Luster

Blue
Full Sturgeon
Green Corn
Grain
and
Full Red

I, too
drape myself in names

Time may cause the cloth
to hang and shift
but the form that
pushes out from beneath
is still true
even when it is dark
as
pitch

Luster
that is your secret
for you are
diligent and faithful
and
your reward
is radiance
the kind that illuminates
shadowed
shapes

Perhaps
I should take heed
and observe
that the changing of garments
without
a vision

Is not the same
thing
as the slow march
of time
across the sky
as the music
of the spheres
sparkles
glory

++++++++++++++++
Linking with Emily for Imperfect Prose

photo credit: Tim Fields on Flickr

In which I visit my sixteen year old self

I see her there, sitting in the car, looking at the sky. She is sixteen, hair forced in a dozen directions, left ear lobe studded with silver, looking sulky. Really, she just has that kind of resting face. Among other things, she inherited her grandmother's jowls and sometimes they can weigh a face down. 

The tape in the cassette deck plays The Church. M gave her that tape. He made it for her during their very brief going out experience. She never understood why he liked her but he made her mix tapes from his monstrous CD collection and she kept those tapes infinitely longer than their fling ever lasted. He wasn't the only one that made her mix tapes. She had a box full of them, all crafted by boys who had liked her. The tapes were still there. The boys were not. Music has a tendency to do that. Last.

She gets out of the powder blue station wagon, the car she learned to drive in, the one that she could parallel park like a boss. Her mom taught her how to do that fifteen minutes before the driving test and, to this day, it is the one driving skill at which she truly excels. She's proud of that. She should be embarrassed to drive this family truckster around but she isn't. It's her family's car, their only car, and she is thrilled at the moments of freedom it buys her. Driving that car, windows down, music playing...she is catapulted forward in time. She feels wizened. Mature. In control.

She won't smoke inside the car, though. She doesn't want to risk getting found out. But even more, she fears the disappoint it would bring if her parents ever found out. She doesn't want them to think she was one of those kind of girls. The ones that spend the five minutes between classes in the school courtyard with all of the other burnouts. No. She wasn't like that at all. She wasn't a real smoker. She only smoked in secret. Or when walking around The Central West End. Or at Denny's. Until her neighbor happened to come in and see her. She always hoped that maybe he didn't recognize her. And she really hoped, more than anything, that he didn't tell her parents about it.

She pulls out a Camel Light and her Bic lighter. They are hidden in that zippered pocket in purses that are made to conceal feminine products. She keeps cigarettes and a lighter alongside her tampons. Her mom would never look there, right? 

She never meant to actually like smoking, it kind of just happened, and her favorite part is the smell of a cigarette when it is first lit. This smoking alone makes her feel older, too. She is very deliberate in the way she inhales and exhales and it becomes a calming ritual, a breathing in and out. I want to tap her on the shoulder and remind her that she is smoking, not doing asanas. 

As she inhales she thinks back to the days when she dated W. He smoked Marlboro Lights, like his mother, and so they shared packs of cigarettes. The freedom with which he lit up in his bedroom always felt both exhilarating and monstrous. Did his mom know what else they were doing behind that closed door? Did she care? How could she not care? That removed distance between mother and son never ever sat right with her. And even though there were a dozen other girls with spiked hair and trench coats and Doc Martens in the world, the fact that the bad boy with a mohawk and tattoo picked her never ceased to amaze and frighten her. It caused her to make decisions before she really knew what she was getting herself into. It meant that she sometimes confused who she was with who she really wanted to be. And it ultimately meant that she would break it off with the bad boy who somehow managed to make her feel beautiful and cheap, all in the same kiss.

I wonder if I would like hanging out with her. Would she afford me the same grace she seems to grant absolutely everyone else? She's incredibly open to everyone. Too much, sometimes. She reveals her vulnerability and transparency in ways that make people feel understood, which is admirable. She is a good friend.

But she has also been capricious. At one too many parties she has marinated her tender spots with Boone's and there was one who saw her weakness, every time. Why did she always take his hand and walk into the darkness? Again and again, she knew what was behind that door, yet still, she followed. I wouldn't have much patience for that if I were to hang out with her today. I would tell her that she was made for so much more than following.

Would she be nice and polite because she didn't want to hurt my feelings but secretly wish that I would go away? Probably. I think she would know that I represent truths she's been burying beneath hair spray and a wardrobe of black. She would probably decide that she wasn't ready to talk to me yet. 

But if she would listen, I would tell her that she is already enough. Yes, she is a work in progress but who isn't? I would tell her that all of the things that tug at her soul, that move her, are good and beautiful and worthy of being loved and that if she embraces that she will find that she is weaving beauty right round her. That we are all the sum of our parts, not defined by one or two events or decisions, but by a diligent stringing of day upon day. I would give her permission to redefine herself whenever she feels led because I know, now, that following your heart looks different depending on the day. The roots of one's heart plunge deep and its life source is not like quicksilver.

And I would tell her to not be afraid of what she thinks. She needs to know that her mind is a beautiful place and that it doesn't matter if everything isn't all sorted out first. It's okay to be figuring it out as you go. Being all things to all people doesn't guarantee squat. She just needs to be.

Oh, and I would tell her she needs to start writing. Now.

And, oh yeah, she needs to stop smoking. Yesterday.

Yes, I think I would like hanging out with her. 

Mother

I'm wearing a path through my heart's middle these days ... vacillating between worlds in a dance that has no set steps. There is only a song that warbles on top of the chill air, pulling me one way, then another.

There is now and its two boys and all that this demands of me.

Attention.
Presence.
Comfort.
Joy.
Laughter.
Food.
Warmth.
And love ... more love than I think I might have to give. Love that dives below the surface tension of now and pulls me into the deep places heavy with night and shadows. Love that believes before it doubts. Love that circles seventy times seven. Love unbroken.

And then there is a crossing over ...
and I am there, at my own mother's bedside
stroking her brow
kissing her cheek
framing her face in my hands
as if our hearts flipped in the night's chill and now I am mothering the mother.

On either side of me stand my two boys, warm from the car ride and woozy with sleep and before me
is my mother, hands clasped together for warmth, purple knitted shawl slipping from her shoulders.

And I hang for a millisecond, suspended between the role of mother and that of daughter,
until the tightrope snaps
and I free fall
head
over
heart
over
feet.

It is not until I land plumb in the middle of love that I discover it is simply the keeping of hearts to which I am called.

So the next day looks like a turning and a circling, over and over.

My stout sons are hungry, so hungry, and I parcel out first and second breakfasts and then whine that they are having too much screen time even as I turn my back and pretend the opposite. It's only for today, I whisper into the ether, not sure if I am confessing or hoping.

And then comes the swelling worry, wrapped in fever and fatigue, taking up residence in my mother's slight and wispy body. She is not prepared for this new battle. She has already been fighting a mutant army and it has been marching through her blood, pillaging her energy and vigor and she is tired.
So tired.

So I push for answers and advocate for truth and a hazy cognizance swirls around deep inside as I begin to see how she has championed the same for me, time and time again. That from the moment I was flesh and blood in her arms I became her cause and she has never stopped fighting for me. For my joy ... for my dreams ... for my life.

And when I wonder at what point I became equipped for such a time as this, when I realize that I must be all of that for her, it is then that I realize that a Mother is a life force. As long as babies are born and mothers are made, whether by blood or decree, a creative force is unleashed in the world and things are never the same.

I will never be the same.

My desire to nurture and sustain those entrusted to my care need no longer discern mother from child. All of it is a dance, a grand swinging, a twirling of tendrilous hearts.

To mother, to be mothered, all is birthed from Love embedded deep and long and wide.

And at the end of the day, I pull back the crazy quilt spread across the bed and crawl in next to my mom, my boys at my heels, all of us falling
head
over
heart
over
feet
into
love.

In which I am made complete

There are days when the very holding on is an enormous thing.

My calloused hands ache in the places once worn thin and I spin and flap and kick at the end of a rope that is slowly unraveling, one rugged strand at a time.
And to... just...let...go...
seems like the right and proper thing to do.

But then there is that matter of earth and gravity and suddenly
the issue is no longer about a frayed rope but a threadbare heart 
and what I really want is for the ground to rise up and meet my feet.
Because to stand with limbs shaking is so much better than to fall into numbing nothingness.

And I know this because you are my promontory, come to save.

And when my feet find the rock of you, I am upheld.

++++++++++++

When your words animate my soul and embolden my heart ...

When my bones are strengthened by the comfort of your whisper ...

When you meet me in the sharp places and choose to place peace between us ...

When you call out the story that is woven into my heart and I feel a quickening down deep that says "this is what you ought to be" ...

When your presence burns Light into the corners corroded by darkness ...

It is then, in ways new and unwarranted, that love and peace reign.

++++++++++++++

 ^"Dear brothers and sisters, 

I close my letter with these last words: 

Be joyful. 

Grow to maturity. 

Encourage each other. 

Live in harmony and peace. 

Then the God of love and peace will be with you."

-2 Corinthians 13:11 NLT

Linking up with Emily for Imperfect Prose  on the prompt: Encourage.

Bravery Has An Underbelly

The image is burned into our knowing: the brave wield swords and slay dragons, they swoop into fiery buildings, they gallop into dark nights and stand stoically in the face of fear. Brave people do hard things.

I, however, have always felt more at home crouched small in the tight and cramped underbelly of someone else’s shell of bravery.  The proper home for my thinner blood and skin has consistently been hidden below the vast casing of another’s courage. Valiant and stouthearted I am not.

And then I hear stories of real women around the globe whose very waking is an act of bravery; women whose lives are daily marked by decisions between lesser evils and unrequited hope. I am schooled in the prevalence of human trafficking and the pains of hunger and I am confronted with my ready wealth and comfort.

It is then that I feel the weight of my brave costume most acutely and the truth of my position is revealed...

++++++++++++++++++++

Today I am joining all of the lovelies here at SheLoves where you can continue reading my exploration of bravery.

Won't you join me?

Dive

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

The only way to pull this off is for me to willingly choose to lose my footing. Otherwise, it is no different than being pushed off the edge. 

I don't want to be pushed.  

But, in order to tilt slant I have to let the total of who I am pitch over itself. It means plunging headlong towards the bottom of the murky depths, despite my fears of what lies beneath.

I have to let what is known beneath my toes give way to nothingness. 

And then, for a moment, there will be freedom. 

For that in-between space, the one where I am neither on land or in water, it is just like that first day. That journey between darkness and light when I burst forth this side of heaven with a splash? It, too, was the yoke between the known and the unknown.

Only, this time, I must risk becoming unseen. 

For the flipside of leaping is a necessary descending.

But that arc? It is just part of one big cosmic circle and so there will be a rising.

My face will split the waters and I will breathe again.

"If grace is an ocean, we're all sinking."

-John Mark McMillan

Create

First this: God created the Heavens and Earth—all you see, all you don’t see. Earth was a soup of nothingness, a bottomless emptiness, an inky blackness. 

God’s Spirit brooded like a bird above the watery abyss.

-Genesis 1:1-2

The Message

We know this. We feel it just as surely as the Creator God did all those eons ago. This brooding. This musing, pondering, ruminating existence.

To create is to give rise to that which previously did not exist. 

To create is the be the birth mother of words and pictures and names and places.

To create is to begin, to forge, to carve out.

And it is beautiful, and heart-wrenching, and ripe with responsibility.

Even God, who stood on the cusp of darkness and light, paused. 

And God brooded.

For to sit atop all that was to come and all that ever would be was huge.

And yet, as Genesis children, we have been entrusted with the same cargo. All that is beautiful and real and faceted and frightful swells at the end of our fingertips and, consequently, there are decisions to be made and pictures to be painted and poems to be written.

We have a responsibility.

We must accept our inheritance.

We, the created, must create.

"But unless we are creators we are not fully alive."

-Madeleine L'Engle

Photo credit: webtreats on flickr

Opportunity

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"It's not a competition. It's a doorway."

-Mary Oliver

Too often, opportunity is this fleeting concept. Something to jump on before its too late. The one chance to do something that changes things. A singular moment that can turn a life.

But maybe, opportunities are more akin to falling snow. 

When the first white flies, it is gift and happy and sparkly wonder all wrapped together. We run around trying to catch each flake and we marvel at their exquisitely unique shapes. It is magical. Inevitably, flakes land on our coat sleeves and then melt and we never get to see what crystalline shape they took. But we don't lose hope because there are others, falling one behind the other, and they all feel as if they were created just for our eyes to see.

No, we won't catch all of the snowflakes.

But we've walked out the door.

Photo credit: _Zeta on flickr

Dreams

It is early and my mind is still warm and swirly from those vivid morning dreams I have just before waking. The kind of dreams that are a patchwork of thoughts that have been nestled in the secret brain folds for days...weeks. This morning, there were jail cells and old students turned fitness gurus and really good cafeteria food and stolen kisses. 

And then suddenly, there was my alarm beeping and, very uncharacteristically, there was me fumbling for the snooze button so I could go back, just for a moment, and try to make sense of it all. 

But that never works. 

The fog between conscious and unconscious was too thick and divisive and the hands I wanted to hold and the faces I wanted to gaze upon once more were hidden behind a veil.

So, I'm left to the task of conjuring up meaning out of my predawn reverie. And it is futile.

I remember the dreams that I had when I was pregnant with my first born. Outrageous and fantastical were they. As I plodded through my pregnancy in my hazy nighttime brain, I slowly revisited all of my old boyfriends. It was as if I was on a mission to right all wrongs and close all doors and move forward with new resolve, prepped and ready for motherhood. It was weird and comforting and empowering all at once.

I haven't dreamed like that before or since.

Instead, I wake with disparate ideas that are impossible to interpret.

Perhaps it is not much different for me on this side of sleep...this interpreting of dreams. 

I've never been much of a real world dreamer. Although I am imaginative and poetical in the realm of the sun, I'm not one for casting visions on the future. I don't paint big pictures. I kind of just...am.

That is why I am going to 

Jumping Tandem: The Retreat  in April, otherwise known as "your big, amazing, ridiculous dream."

Ridiculous is right. As in, I don't have one. A dream, that is. 

Clicking the button to reserve my spot at the retreat was one of the stupidest bravest things that I have ever done. How audacious of me. Who am I to think that I can waltz into that beautiful retreat center that promises me amazing speakers, gorgeous accommodations, delicious food and CHOCOLATE and have a legitimate reason for being there? 

Big. Amazing. Ridiculous.

But I'm going anyway.

I'm going to be with amazing, ridiculous women in the hopes that all their goodness and grace and grit will rub off on me. 

I want a dream for the here and now that doesn't leave me grasping at mirages or old haunts.

I want a dream that will move mountains.

I want a dream that might just change the world.

So I'm wiping the sand from my eyes and rinsing out the bad taste in my mouth and I'm turning my face to the scarlet orange sun hanging low in the sky.

Join me?

“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”

-Edgar Allan Poe 

Photo credit: ~Brenda-Star~

Things that have never been

How unique it is

to look out upon

this pregnant emptiness

To hold out hands

cupped to receive

yet

heavy 

with that which is

unnamed

To be gifted

with such a charge,
this scripting of a life?

It is

humbling
and
heroic
and
glorious
and
gargantuan
and
Who
am
I
that
He
is
mindful?

Gingerly
I step out
arms raised
trembling

And from fingers
gilded with sunlight
hope
springs
like
doves

 

Today I join other bloggers in an attempt to sweeten the world with poetry.

If you, too, would like to share beautiful words and images with others, please consider visiting

www.wordcandyme

My one word

One word.

Because that’s easy to remember all 365 days of the year.

Not as easy is the choice to live it out. To let it shape your year. To allow it to shape you. But if you’ll let it, your One Word will become the filter through which you see and live your life. It will steer your decisions and guide your steps

from One Word 365

++++++++++

with
prep.

-in the company of
-next to, alongside
-in the charge or keeping of
-in support of
-among
-in spite of
-in the same direction as
-so as to be touching or joined to

TheFreeDictionary.com

This year, I will set up camp in the company of three amazing boys. They will talk and I will listen and we will do life together in ways real and hard and beautiful.

This year, I will keep my eyes open and I will choose to come alongside others, to anchor with them, to stay nearby.

This year, I will stay true to that which has been put in my charge. I will be thoughtful in my commitments, faithful in my duties, true to my word.

This year, I will look for people and causes that need support and willfully act. If standing with someone means making a statement, so be it. Life is too short and people are too important to worry about what love looks like.

This year, I will no longer try to fade into the scenery. I will not turn my head when confronted with difficulty. Instead, this year, I want to be counted among the broken-hearted, the downcast, the ones that others dismiss. I will not try and pretend that I am not one of them.

This year, I will press on, in spite of my mistakes. I will not let my failings define or constrict me. I will not let them become excuses.

This year, I will, once again, join hands with my beloved and join his gaze. For what Antoine de Saint-Exupery said is true: "...love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward in the same direction." I will choose to look forward with him, not around or behind or over.

This year, when given the opportunity, I will choose touch over tension, embracing rather than rejecting, joining in place of separation. I am not an emotional island, nor are the ones I love. I will choose to move towards them, even when it is hard.

I will choose to be with those that are in front of me.
Every.
Day.

How the light falls

The darkness and the light are wrapped together like twine
these midwinter days
The sun
it walks with a crook in its back
and it sheds its rays
                               at
                                   a
                                      slant

I walk around the house
switching on lamps
I need the light to spill over
onto chairs and floorboards
otherwise
I keep stumbling

It is cold now
most of the time
and I've been wearing
the same wool socks
for days on end
I know I should wash them
start fresh
but they
are
just
so
warm

That is what it is like
these last days
of the year

Old dancing with new
reminiscing wrapped in foretelling

I think
that I will just
keep going around
switching on lamps

For
whatever I do
I can see
more clearly
in
the
light

Take Joy!

I will be taking a break from the blogosphere over the Holidays so you will probably not see me here until after Christmas. Until then, I leave you with one of my all time favorite passages. I shared it last year but I will share it again--for it is good and right and true.

Take Joy!

I salute you! 

There is nothing I can give you which you have not;

but there is much, 

that, while I cannot give, 

you can take.

No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today.

Take Heaven.

No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant.

Take Peace.

The gloom of the world is but a shadow; behind it, yet, within our reach,

is joy.

Take Joy.

And so, at this Christmas time, I greet you, with the prayer that for you,

now and forever,

the day breaks

and

the shadows flee away.

-Fra Gio

So as you gather with family and friends this holiday season, as you look into their faces and wrap your arms around them like you will never let them go, as you feel the ache of dear ones lost. in all of this, my prayer is that you will take joy.

{Adagio: A Poetry Project} Born in the Night

Today I give you a second offering of Adagio: A Poetry Project. Perhaps you saw the first poem? The one where Elizabeth Marshall and I each strung words on colored threads and then wove them together into one unified piece. That idea, of writing collaboratively, was what initially launched this project and it is the heart and soul of how we see this project growing.
But just as its name suggests, an Adagio is a dance between two partners. A dance in which there is a lifting, a balancing, a turning. So, today, we are dancing as individuals to the same music. There is a poem from me, here, and another poem from Elizabeth over at her place. Together and apart, we are writing from the same prompt, the hymn "Born in the Night, Mary's Child."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It is night when you come

We have not made it to a place that makes sense

a place proper 

a place right

But still 

you come

First

there is darkness

so

much

darkness

But then

you burst forth

pulling on skin and bone and sinew

and the light

it 

drips

molten

from your face

You

who at once

knows nothing

and

everything

You

are the one

that will tell us

that

God is good

even while

all around you

that early darkness

swirls

black

Hope

grips at your heels

a streamer

dancing and flapping

on the wind

and it

leaves

kingdom dust 

on the streets

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Writing is, most often, a solo venture, a process worked deep inside the confines of one’s heart and soul. But when two pilgrim poets turn towards each other and embrace the tension that lies between, something new emerges.  A writing “pas de deux” is born and the two begin weaving their words together, in and around, over and under, into something bigger than themselves. The writing becomes a lifting, a balancing, a turning…and the words on the page become an Adagio.

We would love for you to enter into this project with us. Please feel free to leave your own poem in the comments, either here or at Elizabeth's place. We welcome your choreography on this endeavor and we long to hear your offerings on the prompt.

Where there is life there is love

image credit: Flickr "Christmas Lights"

In my last two posts, here and here, I shared about being open to the hope and the wonder of this Advent season. I mused on long darkness and piercing light and holy spirit smoke. I swelled with anticipation.

It's amazing how everything can change in a day or two.

My first week of Advent has been ripe with hard conversations, thwarted goals, and deep soul walking. There has been no lighting of the Advent wreath, no dwelling in Words of life, no mighty nesting instinct spurring me on to small acts of preparation.

Instead, there has been life.

And it has been drippy and sticky and complicated.

I lost every ounce of patience with my children, closed the door to the world and lamented my fate to the skies. And never fear, there was much cursing and clenching of fists.

I surveyed my house on several occasions and wondered how I could possibly want for more when I was already drowning in piles of paper and trinkets and dust.

And as people near and dear to my heart spun like dervishes in the wake of their own deep churning, I felt the strain of impotence.

But that is not all.

For "where there is life there is love" and this week delivered that, as well.


I learned the spiritual discipline of letting go... of control. of unrealistic expectations. of perfection.

Every year since we have been married, I have put up the Christmas lights. Not to take a stand on equality or anything else noble like that. No, I have always put up the Christmas lights because I am a control freak.
But this year found me committed to another task on the 65 degree December weekend that simply insisted be dedicated to donning holiday lights. And my husband and two boys needed something to do together. The answer was simple=put up the lights.
The lights did not go up in the order or manner they were supposed to. There were colored lights hanging all willy nilly from columns and door frames and I didn't understand the arrangement and it was.all.wrong.
I was just about to intercede on the behalf of Christmas lights everywhere and offer some constructive criticism when I felt my tongue freeze heavy in my mouth. Something stopped me. It was not because of anything generous in my own spirit. No, my mind was busy talking my body off the ledge of Christmas madness and encouraging deep breaths and closed eyes. No, something bigger and greater and wiser than me was taking over. And it was winning.

That is what love does. It wins.

And the other miraculous thing? I didn't put up a fight.
I let love win this one.

Something hard and brittle broke in me that day. A rigid cast of contention that I had made my uniform for all these years, it simply fell away.

And in its absence I could move. And breathe.

And now my sweet, little house shimmers with color and beauty and glory and I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

That has been my Advent lesson this week.

quote: Mahatma Ghandi

The Feast of Broken Pieces

Photo credit: Bread! Flikr, Creative Commons

We sit at a table round and old, the edges burnished by years of reaching deep and sidling close. It was bought by my parents, this table, when their love was still young and the road less littered. The years and their offerings, they have left their mark and there are scars to remind us all. But when I run my hand across the polished top, I smile at the way that my fingers glide and dance.

We are a motley crew, this gathering of souls, and yet we are all cut from the same cloth. Our blood runs thick with crooked noses and broad shoulders, almond-shaped eyes and cowlicked hair but despite the familiar echoes, I sometimes feel as if I am looking into the faces of strangers. 

For aren’t we all just stories draped in flesh and can’t it take years to peel back the layers that mask our true forms? 

Some of our tales have never even been whispered but yet, they blow silent through cracks, wanting to be heard. It is their muteness that rings loudest.

We’ve all come hungry...

I am humbled and very excited to be joining 

SheLoves Magazine as a contributing writer today. 

You can read the rest of my piece here at the

SheLoves website.

The Light that falls

There is a light

that

falls 

distinctly

square upon the leaf

above

my

head

And

when I lift my face

just so

the kiss of heaven

warms my cheek

to

glowing

Quiet

Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

I lay down in the field, crunchy with decay and prickly with spent blooms. Such is the bed I choose, sometimes. Down low, nestled among the swaying skeletons of summer, my only view is skyward. The blue expanse is dotted with a billowy white that absorbs my piercing gaze and, if I stay still long enough, I can almost feel the tilt of the globe.  I am captured by the quiet.

I am resting in the eye of the storm and nothing can penetrate this hallowed space. It might be true that a storm rages at the edges and the thunder claps and flashing lights compete to frame this space outright but I choose to remain in this circle of quiet. It is only here that I will be able to hear the murmurs riding atop the gentle breezes. It is here where I can be still and know.

A curtain torn

I take my shower in a bathroom small

there is no vent so

the steam

it billows and rolls

about the space                    

the hot water

pricks

my skin

and it is at once

pain

and

pleasure

Here

in this private space

I practice

once again

the dance of

love

and

hate

I try

desperately

to scrub away the proof

of my erring ways

the fact that

I have lived on sugar and chocolate

for the last

seven days

And it is confusing

because the act of putting

hand to mouth

is supposed to be

sacred

but I seem to always

ruin it

It is the nakedness

I think

that hollers loud

The baring

wide open and needy

that

renders me

undone

And I murmur prayer words

but they get lost

in the rushing

and I can’t escape

my skin

ever

The water

it washes over

my shell

this casing that

houses my

soul

and

I know that it

is a temple

but I

don’t believe it

I shut off

the flowing cataract

stand silent

and

brooding

I step out

of that

confessional

the one

that sometimes

spins dizzy

and it happens

In that moment

the curtain

is

torn

in

two

and I stand

foot bare

on

holy ground

For

John baptized

in the desert places

and

even if there is still

sand between my toes

I can now speak

the tongue of

saints

Linking with Emily

In which I choose Peace

The other day, I was still long enough to hear it.

That has not been the case much lately.

For, even in the times when I move slower and speak less, I'm still running circles in my head. In there, in that small sheltered space, is a rumpus of imagined debate and flourishing retorts, each with a pointed desire to shine brighter, stand taller, pierce deeper. You may think me a quieter soul but believe me when I tell you that there are places down deep that rage.

For you see, I want to be the one who is right. 

And I don't mean the kind of right that wins a debate. 

I want to be righteously right. 

At the end of the day, despite my carefully chosen words and filtered sentiments, despite my humble offerings of compromise and understanding, I want to land on the right side of glory. And I want everyone to know it.

But, the other day, in the midst of this internal storm, this desire to wage war with words, I felt this alight upon my heart:

But the wisdom from above is 

first of all

 pure.

It is also peace loving,

gentle at all times,

and willing to yield to others.

It is full of mercy and good deeds.

It shows no favoritism

and it is always sincere.

And those who are peacemakers

will plant seeds of peace

and reap a harvest of righteousness.

James 3: 17-18 NLT

And it was as if something broke. Down in that deep place, where fires burn hot and joy is a stranger, my soul was doused.

And I heard the Lord speaking to my most fragile self, the one that had been the source of all this unspoken vitriol but also, the one that most wants to change the world. On the trails of holy whispers I caught hold of this:

The Lord God has told [you]

what is right

and

what he demands:

'See that justice is done,

let mercy be your first concern,

and humbly obey your God.'

Micah 6:8 CEV

And all I could do was fall into the truth.

I am not called to bring down kingdoms or exercise judgment upon the land.

I am called to lift up the brokenhearted.

I am not called to point out the faults of others.

I am called to look deep and love hard.

I am not called to find the highest virtuous point and stake the flag of faith upon its peak.

I am called to help others to the top.

"Instead of hating the people you think are war-makers,

hate the appetites and disorder in your own soul,

which are the causes of war.

If you love peace, then hate injustice,

hate tyranny, hate greed--

but hate these things

in yourself,

not 

in another."

-Thomas Merton

I am convinced, now more than ever, that we will never know a political landscape that represents the hearts of all people of faith. Because I've watched folks with deep belief and love and conviction tirelessly search their hearts and souls for answers and declarations but, in the end, still find themselves gazing at each other across fences denoting political affiliation. I have been such folk. 

No, the answer lies not in the establishment of a holy land. The answer lies in the laboring for hallowed hearts. It's not about fashioning this world to fit our cracked mold. It's about looking for "the way he works so we can live the way we're made" (Isaiah 2:3 MSG).

I know it now.
I know it deep and long and far and wide.
I am called to be a peacemaker.

On the eve of one of the most decisive political contests in the history of our country, I choose peace.

Peace over paradigm, over pontification, over pretension.

(photo credit: Google images)

And to all of you with whom I have stood opposite, even as we both sank, knee-deep in grace, I give you this:

"I pray that the Lord will bless you and keep you,

and that he will show you mercy and kindness.

May the Lord be good to you

and

give

you

peace."

Numbers 6:24-26 CEV