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.

White-breasted Nuthatch

New

Our spirits

Unaware are let go

Out into the cosmos.

Do the hands divine

Omnipotent

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?

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.

Igneous woman

Lava in my gut

Flames fill my veins

Steam on my breath

Vitriol when I vomit

I boil when I weep

Gentle puffs of smoke

When I'm asleep

Don't leave me, winter!

With your long cool nights of ease,

With your so efficient cooling me

In mere seconds when I need relief.

All your lovely melting snow

Trickling away between the fingers of this land.

I would hold on but I destroy you with the warmth of my grasping hand.

And chasing you: that hateful woman, busybody spring,

With her self important 'get things going', her little birds that sing

Of motivation, illusions of goals, a point to anything. 

Don't leave me, winter, let me turn and rest a little longer

Underneath your soggy blanket of white, before the searching sun gets stronger.

The soft falling snow is a thrill,

A feathery godsend of peace and goodwill.

And yet at its worst snow can kill.

Can cover until life is taken away in an ache and a dream and a chill.

But snow revelations are wondrous, serene

In their declaration of what stands between

our beginning and end in the things we have seen

And have looked at for longer than

Thinking about it would take the brain machine.

And spirit awakes, takes what the days show

And transports me to where no one can go

But we do with our minds that can overcome slow.

My last regrets may be I never could capture the sparkle of snow.

Long have I waited for sleep to come to me

Bringing gifts of escape and forget.

But she will arrive when she wills, if at all,

Not concerned by my impatient wait.

Perhaps she has lingered to torment the night watch,

Or lower the head of some late working scholar,

While I lie surrounded by clamouring memories,

And bribe her, with wine as my dollar.

Three thoughts

I'm a weird bird with no pretty plumage

and hard to love

But you do. 

And every time you say I love you

I'm surprised anew.

Why is it so hard to believe

We are loved?

In my believing moments

I want to tell my children

God is like a mother.

Because love I have learned.

Love surpasses.

But I am a child

with fears inside,

and many moments

when I hide.

The heart is small,

with achy bits,

but the heart has power

that goes beyond

the fear and pain,

and always returns

to Love again.

What's the point in walking around

Keeping in shape

Taking care of myself 

-I'll do it for the ones I love!

But you will lose them

-I'll never forget how I loved them!

But you may grow old and forget.

-But this one thing will be true forever:

I LOVED I LOVED I LOVED

I am confused

But it's holy confusion

Because I am trying to find in it God.

I see that letting go

may send me spinning but

That's where the leading has led.

If I say I can't say

If I know I can't know more
Than a child who knew mother,

A mother who loved children more

Than the deepest sea farthest world highest of mountains?

I cling to the hope of love,

Let go of me.