O LORD, extends
to the heavens, your faithfulness
reaches to the skies.
Your righteousness is like the mountains
of God; your judgments are like a great deep.
How precious is your lovingkindness, O God.
“And the children of men take refuge
in the shadow of Your wings.
They drink their fill of the abundance
of Your house, and You give them to drink
from the river of Your delights.
For with You is the fountain of Life,
and in Your light, we see light.”
–Psalm 36: 5-9
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Watching Autumn. . .(reprise)
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Watching Autumn
A quiet, almost windless morning, mid-autumn.
Wide swaths of early sun lay soft
long shadows on the land.
Now comes the yielding up, giving back the best.
The last sweet fruits must fall.
Shawls of rich color flare into the bright
darkness of late October air, like funeral flames
or flowers, so reluctant, letting beauty go.
Perhaps the ancient earth itself shows us
how to worship—breathing offerings
with no pretense, like wisps of incense
drifting up in fragrant matins,
our myths of Self disperse
in acts of morning praise.
Watching these dying autumn days
we do not pretend. Nor do we deny:
that something fierce in us of earth, more pure
than starlight piercing deep black sky—
the Creator’s beauty, His power lives in us
and wants to live forever, too.
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–Quilla
Mid September(revised)
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Mid September
The last cut hay of the year
lies yellowing, wide swaths
of dry and golden sun, sweet wisps
on the green September land.
The slightest of breezes rises
in the old oaks, dropping
their yearly burden of acorns, released
to the quiet forest floor.
Birds are silent now.
Anther year, they’ve made their young,
most of them already gone.
Now the fledgling nests of sticks and down
are left to fill with leaves, and snow.
All the sunlit work is done—soft flesh
and hollow bone, the straws of sweetness
—cut and falling, flown away,
swallowed into the dark and hungering
mystery, the coming years.
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Considering Ravens
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North face of Ktaadn, northern Maine
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This is about Freedom
Then Jesus said to his disciples: “Therefore I tell you,
do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about
your body, what you will wear. Life is more than food,
and the body more than clothes. Consider the ravens:
they do not sow or reap, they have no storehouse or barn;
yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Who among you
by worrying, can add a single hour to his life?” Luke 12:22-25
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Considering Ravens
We rested by the mountain trail
top of a high south-facing cliff.
Latewinter sun, warming ancient stone
out of the wind, the sharp smell of spruce.
The far horizon flattened out its waves
pale eternal blue
like time, like love, like the sea.
Soaring way 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’ve learned to truly listen:
whose words become fewer, sweeter
and more nourishing, like plums
and apricots, ripened in a warmer sun.
Or those old men who grew kinder,
wiser in their latter years,
and still flew kites with children—
—are they not both like the Ravens?
Beings who’ve been made free.
The ones who knew at last
how to love, to let go and laugh
with opened wings in empty air
so full of light,
the way we were made to be.
–Quilla
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Monterrey Coast
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April 26
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In Passing….
The fierce thunderstorm at dusk
rumbles off into the eastern mountains.
Now the trees stand dripping, and still.
Beyond the somber western hills
the day’s last light fades, softly violet
into the silence of all days past.
Half a mile away
the full spring river tumbles and sighs
down the gorges of darkness.
Above black trees, the crescent moon
glistens like a sickle,
setting in cool indigo mist.
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–Quilla
January Seventh
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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
Saturday, December 11.10; Offering ourselves
“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
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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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Looking Forward, Looking Back
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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Ruach 333, by Quilla 