In that moment at the table he lifts his head and looks directly in her eyes. She blushes and stammers a response to his question and then waits with indrawn breath for his reply. He pauses. His head inclines to one side. And then he smiles. In that smile his eyes change from grey to green and she feels as if the earth has tilted and she doesn’t quite have as sure of a footing as she thought she did before this moment. And to cover for her confusion and her loss of place, she grabs for another piece of garlic bread and proceeds to stuff her face. The smile that has been slowing spreading now erupts into a hearty laugh. She likes hearing it and she at once decides to make it her life goal to provoke it as often as she can. As she is still chewing and pondering the newness of this life, she watches as he twirls some more pasta around his fork and join her in consecrating this moment that has made them anew. There are ceremonies and then there is ceremony, and this is most certainly the latter – a type of ritual that she isn’t sure will or should feature prominently in the tales they will later tell. Or maybe they will. For who else can tell their story and say that in the moment they knew their forever that they both couldn’t talk because they were eating spaghetti and garlic bread? And now Isabel laughs out loud and says, “My love – can I call you that now? I just wanted to say, this spaghetti sauce is divine. And the meatballs are better than the ones I had in New York.” And he takes a sip of wine and his rejoinder comes, “I hope so. For you’re stuck with my cooking forever now.” Her breath catches as she considers anew the promises they have made that night. It is startling to realize how the infinite can be compressed to such a small solitary point, a point of such concrete firmness that it is almost bewildering to realise that this communion is held together by a presence outside the two of them. In that reassuring thought she lifts her glass and calls for a toast. He agrees. And their words spiral up and around like smoke upon the November breeze and their words turn into a prayer. They are blessed and they know it well. He lifts out a hand and takes hers in his. And it is very good.
Tag: love
A Mailbox at the End of the Lane
A well-loved book is similar to a
favourite coffee cup
for both have been lovingly cradled
and from both have they been
drunk deep
mined for the sigh of joy that comes
with a sip of perfection
a well turned phrase
then she says to me
babe listen
do you hear the rustling of the leaves?
No no I say sitting here on this wrought iron bench
I’ve been considering books and coffee
and how they fit each other well
that may be so she replies and rolls her eyes
but your coffee is cold and your book is closed
and I could use a little love
but of course my darling
and I hold her close to me and
drink deep
In Between Spaces
Life is so unyielding she sighs mournfully. I wish I had a response to that or that anything I said or did could give her comfort in this moment when she feels so sad. Yet there is nothing of substance I can offer so I give her all I have. I gently rub her shoulders and stay silent. The chirping of the birds off the path sounds louder in the absence of any spoken word and I am grateful for that. Slowly as the tears roll down her face and our breaths sync, my hands come to a rest and in silent communion we watch and wait. The clouds above us hold in silent witness and even the birdsong seems to sound in harmony with the sniffling that she makes. Sometimes there are no words sufficient to answer the pain within. At long last there is motion and the clouds move on, seeming to indicate that their watch is done. The evening sun glimmers over the tree line and I put my hand to my eyes to shield the light and I am for some reason surprised to find out that I too have the remnants of tears on my face. I feel under my hands the tension is gone. Something has broken, something that needed to break. I walk around the bench and sit beside her, wondering what comes now. As she leans her head upon my shoulder and lets loose a sigh that contains a thousand lines, I somehow feel better now. Nothing has changed but our posture. We must soon get up and walk down the path and face another day. My arm tightens around her as I feel her shiver in the evening’s cold. And she whispers in the twilight I am glad to be with you in this place.
Mineshaft
I wanted to dance down to the seashore and look at the moon lit path across the waves. Yet the sky was stormy and thus the moon was hid and so why bother I told myself. But sometimes it’s lovely to walk down the beach in the pouring rain. The tears from heaven testify to a greater love than one has ever known and if I cry no one needs to know. For truly in a day and age such as this sorrow seems to be written on every face and I cannot wait at a bus stop without hearing some sad tale. Is the testimony of the current moment different from all those moments that came before I wonder. Or is it just a fact that all the moments from the past have been piled up in just so a fashion and in a moment when a match has been lit and dropped the bonfire pours smoke towards heaven in living analogue for the ephemeral nature of our collective memory? I think this is close to the truth. And thus I read and write and spend far too much metaphorical ink attempting to memorialize the thoughts and dreams of a single specimen of individuality. For reading links me to the past and present cries of man in ways that pluck the heart strings of my soul and reminds me that my thoughts are not so solitary as I sometimes think. Yes I take pleasure at times in feeling unique in my mode of expressing how I feel. Reading the words of others shakes me up in a way that’s needed and show me that I am not that special after all. Well, I am special. But not at the expense of the beauty of my fellow brothers and sisters. Remember that, remember the sacred witness of my brother who walks past me on the sidewalk and that he too bears the imprint of the divine. Remember that, harken to the true nature of my sister who rings me up at the grocery store, that she too points up to heaven with the very fact of her existence on this plane. I write and I write and I write. Oh I can’t help but write as I feel I burn up when I am not and that these words that pour out of me may be silly posturing, mere leaves on the breeze, yet still they are mine and mine alone. Only one other holds my hand as I write, and his hand is a scarred one. The scars on his hand remind me of divine love. I tremble as I think that this reality we see now is only a shade of the true. Someday we will see in brighter colors and hear in more vivid tones. Someday we will sing in purer voices and as I think on this now I tremble imagining my someday home. I consider those who are my true family, not just those who bear the resemblance because we have a common creator, but those brothers and sisters true who confess the truth of life and death and our resurrected God and cling to that common hope that someday all shall be made new. Why do I sometimes break down in silent tears when I ponder what it is to cross the ford to the other side and read of those brothers and sisters who have done so before me crying in joy at what lies ahead. It is far better than anything here, as has been so often said. Not for the absence of the sorrow that is now ever present in this tainted world in which we live. That is a piece, but only a small one. Rather I look forward to a shared meal with the one who has never stopped holding my hand. One day some day soon I pray I will break bread and drink wine with the one who was broken and bled for the salvation of my soul. Imagine that! I will be with my Lord Jesus and he will hold me even as now he knows me and finally I can truly say I’m home. Some day. Until then, I’ll treasure these walks on the beach in the light of rising sun. When shall the day of consummation be? I do not know. Only one does. But for now I’ll write these words and seal them with a kiss. See how the clouds break. See how the gulls wheel across the sky.
Penelope For Your Thoughts
I wish I was better at describing the created world. I love to imagine such things as rushing streams and whispering forests and sunlight streaming through the leaves of early autumn. Yet when my pen is lifted and I tilt my head and think about the words to use to describe the blushing sensations that cause a stillness in the air as one walks through the forest, my mind blanks. What are trees? What are rivers? How does one describe light if one has no frame of mind in which darkness plays a part? Why is my vocabulary so bankrupt that I cannot paint a picture with my words? This drives one to reading. I am stubborn, it becomes apparent. If my mind is not furnished with the proper words to pour out my thoughts, then I simply must fill it. Yet I’m afeared that my acquisition process is a bit akin to wandering through a Goodwill at times. Or maybe a comfy used bookshop is a better metaphor. I wander past many friendly paperbacks and fascinating tomes that I let my hand linger on. Yet how many of these do I pick up and take to the counter? Well, far too many, as it turns out. Yet still, I miss the bulk of what is on offer and seem to only enjoy the bookstore in the moment for the moment as my soul quiets in appreciation for the bountiful treasures all around. This metaphor has run to ground. But I think – or hope rather – you get the point that even as I attempt to feed my mind a proper diet that will enable it to pour forth streams of love-wrought beauty, it seems I am instead allowing myself to linger in the beauty of the moment as I dwell on the written word. I am not properly chewing and digesting – no, I am swallowing whole the sublime that I let my gaze gallop across. To continue with the crude, I am simply eating too fast. Of course my mind does not have the time and leisure to wander through the parlor and shake hands with the fascinating words one sees. Instead it’s a mad dash to the buffet table and a piling of the plate with all the goodies that one has learned to crave. Reading is a pleasure yes. But can it also be a discipline? This is what I seek to learn, even as I distinguish between reading that is merely entertainment and reading that is meditative and pointing ones to higher truths and sweeter climes. As I distinguish such, I do seek to alter the ratio of my consumption so that I do not consume such as would upset my stomach and cause me to get used to fouler fare. Instead, ought I not train myself to enjoy and relish the food that is grown by eternal light? I think so. I must be more deliberate about my reading, I do think. Thank you for letting me wander through my thoughts on this in this stream of consciousness pondering. It has been good to share such. Perhaps now as I shut this laptop and allow myself to pick up my book, I will slow down just a little. Perhaps I can allow myself to pick my way through the meadow appreciating the feel of the grass under my bare feet as I notice the wildflowers in my path and the butterflies fluttering past my face. Perhaps I will tilt my head appreciatively as I smell the scent of jasmine and note the changing light as the sun crosses beyond the tree line and heralds dusk to come. Perhaps I will allow my thoughts to think of heaven and of the eternal one. Perhaps I will allow myself to breathe deep and close my eyes as I stand under the darkening sky and muse on the city that rises in my dreams.
Bedrock
Devotion to truth and beauty is admirable. But there is a potential for this devotion to sour as one notes a misperception that leads to a devotion improperly placed. In other words, something is called true that is not true. Or something is called beautiful that is not beautiful? Nonsense you may cry. Who are you to define truth or beauty? These are nebulous concepts that cannot truly be nailed down. I agree that I am not infallible and it is very possible – even probable – that my comments stand on sand at times. Yet I am not putting myself forward as the arbiter of beauty or my own poetry held high as the level of truth. No, all I am stating is the statement that there is a standard of truth and beauty and so perhaps this does point to one who may judge such. Is this too far? We may quibble on interpretations and paradigms of course. But is it wrong to posit that there may just possibly be realities that are solid in and of themselves and are far beyond our ability to alter? This is all I say, at this time. Later on, perhaps over a coffee or something more bitterly delicious, I will discuss with you my thoughts on the realities that to me are more truly beautiful than any others I can dare to imagine. And yes of course, these realities are based in the God whom I call my own, the one who is more beautifully true than my mind can truly grasp. It is difficult for the finite to grasp the eternal, yet I try. And so in what I call feeble faithfulness upheld by the infinite united to my soul I lay my head down in sweet peace that I am known by the one of whom nothing greater can be known to be.
Correspondence
Hello, dear one. I write this now from the back of the wardrobe, hoping somehow it gets to you. You may wonder at the strange paper and perhaps what pen produces ink such as this. Well those are the lesser of the questions you should be asking. Firstly – how did it come to this? Bare three days ago we parted under the oak trees ringing the far field. I left you with a promise and you left me with a kiss. Do you remember the golden light that afternoon as the sun slowly bent down to the earth? In the moment it felt momentous and it felt as if the sun knew it too. And so she curtsied to us two and bathed us with the golden light from her beaming face. And through the rays I looked and saw a rainbow forming in the corners of your eyes. For yes even with my words you could not bring yourself to lie to me that you were happy and I don’t care I said. It’s ok my love to cry. Now I walk under stranger trees and stranger skies and I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. I write this in the hopes that your eyes will brush these papers with the dark fire that blazes forth when your emotions are roused. Please my love forgive me for my tardiness. I’ll forgive you your doubts. For now for certain this has gone far beyond the little matter that we thought it was those three days ago. Or was it four? I can’t be certain anymore. Still please pray for me. I need it, oh I need it. I wish I could say I’ll be with you tomorrow and that we could picnic on the porch. I’d delight to share a few sandwiches with you and some cold iced tea and perhaps a few strawberries. Yet I can’t think on that too much. My focus is demanded here, even writing this taxes me as I let my thoughts drift to kinder climes. Pray for me my love. Always yours.
Last Train from the Northern Isles
Flowers upon the table and a song upon the lips. What shall I say now when I see you looking at me? How did it come to this? Across the room our eyes slowly lock and in that meeting there is a communion deeper than words can tell. For sure there is a history there but also a future that is so richly signified by this moment in which we linger now. I wonder if you see the colours in the flowers and recognize in them the vibrancy that sings of life. I think you do for I still remember when you saw them the sparkles in your eyes. And so of course it happens that our words tangle a bit now and then as words are wont to do. Yet still at the end we pull the threads by opposite ends and tell each other exactly the signification of what we were meaning to. Do you see the candles flickering even now? I walk to the kitchen and stir the bolognese and add just a bit more salt. Almost ready I say to you and I lean around the corner and we share a smile. Here’s to the moments passing that tick on the clock that it cannot quite memorialize. So instead I sit here and write and hope to God that he holds us close even as we look to the western skies. At some points it’s true that our lights will waver and we will dance once more across the kitchen floor. When that happens please do me a favor and remind me of the truths that I so often write in prose. Here it comes and there it withers, so quick does the summertime grass grow. For once I hold my tongue and let the stanzas whirl through the violet twilight and in the moment still I hold my breath. This life I scorn as I look to the promise of what it means to be newborn and I shiver as I await my rest.
Let’s Talk
Do you hear the whispering around the corner or is it just me? She asked softly and eagerly with her eyes she hinted more. I knew not how to respond for it was one of those questions that didn’t really need an answer as you knew it was just a lead-in to a grander theme. But really, she said, isn’t it something how we all go through life as if this was just the beginning, an opening to a play that’s far grander than we could hope to do justice to? Or is it just me? Even those who carpe their diems and proudly proclaim their yolos seem to in an undertone admit that even so there is a faint whiff of dissatisfaction and that the meaning of life is not quite fulfilled. I hesitate to say all is vanity but do you not think that just about sums it up? I lean back and take a sip of my cold drink and let the luscious bitterness roll across my tongue and ponder the truths of what she’s just said. Or are they truths? Or perhaps just grand philosophical statements of the unexplained phenomena that the firing neurons in our brains frantically seek to connect in the patterns that we love to caress once they are defined and neatly boxed? I think sometimes the latter yet she speaks with such fervent adoration for the mystery that she almost understands. I for one cannot understand her fire yet I cannot doubt there is a fire there. So that is the question. From where does that spark come? And is it an eternal predestined flame or is it just a random outshoot of the conflagration of the universe in all its infinite randomness that must in its ways produce a moment such as this? And she as she sips her drink peers back at me, understanding the moment demands a silence and a question as that demands a pondering. What shall I say? I do know that there is something beyond the veil but sometimes I wish someone would tear it down and tell me that all is done and dusted and that here you go – the truth of it all is plain to see. I startle as I realize I have said this aloud. So yes she said slowly, the beautiful real smile dawning upon her face. You do hear the whispering. And you are more fortunate than you know, for your wish? Granted. We cannot see with eyes now but still yet there were some that have. That veil has been torn down and that true answer granted. All in one it was done and now all eternity lies bare to see. No, I say, in sudden realization. You tricked me. And here I thought it was an innocent philosophical digression. Is there ever really such a thing she mused. If you play at seeking answers you do indeed run the real risk of facing truth. Simply taste and see. Look at the words that were written. I choked in fear. Dare I go on another step. If so I may be caught and unable to escape. Or perhaps it was already too late. Those words that were written. They were written in blood, were they not? Veritably, she replied. Blood and water and spirit. The historical accounts all agree. History I muttered. It would be my nemesis. I cannot resist a good story. Well she smiled once more. Let me tell you one.
Smokestacks
Another Monday begins. What this week brings who can tell? Or at the least, I can say for certainty not I. A bit of uncertainty, a bit of anxiety as we slide headfirst into April into chaos looming. But is not all of life a bit of chaos, heedlessly unconstrained by the chains that we so meticulously fasten around our plans in order to bring about our own designs? We think at times that if we plan just so and schedule in such and such a fashion that we might then truly have our lives set aright and in smooth and careful steps proceed accordingly to our will. We would be as gods. Yet all of life goes to prove us wrong. We take firm steps and we plan. This is good. Yet on this sea that tosses violently there is only one who can of his own accord calm it. Not I, never I. Is that not a bit reassuring? It is to me and you may wonder why. It is simple – I am every day shown how feeble and frail are my strivings. If the path of my life was up to me alone, I would have good reason to be terrified at the outcome. For I know the deep and lingering darkness in myself as well as the storm that howls round about. It is not a good thing to be left to one’s own devices. And so on this slowly waking morning, I look anew to the horizon grateful for my soul’s own mooring. I trust not in myself for myself, thanks be to God! Instead I trust in the one who never fails and never flees. I trust in Jesus Christ who gave his life for me. This is true and this is real and this actuality of salvation which has occurred is more solid looming in my mind than any imagined pain or hurt. I linger in wondering awe at the foot of this long dreamed hill and watch the flowers grow.
Something Weird 