Dec. 29

I have always avoided bandwagons;

it is words of hope I wait for.

As I watch others follow their leaders

and grasp for the latest pronouncements,

I listen for sounds from a distance,

ears tuned for that message of hope.

The bandwagon sings celebration

in honour of the road itself travels.

Am I alone in the knowing?

This wrong road has left me unraveled.

This is not the right way for the journey;

all the signposts are too unforgiving.

So as wagons move into the distance

I search for the track of real living.

Dec. 20
I am on the road to Emmaus

right where I'm meant to be

but it's still before the Lord meets me

to talk with and comfort me.

I don't know when He will show up

and help me to understand

but I've set out, and walk on wondering

if anything's going as planned.

From Dec. 19

Give me the suffering theologian who has stared the monster Unanswered Prayer straight in the eye.

It makes me want to go ask a homeless bum

what she can tell me about God.

At least she knows she's homeless.

I stay in my house,

don't much go to God's house;

I cannot pray for my heart is broken

And in your heart is where you truly pray.

So don't tell me about perfect plans,

I've seen too many shredded documents.

^Photo: In my garden, long ago, the summer of 2009^

Today I read this quotation from Alessandro Pronzato:

"The crowded bus, the long queue, the railway platform, the traffic jam, the neighbor's television sets, the heavy-footed people on the floor above you, the person who still keeps getting the wrong number on your phone. These are the real conditions of your desert. Do not allow yourself to be irritated. Do not try to escape. Do not postpone your prayer. Kneel down. Enter that disturbed solitude. Let your silence be spoiled by those sounds. It is the beginning of your desert."

-Source: Meditations on the Sand

The quotation fits my today, and this came to mind:

Oh, desert, now I know you!

and I know where I've seen you before:

your other name is chaos,

and you're a regular at my door.

And I must learn to live you,

and make my way along

through this dusty loud distraction,

and not forget my song,

or Whom it is I sing to.

Though I have seen no sign

the memory I cling to

is a green and growing Vine.

I got a glimpse of infinite

Funny how things turn around

I could have sworn the sky was black

White crow swoops out and down

I used to see beyond my eyes

To the realm of God and spirit

Past here and now which terminate

Past touch it see it hear it

But now so much reverses

Loving blessings bring painful curses

The immensity of grief

The shock and unbelief

The longing for the departed

Diminishing all else

Going on in all directions

And I see no end

Nov. 28

Life ruined,

I might as well give it back

I tried to be careful

But it's seen some hard times

Been knocked around some

Been thrown to the ground

And after that last wrenching grief

It just hasn't been the same

I have a feeling it will never work smoothly again

So You might as well take it back

Maybe You can do something with it I don't know

We walk on ice with egg shell shoes
We cannot hold on to what we lose
A harsh wind blows us makes us sway
And in a moment we are swept away
No time for hatred anger wars
Too delicate our thin life's course
With mercy's brush strokes on the sky
We must paint life as it flies by
With feather-light caring touches of love
We must follow the winging dove
Turn blink of eye from that which shatters
To dwell upon the pure that matters
We balance best when reaching low
To lift a fallen friend or foe
And when from life's knife-point ice we fall
We will see Love has been behind it all

Nov. 8, 2012

 

I could open wide my heart

but the plumes of dark smoke

would bring unwanted attention.

So I go away to the lonely place,

my cabin in the wilderness.

Late autumn winds blow around and through log spaces

but do not flutter the ravaged edges of my flattened faith as the daily breeze at home has done.

A riotous crowd of geese makes a big production of flying overhead.

Here now the woodstove crackles me comfort,

but outside the small windows there is a whisper of tiny crystals flung and falling, hitting the surfaces of dry wood and dead leaves that have given up resistance.

In the stillness of the many trees and no people

I feel, if not the healing, at least the resting of the ravaged heart.

All I have to do is feed the stove and keep a book handy.

The woods will do the rest.

Hard homecoming

You say you have no home well I have one

But no one coming maybe you should come

This time of year it's what we do

A hard homecoming for me and you

You had a home once welcoming warm

I had someone before the storm

But your home once is now your lack

And my loved one will never come back

Your hands are cold with me it's heart

We'll make a fire each warm our part

Be here together where we've been tossed

Think of what we had and what we lost

Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Well worth reading.
Memorable quotations:  "An idler and a sluggard are as different as a gourmand and a glutton." (p. 54)
"We looked at each other for the last time; nothing is as eloquent as nothing." (p. 347)
"Books don't offer real escape but they can stop a mind scratching itself raw." (p. 357
A revelation on the two offenses of the elderly, on p. 361.
"It's true, reading too many novels makes you go blind." (p. 363)


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