Confessional

hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple …

I’ll tell you a secret … I’ve been a little distracted lately.

Harried.

Fractured.

Busy.

(Which — I’ll tell you — is a very modern and grown-up kind of brokenness.)

But today, I went for a walk in the woods — something I haven’t done for months now. 

I disappeared into a hole in the trees — freckled dark shade and lush underbrush.  I felt alive and at peace, and when I came out, I walked home and rustled through the bookshelves until I found this little gem by Mr. Cummings (or cummings, if you like) … 

It’s a poem, but today I’m saying it like a prayer… For me and for you:

e.e. cummings

May we stay hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple, always. ❤  

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Almost Poetry

the imperfectionist’s prayer

oh, Lord, leave me…

… undone.

heal me,
but don’t –
(forgive me
for saying it)
– fix everything.

keep me
a little messy,
a little broken,
disordered and
a touch disorderly…

do this so that someone might stand in just the right place, at just the right time, in just the right state of mind, and see — oh, God — as the sun slams through the wreckage, lights up its edges, stripes it in shadow, and makes it — for a brief moment —

beautiful:

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oh, Lord, leave me like that. ❤

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Everyday Wonder

Good Words for Thanksgiving …

Today, as so many of us here in the States board planes or toss bags into cars to rush home for the Thanksgiving holiday, I thought I’d share this little snatch of a poem from Mary Oliver.

Somehow it just seems right:

thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, friends … Today I’m wishing you a little space to draw a breath … to take in some quiet magic.

Me, too. ❤

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Almost Poetry

Oh, God, if only you might give me the words …

… to speak the song the cicadas are singing —
that murmur and hum filling the trees.
But their song is wholly their own,
and no matter what words I use,
mine would only be a poor copy —
and why bother to copy such a thing,
when anyone can go out on a summer night
and sit spellbound to the sound
of the original?

But oh, God — I beseech you —
we have stopped hearing it.
A thousand nights these voices sing for us,
their words worn-out white noise,
the meaning lost like a long-ago first language,
so that in the song we hear no language at all.
And, oh, God, if you might give me the words,
perhaps I might shake us out of deafness,
so we might stand stunned under the canopy:
silent to it.  Listening.

Oh, teach me to sing it:
a hundred thousand voices
whirling wild in the trees,
filling the green air
with buzzing vibrato,
crying out over and over:
Love me, Love me —
the summer is short,
this life is so brief …
oh, love me while you can —
You!  Yes, you –

while my body can still sing,
still love, and sunlight still
spangles the branches …

Which I guess is the same song
we’re all singing,
after all.

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Thoughts in Progress

Speechless

I’ve built my life around words:  planted them like seed, panned for them like gold.  I’ve gone out into green valleys and collected words like rainwater, storing them up for seasons of drought.  

This is what my kind of people do.

But.

There are days when words feel too small for me — a poor, mealy-mouthed language too paltry to say what must be said.  On those days I dance.  I paint.  I reach for my camera.

And lately, I’ve found myself speaking wordless prayers.

So today, I’m praying this:

indianpoint9

I want this, and this, and this:

bloom1

 

bloom4

 

bloom2

I go out into the green world and I ask for what I see — for my soul and for yours.  

For the parts of us too wide and deep for talking.

I sit still, and I say nothing. ❤

 

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Everyday Wonder

Oh, God, knock me to my knees in wonder …

Teach me that – sometimes – to lie down in a green field
is to be slain in the spirit …

skytravel7

To learn the call of the mockingbird 
is to speak in tongues …

skytravel6

And to walk with head unbowed
under the blue sky
is to stare at the ceiling
of your Sistine Chapel …

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painted and repainted by the minute …

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by nobody’s hand
but your own.

 

 

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