I thought this series of posts was finished. I thought there was nothing more to write, or to share. Then, after posting the last entry and sleeping the night, I woke up with a conversation with God that I had not expected.
In the first mind, before feet hit the floor, we visited. I told God how I was feeling a bit down, a bit disappointed in myself and discouraged by others. What followed was less than a whisper and more than a breeze.
You are my breath.
I lay in silence, heart pounding with protest, and responded, “Not me. There are so many more in need and more deserving.”
Silence underscored the message. Continue reading
Scrawling lines of connected glories
Hidden neatly and obscured in rush
Screaming language of unfolding stories
Birthed in histories and imaginative gush.
Soothing landscapes of parallel planes
Cloaked in contrast of dark and night
Secretive longing of measured gains
Founded in pursuit then ground as right. Continue reading
Well, I couldn’t just leave it there. Are you surprised?
Because there is a distinction that I do know. And hope to encourage in you to recognize as your own passion and calling to Be.
My writing becomes prayers not because I am such a good writer, or even that I have profound wisdom to offer an already word-cluttered world. It is because it is my breath. It is where I find or feel One with my Self, and therefore with God. Sixty years and I’m considering: stop running from being a writer. It’s important because it is how God made me. One of God’s codes, designed in me as a pathway back to myself, which is to say back to God.
It is important that each of us, all of us, find and recognize and use what is our breath.
That we discover, no matter how early or late, the homing device Our Creator placed in us at birth to bring us back home – to here. This here on earth. Continue reading
We have work to do.
Asking myself to not write, or write in apology is like asking a musician to not play a note, a mother not care for her child, a sister not grieve the loss of her family. It is like damming a stream, withholding milkweeds from monarchs, or respecting the deeds of the arborist but not the lumberjack.
For me writing is a matter of natural migration: experience, reading, inspiration, prayer, write, thought, feeling, conversations, puzzles, refinement, write, prayer, release. So, while what I’ve been saying about the work we have to do in prayer and consciousness is true, it is not the whole. “We have work to do” begins with our prayers, specific and anonymous; and (for me) continues in the writing. Passion potent as prayer; made sacred by recognizing and living the authentic Self. Continue reading
As the malady becomes
an alarm to pray,
might it be made a gift
by the call to Love?
The silence I’ve craved, and thought could only be found in the country, has become the perfect backdrop to amplify sound. It’s tinnitus: a symptom of signals misread by the brain as a constant ringing.
So the joke’s on me.
All those years of fighting for my right to quiet in dorm rooms, apartments, restaurants and churches is nothing against this war of noise inside my head. All the shushes and passive-aggressive stares toward your public disturbances are but small campaigns compared to this battle of ignoring the screech of my own. Continue reading
of childhood hope,
steals the joy
of living truth.
I am more city girl than I care to admit and want to believe. It nearly breaks my heart to write this.
I am depressed by old farm houses that don’t cradle my own family’s history, and I run away from run-down homesteads of neglected dreams.
I am frightened by the likelihood of snakes in the grass. Even too-quiet a night now provokes fear of intruders – animal or human.
And while I am soothed by the solitude of open spaces, breezes and fresh waves of sun, I now have to admit to craving the conveniences and friendships that I’ve come to know in the congested city. Continue reading
all the distractions,
I am finding my place
in the meadow.
I have finally landed on a piece of grass, away from the house; beside a tree stump just tall enough to serve as a table for my water and designate a space to write in this wide and open meadow.
It’s taken me two and a half days to work my way out of the strongholds of the city and this almost too inviting house. I’ve been seduced by the over-stuffed sofa and rooms filled with light through sheer-curtained windows. And any interest to go out-of-doors has been mostly hampered by overcast skies. Continue reading