Leaves of grass that dried in pleasing and unusual patterns on the bank of our nearby creek.

Isaiah 40 7 Withered hath grass, faded the flower, For the Spirit of Jehovah blew upon it, Surely the people [is] grass; 8 Withered hath grass, faded the flower, But a word of our God riseth for ever. -Young's Literal Translation

Even knowing I am grass

I want to be the leaf twisting pleasingly as I curl and dry

hanging gracefully as the wind blows by

falling lightly as dust motes down

to the mother, the welcoming ground.

And my spirit to spiral away

on return flight to who can say.

Christmas Eve morning, early, the house asleep, with some of my family home. I awaken and listen for stirring, wanting to join whoever wakes first for a quiet breakfast while others sleep.

I get up for a walk to the bathroom and a drink of water, not turning on lights but picking up my cell phone from the kitchen counter to use it for a light. Compulsively I check my email and this is the quote for the day in my inbox:

"Lo, in the silent night

A child to God is born

And all is brought again

That ere was lost or lorn.

Could but thy soul, O man

Become a silent night!

God would be born in thee

And set all things aright."

-Unknown

Source: 15th Century verse

I take the butter out of the fridge to soften for the soon-to-be toast, and go back to bed. Thoughts become words, and I sneak my iPad under the blanket to grasp them before I forget:

Make me a silent night.

Empty of noise. Expectant.

In darkness let me be still,

with folded hands, feet resting.

Unmoving let me wait,

letting the wind blow around me,

under moon and stars, all cloudless,

a sky  for an angel's announcement.

Then let me see what comes.

Of my silence, my darkness. My trust.

Sundogs. A favourite phenomenon.

I wasn't

Then I was

Then I used to be

Life is for holding on to

Life is for letting go

Learn to see God in the beauty

Feel the comfort of God in the no

Taste the fear of our fragile existence

Hear the emptiness speak of may be

You are all alone in the cosmos?

You are loved You are precious You are me

I used to be

Then I wasn't

Then I used to be

At night the wind blew on this field of snow

And now it's time for everyone home for Christmas

Except the one who will never come home again.

The emptiness, the voice that each one misses:

the sadness overpowers goodwill to men.

A permanent absence is a foreign presence,

that no one wants to speak to or address;

an unattractive stranger holding weapons

(avert your eyes, speak loud false cheerfulness).

The celebrations will ring on around us;

we will try to hide the truth that we now know.

For all men's sharp mortality has found us;

we will not be unkind and let it show.

{Morning interlude of contentment}

No, this is nice

this is nice

this is nice

1. On the windowseat, stretched on stomach.

2. Reading, and there is poetry.

3. iPad playing soothing classical music.

4. Soft snowflakes falling softly beside my head.

Soon

I will get up and brush my teeth

Which are fuzzy because I wasn't allowed to go to sleep

until really late, and then I just ate an apple instead of brushing.

Maybe after that I will do yesterday's dishes.

If stacked with skill, there is room on my kitchen counter.

There is a demon knocking

but I will keep my mind

on

this is nice

this is nice

this is nice

So I do the pray.

Hallowed name, kingdom of love.

Then like a rude and untaught child

An interrupting voice in me:

"Why why why, God?"

Too loud. I try to shush.

But the child has noticed the presence

And will not be made to whisper.

My worship disturbed,

I apologetically turn my mind to

Give, forgive, lead us not,

But the child is right here disrupting,

"But why why why?"

I can only cling to

Thine is the kingdom and power

As I try to console

The restless child I hold in my breast.

Last summer's oak leaves hang in a cluster
like silent bells above my head.
I stand beneath them gazing upward
in this season of hope and dread.
So much rather ear will listen
to the shiny ringing bell
than attend to withered fragile
crumbling leaf with silent knell.
What is left to seek or hope for
when the loss is cold nail driven
into emptied faith like a coffin?
I accept as gift the leaves I'm given.

The winter wonder landed
in micro masterpiece,
a miracle of matter,
a brilliant crystal sign,
unseen except by children
and the foolish dreaming kind.

There is no quick walk in the woods for me.

No brisk arm swinging march that rushes by.

Each moment some new wonders catch my eye;

I stand astonished, or on bended knee.

A sun pierced leaf, exquisite artistry,

Like stained glass shard flung from cathedral sky,

Or grounded oak leaf tucked in snow to die,

Its honest brown writ fine with filigree.

Some crystal clear and perfect curl of ice,

Or frost encrusted seed head hanging low,

On view to all who come, asking no price:

Such masterpiece should have a wider show

Though my admiration swells, it can't suffice.
I offer gratitude, and footsteps in the snow.

 

 

I take comfort in the dying of the year: the brightest leaf will fall.

And then the long white-blanketed sleep of winter.

I cannot think we step from this life to instantly dance with Jesus.

Give me a season to rest from what is past,

To rest for what's ahead:

A new beginning of eternal spring.