I am grateful for the small and simple beauties of everyday life. I think that all that know me well know this well enough. Some may call me boring – the Lord knows that some have! Yet I don’t mind this ascription, especially when it very well may be true. I will take the charge and carry on and enjoy my book of the evening as I sit in the candlelight. I am not denying the fun that can be had in a grand adventure or the adrenaline thrill that may accompany a new experience in climes abroad. Once in a while, these have their place. But for tonight, I am thankful for the small things. Perhaps this comfort comes from the larger and greater comfort that my feet are firmly planted on the rock on which I stand and the reality of my place in a symphony that has been written long ago. And so as the music soars out against the rafters and the birds tweet along with the part they have been assigned, I nod along assured that I need not fear when I hear of wars or rumors of such things because I know that I am my God’s and He is mine. Instead I pray for strength for today and good cheer as I walk along this pilgrim path and ask for fortitude that I may remain faithful still. And I walk along the viaduct noticing the way the sunset light touches the foothills and smile to know that I need not worry that the third movement will carry along uninterrupted. Soon the climax, soon the bowstrings will in their anticipation quaver and the trumpet sound one last time. For now I’m simply grateful for this small moment in my armchair.
Tag: writing
Paradise
I stand at the shoreline and relish the feel of the cool sand upon my bare feet. I look out over the early morning waters and take a deep breath. The breeze washes over me and reminds me of the long ago time on the Oregon coast when the birds sang low and the bonfire of roses burned. Now I have no such stark reminder of the sacrifice that has been made for me. Instead it is only my inner muse that chants the song and keeps my hands steady in anticipation of what comes. I lift the lamp to my eyeline and let it hang there a moment or two. It swings slightly and the flame bounces merrily to and fro. There is still oil enough. I have prepared. I have done what I can. Though nothing I have done matches what was done for me. I lower the lamp and shift my stance slightly. It has been a long wait, though not as long as the walk that came before. Over mountains and across prairies and on paths bordered by wild grass have I traversed this long night. Now for some reason I do not tremble. I have been given food to eat that has upheld me body and soul. My last sandwich is in the pack and I do not plan on eating it. It is a sacramental reminder, turkey and swiss and mustard on good rye bread. Now I do not need it. A gull cries. I open my eyes and see a boat break upon my sight. The waves lap against it and I need no further call. I step into the water as my eyes begin to fill with tears one last time.
Lampstand
She rose from her chair and walked to the window, trembling. The rain still pattered down upon the sill yet the thunder had long ago ceased its grumbling. The sky had begun to lighten. He had promised, he had said he’d be there before the end. But that was hours ago now. Her phone was silent and still. She turned her back on the window and went over to the coffee table and lit the candle. The room was clean of course, though she still let her eyes dart to all the corners to verify for the seventeenth time. Why did it matter though? She did not know how this conversation would go, this face to face. She sometimes stumbled with her words and he always seemed so confident. Perhaps this time her words would be clear and her face would be calm. Perhaps this time she would know what to say in the moment. But what would he say? Would he approach in humility and purpose? Or would he come full of himself and hollow of all else? Her insides writhed and she sat down on the edge of the sofa. She didn’t know what she wanted. She looked over at her phone on the chair. It had lit up. She couldn’t see from that angle if it was him. She rose slowly to her feet and swallowed once. Then outside footsteps and his profile at the window as he passed. There were flowers in his hand.
Glimmers
Ah majesty! she sighs to herself and proceeds immediately to trip upon a loose rock in full sight of the rest of the tourists wandering about afore the castle. Well that will make me memorable at the very least. Thankful that no ankles had been sprained nor knees skinned, Emily gets up to her feet grateful that her pride had long ago rolled its eyes and withdrawn into some deep dark cave. She was a lost cause after all. A little bit of Irish dirt clung to her jeans but other than that, no damage done. And even the dirt was only a souvenir at the end of the day.
Now Emily walks off the path and onto the grass, approaching the edge of the cliff, the view that had caught her eyes moments before and so precipitously tossed her to the ground. There is something inherently majestic in the way the three realities collide. The solidity and gravity of the cliff and the ground under her feet sound forth in pompous solemnity. The whimsy and fanciful airs given by the sky and its train of clouds scurrying to and fro whistle jauntily in their place. And of course the sea. The wild angst and sheer power of the waves below her soar forth as strains of the violin, haunting in their beauty and aching in the rawness of their tears. So a symphony is born. The cliffs, the sky and the sea. All a part of something greater yet to be.
There is a sparkling in the air as the waves crash into the cliffs and throw up a spray into the sky and proclaims that this moment has arrived and that in its very temporal nature there is a beauty that signals the eternal of the divine. Emily doesn’t recognize all this in words, at least not in this very moment. Later she would write upon it in full, at least as much as her conscious mind can comprehend at a moment far removed. Yet now, though words escape her and only a silent exclamation hovers in front of her lips, Emily comprehends now more fully than she ever will again. The spirit within her resonates as if strummed by an invisible hand. And perhaps it has been. There is in this moment a knowledge that she has witnessed a creative act that is far beyond her. Emily stands at the edge of the cliff and whispers a prayer. It is good for her to be in this place and worship. It is good for her feet to stand upon this solid earth as she gazes upon the sky that stretches over her and the sea.
Haunted Moors
Hello friends! Writing a few words this Sunday evening. About to perhaps attempt to write something flowery and ridiculous and ethereal and grey in its beauty and majestic wonder. Shall I succeed? Who knows, who knows. While I write now, listening to an old playlist from a few years back – “windswept queens of the haunted moors”. One of my favourites, it is darkly beautiful even though its lyrics are at times agonizing in their pain. Yet, at times the melancholy calls to me and this playlist, while not for the faint of heart, still sings. If you want to listen…well, I’ll link it here. Only if you wish.
Leaving aside the dangerous musical madness of my past, what now stirs my heart? I feel as if the days and weeks have been busy of late and my heart is weary. Yet what does that signal but that I am still trudging on? I am grateful to my God for holding my hand as I walk this path. And I’m grateful oh so grateful that I am not alone. I wish I had more time. I wish at times the things of this world didn’t take so much time and that I had more time to write and dream and wonder. Ah my thoughts are too messy for this mundane of a post. I will attempt to channel into something creative. If I give up, will just move on to making dinner! Leftover meatloaf is the plan. Also going to fry up some broccoli and make some mashed potatoes. Will be a good Sunday dinner, so says I. Now, I’m off, to write. I hope. I sigh and roll my eyes as I think on the likelihood that little of the beautiful shall proceed forth from my pen. But sometimes a leap is necessary. Farewell, my friends.
Tra-la-la
My thoughts burn within me and I wonder what that signifies. If I am but a faded construction of mis-matched cloth and paper and scraps of wood, isn’t it possible that a flame of a thought may be slightly hazardous to my health? Perhaps it would be safer if I kept my spirit cold, dashing bitter water on any thoughts that dare to peep of the far shore. Safer yes but perhaps not as wise. For safety is as safety does, yet wisdom speaks of what she knows and beckons for me to come closer now. I do not think I dare refuse her. This is why I seek for truth and beauty despite the slime and mire of the frantic shouting that is on all the screens we scroll. Might truth and beauty be one and the same? I think so now. This is perhaps a bit simplistic, even reductionistic one might say. But maybe we can acknowledge that truth is not truth if it does not have the air of the beautiful. The false prophet can well cloak their foulness but it will come out in the end. And is beauty truly beauty if it is all a lie? Remember Oscar Wilde’s tale. Ugliness will out in the end. There is a relationship there that I think the wise acknowledge. So please don’t feed me grime and gristle in my daily bread. I would rather eat plain fare and drink cold water and rejoice in the fact that I am growing closer in likeness to the original that I was cast after. I follow now on pilgrimage, plodding yes but plodding true. The dirt rises up in my steps and I refuse the side-paths even though they do have such winsome signage. Neon and steel may once have caught my fancy but I daresay I know better now. I’ve fallen on the way and yes you’ll see mud marked down my left side. I have a scar or two on my face and I cannot deny the grey that is in my hair. Still yet? I have a dream that fills my soul and a word that burns within me. I press on for that greater prize and my eyes water as I think on heaven’s gate and the man that will be there to offer me a greeting. I cannot wait to ascend the hill and hail the master. Soon, my friends, soon. For now though, the path winds on and ever on. And there is even beauty on the way.
Twenty Four
Heralds of Heaven – heed my Cry!
I sit down at the end of the row
bowing patiently before
storm approaching
stars bemoaning
all the raveling
these times are suffering
for the pattern groans
the lines deepen
upon her brow how long
oh lord how long
the corn’s a tasseling
lift up your heads
and keep the oil at the brim
not long now
will you sing with me oh stars
will you cry the chorus
the answer comes back cold at first
then clear as heaven’s night
we will sing yes we will sing
no one will be able to stay silent
the everlasting gates fly open
some will wail and some will shout
we the old ones tell this story
yes we will sing when comes
the king of glory
Alleluia Amen
Bricklayer
The ocean sings to me this night. I sit on the porch and watch the moonlight play over the face of the waters. The waves bob and swell and crash unceasing. Their music is soothing my pain. I reach to the side and pick up the glass from the table and take a sip. The cold liquid feels good going down my throat and I am grateful for small blessings. I lean back in my chair, pulling up my legs and curling into a smaller ball. I pull my hoodie up and feel a bit like a bird fluffing its feathers in preparation for the storm to come. But no storm here. Not yet. I take another sip of the drink beside me. Perhaps I shall read just a few minutes out here after all. The light of the moon is enough to read by, I think. Beautiful words tripping across the page will be good for my soul. The song of the sea in my ears and I feel an aching longing in my soul. Perhaps tonight I will feel peace. Perhaps tonight I shall feel that love as I dwell on that for which my heart longs. I think I hear the call of the heavens. Or is that only the far away cry of a bird wheeling across the face of the moon?
Ruminations
I am grateful to be writing these words. I am grateful to be known. Sometimes I despair at being truly great or noble or a creator of the beautiful but then I take a deep breath and look to the heavens and whisper a prayer of thanks that I don’t have to be any of those things. And in truth, most likely far better for myself that I am not in that maelstrom of the great. Who wants to be great, anyway? Mostly just a lot of unnecessary bother. Still I am sad because I want to create something beautiful for I see the beauty that surrounds me and it causes my heart to skip a beat and my hand to tremble and I ache for the thrill that runs through my heart. Still yet? I am grateful to be known. And I am grateful to be writing these words.
Honeycomb
the forest meadow calls to me
in all its sweet wildness
in all its raw simplicity
so i heed the summons
let’s dance amidst the butterflies
let’s soak up the last of summer’s sun
perhaps you hear the thunder roll
and wonder at the storm resplendent
but please my love don’t tremble
i’ll do my best to keep you warm
we sit on a log at the end of years
fingers interlaced we talk of this and that
perhaps you’ll turn to me and smile
rain on canopy above goes rat-tat-tat
today you’re soaked in autumn’s tears
tomorrow perhaps you’ll turn to me and laugh
Something Weird 