Thursday, April 30, 2015

Scent of soil

I was driving on the highway when I remembered my walk in the woods three days previously, just after it rained. I had stooped down to examine a rock protruding from last year's leaves on the ground, and I dug a little at the edge of the rock to see if it would loosen enough for me to pick it up. It didn't. But for the rest of my walk, my fingers carried the scent of the moist rich earth, incredibly fecund, indescribable.
So I pulled over off the road to write down the words before I forgot them.
(When I first frantically and in a most driven way typed these words into my iPhone notes thingy, I glanced at the first few words and the word "soil" stood written as "soul". I like that.)

Oh the soil
She is moist within
Ready for seed
For sun to shine and rain to soak in
To burst into life
To quicken with grow.
Though root stretch, leaf unfurl in slow
And patient measure,
Unfolding life,
Let all eyes take pleasure
In fresh and new and hope and green
All painted in
To this
The richest work I've ever seen.


Sunday morning

Prayer is a problem when pain abounds.
Eyes closed
I pondered the terrible face of fear.
My heart rose up, cried out,
"Send me..."
And I stopped.
Send me what?
Help? Strength? Peace?
I saw my need,
But not the answer.
I rested there in the not knowing,
But knowing I was known.

One of the hymns that was sung at my church shortly after the prayer time when I wrestled thus, had a line that captured my imagination: "Mighty victim from the sky", from At The Lamb's High Feast (Unknown author, probably 6th Century (Ad regias Agni dapes); translated from Latin to English by Robert Campbell, 1849). The phrase "mighty victim" is fantastic, taking your mind in a strange new direction. "Mighty Victim From the Sky" sounds like the title of a work of science fiction, a super hero.
Who has the super strength required for victimhood? Who would want it? Upside down thinking, like Christ's.

Monday, April 6, 2015

White-breasted Nuthatch

Our spirits
Unaware are let go
Out into the cosmos.
Do the hands divine
Ache, to let us go?
Yearn for our presence
Until our short flight is ended?
Watch the infinite horizon
Where our spirits fly in freedom
And in danger,
Never knowing of the hand
Outstretched awaiting?
Bring the day of glad returning
To the hand we lifted off from
Frail and fearful as we faced
The glory newness of existence,
How much more will be our joy
At reuniting 
Than our sorrows flight is over?
And what will we bring in praise?

Friday, April 3, 2015

Thoughts on Good Friday 4 a.m.

Impossible task:
Love each other
Is all he asked.
And what did he say?
Let forgiveness be your way?
But what if I'm wronged?!
What if I'm hurt,
And can't get along
With the one next door?
Unlikable chore.
Be kind in response
To enemies' taunts
Or attacks or demands.
Give with both hands,
As I have received forgiveness,
And been well blessed.
Do not put your life ahead of another.
Worrisome bother.
And when there is need
Be willing to die.
I doubt I will try.
Knowing my weakness,
My selfishness, pride.
Something will need to change
Deep inside.
Something like love.
Radical move.
Opening heart and mind and strength
To the depth and the width and the length
Of a love so complete it can answer all doubt,
All pain, all the sorrow this world is about.
Oh glorious goal.
Seek the way of love
And be still, my soul.