Two things have struck me this morning.
The first is a phrase I came across on a philosophy/theology blog: God "reluctantly permitted". There is something to investigate in those words.

The second is a quotation from The Devil's Novice, by Ellis Peters: "...'A man does what he must do,' said Cadfael carefully, 'whether the duty he has taken on himself is to fight, or to salvage poor souls from the fighting, to kill, to die or to heal. There are many will claim to tell you what is due from you, but only one who can shear through the many, and reach the truth. And that is you, by what light falls for you to show the way.' "
It is the concept of how the light falls for us, and how differently for each of us, that I think unites us all, and should teach me compassion for all, as I never know what light, or lack of it, has fallen in someone's life.

God bless my wrestling.
Clear vision to see my opponent.
Sure hands to grip the foe.
The strength to face the attack
and fend off the lethal blow.
The forbearance to stand up
under landed punches.
And when I find myself pressed to the mat,
the will to fight on, to regain my feet,
to keep on facing with steadfast heart,
the challenge of my thoughts.

Feb. 18, 2 am, just falling asleep

Chaos falls like random tears
splats like acid there and here
a tidal wave that sweeps away
foundations that we thought would stay
as we gasp and reach for air
we find that it is no more there
and as the world fills to the brim
instead of breathe we learn to swim.

I water the forest, I water the grass,
I water the soil and the stones where I pass.
If watering the world is my life's calling
I'm filling the call with my constant tears falling.
I pass through the hours, I pass through the days,
through months and years misty from the watery haze.
I weep for the memories of those who have passed;
I weep from the yearning for reunion at last.

From Jan. 19, minus 24 Celsius, at the log cabin, woodstove crackling

Here I was led, over winter paths crusted
with snow frozen colder than when it first fell.
Four walls of sturdy logs, the warm woodstove roaring,
I rest here and warm myself, and my spirit as well.
The tranquil trees 'round me outside this small cabin
are poplar and hawthorn and staunch strong oak.
So rugged, these oak trees, their dark-barked limbs lifted
like supplicant citizens, like regular folk.
What do they ask for, these silent woods people;
what are their pleas and their prayers asking for?
Mercy in winter, enough snow for blankets,
in summer both sun and rain, as ever before.

Prayer

 

 

Jan. 31
Like a caged animal
my mind dashes itself against the walls.
I must see him again, of course I will see him again.
It cannot be that I won't see him again.
WHERE ARE YOU?
I wish there was someone I could ask
these hard questions I keep bottled up.

This year has made us old.
If it was just the years, it would be
but a fulfillment of our long ago wish
to grow together old.
But this, this wrenching of our hearts
into the outside of our bodies,
into non-being,
this is a different aging, unnatural.

 

 

Early Evening

The bare black branches, an upthrust cluster, is filigree uncaptured when later I examine my photos,
elusive
like the spirit deep within me fathoms past the mortifying pain
singing Hallowed Be Thy Name.
Give me the wisdom
to waste the time,
just stand there and stare
as long as the light lasts.
I never hear God speak,
unless it is in the ghostly tendrils of lifted snow
blown by the Breath of the Unseeable Wind.

 

Harvest from me what is usable
and burn the rest.
Anything of value in me,
what's good, what's best,
is yours anyway. I fail the test.
With all my weakness, my selfish will,
try as I might,
it's only the power of love that helps me
get small things right.
So empty me of vain desires, self-centered views.
Let me be for you a broken field; take what you can use.