like winter trees…

24 11 2018

Cades Cove 2 2

Open, exposed, naked –

I long for such vulnerability, transparency –

to be broken…stripped.

I know, in part, what I am asking…

I am aware – I do not know all that I ask.

 

Hidden for too long…

Protective for too long…

Closed for too long…

Too long captive to fear, guilt, and shame.

 

I have nothing more for them to take.

Stripped down to authenticity…

there is nothing more…

there is nothing more.

 

I sit on the edge of Cromwell’s meadow.

A sparrow sings songs of freedom as it flies across the barren field –

a sparrow being a sparrow.

So vulnerable…to be just what you were created to be…

how freeing.

 

True Life is found within this vulnerability…

this authenticity.

Real Life and freedom are revealed among the open, exposed, naked…

found, too, in my own barren fields.

 

Open, exposed, naked…

I wait for a sparrow to sing –

Knowing, in part, what the waiting means.

Knowing that I cannot know all that waiting will bring…

 

A Chickadee lights on the seedling in front of me…

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meadow sapling…

10 11 2018

 

 

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I sit again at meadow’s edge.

A sapling reaches just above wildflowers and weeds.

Day to day, it does not move –

soaking in the sun’s joy;

bending to the storm’s gale;

bathing in life-giving rain;

standing introspectively in a snow-covered field.

Accepting what each moment offers…

knowing all leads to the hope and trust of the next moment.

 

Waiting.

Being what a sapling is…a tree –

yesterday, tomorrow, in this moment now.

Gifting oxygen to the likes of me.

Offering hospitality to its meadow community.

 

I wonder…

what difference would it make

if my soul were more like this meadow sapling?





breath . . .

30 03 2017

Swamp Trail B&W

It was 2:30 a.m. when I arrived;

just hours from her last breath.

 

Her chest rising and falling in nomadic rhythm –

a mirror of the relationship we shared – joys, struggles, oblique love:

some known;

some unknown;

some still to be discovered.

 

She did not move, eyes closed –

peaceful other than her dissonant breaths;

a peace that had alluded her in her living.

 

But not quite yet –

her journey toward Union,

still earth-tethered.

 

So we sat vigil . . .

waiting . . .

What else could we do?

Just being with . . .

Being with us.

 

Silence interrupted by occasional conversation –

with each other – seeking some normalcy;

with mom – seeking to help an emancipation,

“It’s okay to go mom.

We love you.

I know dad is getting excited.

Your family is waiting…”

 

When breath, life, and love

becomes so clearly focused,

I do not know what else to trust but Intimacy.

I do not know another to trust

but the One in which we all have breath.

 

To live within this kind of trust is a constant craving.

 

Then, watching, I saw mom begin to trust the One holding her.

Breathing rhythmically now.

Breathing with the One.

Slowly bringing her breath into One.

Until her body had no need for earth’s confining atmosphere.

 

Now her spirit breathes pure Ruah;

breathing in the One who first gives breath.

Now the “i” breathes within “I AM”.

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a query deep in the woods…

5 03 2017

little-river_rocks

I came upon a query deep in the woods. . .

deep within me –

“What is it, God, would You have me do with my life?”

I heard from among the trees a silent whisper,

“Love Me.”

 

My desire and ambition,

not trusting the Truth in the whisper,

pressed for a process –

“God. How do I love You?”

 

From the heart of the woods I heard,

“Be like that stream, there.

It just flows –

a flow that will make it to the sea some day.”

 

“Be like that stone, there.

It just is . . .

hosting life – busy ants, silent moss –

offering itself.”

 

From I AM, I breathed a resonant breath of invitation. . .

just be – Love already within

loving who I am;

loving where I am;

Loving I AM.





A photographer captured…

8 02 2017

 

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Creation gifts me –

I do not know why I deserve to be such a recipient.

From the expansive waves of Blue Ridge Mountains to

an iris’ intricate design.

Moments of Essence kiss me daily.

 

I am gifted by what I have no claim upon.

I have no commentary other than it is gift –

not to be selfishly guarded;

not to be kept in cellophane wrapping – saved for another day.

 

Still –

I desire to remain attached to these moments;

This deep beauty;

This unnamable peace;

I want this palpable Essence to linger on my tongue;

 

I want to settle here;

abide here;

build a monument;

hold onto it;

capture it.

 

So I raise my Nikon and from a 52mm sphere

I try to capture these measureless moments;

knowing, intuitively, that the “trying” is energy displaced.

Essence cannot be possessed, held on to, captured –

we cannot enslave Essence.

She is gift – ever present – woven intricately into our being.

 

Yet, I am stirred deeply –

life’s meaning whispered to me on a moment’s breath.

That oneness with the One permeates me endlessly,

my mind cannot comprehend.

 

I lower my “moment-capturing-device”,

take a deep breath,

and lean into the trust that Essence is already stirring within me –

each moment.

 

Maybe I am the one needing to be captured?





solemn waters

7 10 2016

 

 

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We are the flow.

We are the stones.

Beautiful together…

 

I sit beside a mountain river,

water singing over stones –

settling in . . .

Quiet, but not by ear;

aware of Presence opening me.

 

Creation becomes my teacher:

Flow – water’s perpetual movement.

Its displacement against stone

creates the chant that brings me to the threshold of peace.

Stone – obstacles, water crashing against mass . . .

Sacred abrasion.

 

The story of the flow;

the story of the stone.

Being as they are;

being where they are.

Speaking my story;

illuminating my story.

 

Living life – my flow;

acknowledging the stones:

broken relationships;

debilitating anxiety;

paralyzing fear;

devastating depression;

elevated ego;

valueless self-esteem;

accumulated loss –

my obstacles.

 

Am I creating such threshold melodies

for those who walk beside my waters?

Being as I am?

Being where I am?

Being true to my story?

 

We are the flow . . .

We are the stones . . .





I wait. . .

29 01 2016

Shiprock Dike

Arid air I breath;

dry bones yearn for movement;

desert sands burn.

 

Words no longer drip from my tongue.

Words from beyond are scarce.

I wait in barren time;

I wait. . .

 

Hope is thin like thread;

still, it holds me.

 

Presence eludes me – imperceivable;

still, a secret conversation stirs within – imperceptible.

 

I close my eyes;

Breath –

a prayer forms like dew. . .

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