I come to this place
to find myself imagining
where is my God
in the wildness of the wind,
where do I go to listen
for that voice so dear,
to once again hear that call
and feel the spirit within,
the wilderness is cold
the heart is broken
and now I stand here
in supplication and prayer
seeking the divine Logos
to speak to my darkened self
calling me from my tomb
into the light of the living One.
The church sign asks
where will we spend eternity
heaven or hell
and I wonder
if that is what God is
a judge sentencing me
to a place of pleasure
or to one of torment
I wonder where,
where is the God of love
where is the God who cares
the world weeps
and I ask
where is grace
in this sign
or do I have to choose
curtain one
curtain two
both a dead end
so I choose to ride by
to love, not hate
to care, not ignore
to stand for life
and not for death
in the midst of confusion
where we don’t know our way
choosing love over hate
choosing heaven on earth
not the hell we created
Hair of spun gold
eyes as blue as the sea
her skin alabaster
she walks softly
along the narrow paths
in the early morning
footfalls silent
as she draws near
I see her standing
beckoning me with a look
silence fills the woodlands
my eyes are only for her
I’m a prisoner
caught in her web
as she vanishes
mist rising from the ground
What is the story that I want to tell, to write about here on the pages of this blog? Do I have the courage to tell that story and all that comes with the telling? So much is locked up in memory, various pictures, feelings, textures, that engages all of the senses making up that story. I have struggled trying to tell my story and not get bogged down in the telling. There is so much that needs to be sifted and examined for truth, not only truth of the story itself but the truth of how that story has made me who I am and continues to remake me each day. There is that deeper story of love and loss, of success and failure, of being a child and passing into the adult life. Memories hang along the rafters, I look above me and I don’t know which one to choose, which one do I dare to open. I write to find myself in these memories, that child waking up from a nightmare, that teen being bullied, a young soldier in a foreign land, a newly minted husband unsure of himself while trying to be strong, a dad now responsible for another human life, a priest seeking to discover where God is leading, now I sit here retired, picking through those various pieces of my life and trying to put it together. It is a great jig-saw puzzle, thousands of pieces all scattered along the table and I am looking at it all utterly daunted by the undertaking. Like with any jig-saw, it is best to start with the borders, get the edge right before moving on into the interior. Yet, even the border is hard to define, the borders of life are not static but dynamic, they’re ebb and flow through the mind, clear one minute and haze the next. Nothing is solid in memory, and so like some explorer crossing a vast ocean I must make my own way, with little or no navigation aids. What is that story? What makes mine worth the telling? Fear robs me of that courage I need to tell what I know and what I feel, yet, I can’t let that fear hold me back. Maybe, just maybe, it is in those moments of fear that I will find who I truly am and that in and by itself might just be the story I need to tell.
I sit here reflecting on what retirement has meant so far as the third month slowly passes. I sit and write, I also read but I’m still on a journey, towards what, I’m not sure. These moments in life where we sit between what was and what might be are good times to take stock of what is important and what is not. Usually, when I’ve transitioned from one life event into another, I would allow the darker aspects to take root and depression would be planted. This time, I’m in a different place and although there is uncertainty, I don’t feel any anxiety or urgency just to do something. There is a certain freedom that comes when you don’t feel rushed into making a decision that may or may not be the best for that moment. Strangely, I’m okay living in this in between time. I don’t need certainty what I need is time to pray, write and reflect. Priesthood, mine in particular, had it’s moments of good and not so good which has shaped who I am. Now I have the opportunity to examine this shape, like a sculptor who examines his work once he’s chiseled away a bit of the granite. Carefully the artist takes their time to ensure that not too much is chiseled away too quickly, they also must follow the granites veins, look for what the stone is saying to them. I can examine my own life thus far in the same way, not going at it with a sledge, but carefully chiseling away at it, following the natural flow that presents itself as I work at the larger piece. There is plenty of rock to work with, it’s just knowing where to start and how much to begin working on. Writing, like any art, takes time as well as talent. Well, time I have, it’s talent that is suspect. It’s easy to read books on writing, it’s easy to get lost in the authors words of wisdom, but the real test is comes in actually writing something. Parker Palmer, author of many books filled with wisdom, said, and I paraphrase here, that writers just need to put out their stuff for all to read and see to get some idea if they have anything of worth.
The early morning begins to dawn
I sit on the edge of this blue hour
between two worlds of the passing night
and the beginning of a new day
not rushing forward but lingering here
watching the sun slowly rise in the east
as wood elves dance in the meadow
harvesting the dew laden moss
while a young deer grazes on cornstalks
that has grown tall and thick in the fields
and the earliest of birds begin to gather
to feed the hungry mouths in their nests
in this blue hour I am at peace
in the gentle glow of the dawns light
listening to the silence as loud as life
that shows the way to the one who loves
reaching out through the early haze
to embrace my heart with gentle hands
In the spring of ‘72
we sat on the porch
of the old farmhouse,
in the warm sunlight
as the lilacs bloomed
their scent drifting
on a gentle breeze
talking
about the future
children, maybe
a nice house
a life lived together
both promising
we would grow old
together
our hearts bound
by a lifetime of love,
now we are old
sitting on the porch
gazing into a future
still filled with promise
of the love we share
as the sun sets slowly
on these closing days
