I think Thoreau was right when he implied
That if you want to live deliberately
you better go to the woods.

We better go to the woods!
or perhaps out to some desert, or garden
maybe not entirely unlike Gesthemane -
in order to bury our willful straying self in silent soil
under leaves of repentance

held deep, in dark earth, but also the arms of Christ’s everlasting forgiveness.
We need to bury our tears there that are falling
heavily to the ground, full with the weight of this world’s pain,
ours and others’ we were never meant to be separate from.
The salt will dissolve in the ground and spread out to the roots of plants
Seasoning their juices, readying for life to come balm for the journey:

recollection of those before who battled will and tears
in aching hope reaching for rest and light,
who are gone, but in joy, us and others await.

We also need to bury there our fears that freeze us.
Kneeling down to the power greater than ourselves
which is burning, like the sun, with the warmth of such love
that alone can (and wills to) thaw us.
And once we are all buried we’ll lose the emptiness that clung to us
And come back, return home more ourselves than when we left.

Life Together

It is quiet and cool, breath catching

upon the breeze, up! Somewhere

into the high heavens - Somewhere

we feel but cannot see.

It is quiet here. We do not speak.

But our roots gently, slowly, carefully

begin around each other to weave.

We look and breathe out onto the night

stars shine above us like promises

that came as old as Abraham upon this

world and still, brightly stand.

We do not speak. But Something is speaking

and in our silence, we are responding.

A Poem for My Mother

We only get one mother.
One heartbeat that God chooses
To bring us into being
Beneath.
One voice that shapes us
As we hear her talk, laugh, sing,
Whisper to herself as she walks
Alone among the trees.
And later she became the fruitful tree
Under whose shade we would take refuge
From storms, bullies, or bad dreams.
And her wisdom, vision, inner convictions,
Became the fruit we were so blessed to eat.

I am thankful that God chose you, mom,
To be my mother.
You have given me more than I could dream.
Your down to earth-ness, kind humility,
Gave me the roots I needed
To ground me in wonder
At the gift of life, loved ones,
To tenderly behold and care for,
The world around me filled
with God’s rich and mysterious glory.
Your ability to see, create, and bless
All the beauty around you
Comes from your graciousness
Towards the Creator and every created thing.
Your faith gave me wings.
You believed for the best when waves
Of darkness and confusion were crashing over me.
And I know, in the face of the world’s darkness
that you, too, have weeped.
But always, you always found joy –
And your contagious laughter!!
As many of us so well know, catches
everyone near you up into some kind of
hopeful heavenly glimmer
of delight. A glimpse of that Day
when from hardship and suffering
We shall be delivered.

And one more thing – your strength
Taught me how to fight.
To not give up, to wait for the dawn
Of every night.
For example, with your store, “Back Porch Antiques”
The hours, days and nights, you put in,
Miles you traveled to get that perfect piece,
In the end you worried it wasn’t worth it all,
But what I learned was courage, as you gave
A piece of your heart to the world.

We, your children, were fortunate enough to receive
Your heart in its entirety.
We are grateful
To have listened to your heart steadily beat
To have heard your laughter brightly ring
To have grown under the shadow of your life
Blessed by your example of love and grace.


I love you mom! Happy Birthday!

Denise Levertov (3 poems)

Variation on a Theme by Rilke

A certain day became a presence to me;

there it was, confronting me -- a sky, air, light:

a being. And before it started to descend

from the height of noon, it leaned over

and struck my shoulder as if with

the flat of a sword, granting me

honor and a task. The day's blow

rang out, metallic--or it was I, a bell awakened,

and what I heard was my whole self

saying and singing what it knew: I can.

The Prayer Plant (Maranta Leuconeura)

The prayer plant must long

for darkness, that it may fold and raise

its many pairs of green hands

to speak at last, in that gesture;

the way a shy believer,

at last in solitude, at last,

with what relief

kneels down to praise You.

Poetics of Faith

'Straight to the point'

can ricochet,

unconvincing.

Circumlocution, analogy,

parable's ambiguities, provide

context, stepping-stones.

Most of the time. And then

the lightning power

amidst these indirections,

of plain

unheralded miracle!

For example,

as if forgetting

to prepare them, He simply

walks on water

toward them, casually--

and impetuous Peter, empowered,

jumps from the boat and rushes

on wave-tip to meet Him--

a few steps, anyway--

(til it occurs to him,

'I can't, this is preposterous'

and Jesus has to grab him,

tumble his weight

back over the gunwale).

Sustaining those light and swift

steps was more than Peter

could manage. Still,

years later,

his toes and insteps, just before sleep,

would remember their passage.

A Wren Flies in Vancouver

A leaf turns

like a weighty sheaf of paper
chapter of life
over.
part of me could not believe
that winter would ever turn to spring
that life, love, the Dawn
would pour in over those dark hills
of yesterday.

but here are her hands - watch,
they're painting
spreading color out before us
filling our eyes with honest dreams
our souls, our hearts
with her bright heat
as we are called to "come forth!"
to live, play, walk slow, be.

Sabbath Poem

Rest awhile here, in hallowed spaces.

Here.

Where the sunlight dances

like a sprightly nymph upon

the green brushwood

mingling through afternoon shade.

Itself - dark and gentle.

Safekeeper of what is quiet,

every fear or lonely whisper.

Holder of songs of wait.

Your weary heart

will find refuge.

As you lie down, held

by the light and sight

of an arm-filled sky of trees.

Wendell Berry

is incredible.

This is a poem by Wendell Berry. It is a favorite poem of one of my friends and has become one of mine too! Read it out loud, and slowly, on the beach (or other nature setting), for the best effect ;) The world needs more WB.

"How to Be a Poet"

(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill - more of each
than you have - inspiration
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.


- Wendell Berry, Given.

i tremble as i stand on the edges of you.

i have been the wind, since i was a child,

but you - you are a tree.

and your words are like the leaves of autumn

ripe with the wisdom of age,

Flames of beauty

as they fall so easily

from your lips.

having been nourished by that deep

place in you where the God of fire dwells.

i pick them up with my hands.

all around me they begin to sway, float, dance.

O i am humbled by the beauty

of these brothers and sisters,

who combine all that life is, with a smile,

in a kind of comic, majestic, tragic mystery.

church history

I am walking in these old tracks

leading to some Wild Haven

pressed into ancient hills where

the wind's breath bears

the voices of saints.

They lead me to places most humbly ordinary
where long grasses, sour plums,
and thistles abide.

But once in awhile, they steal me off

to a star strewn height

where I'm blinded by pure
goodness, beauty, or love:
where I touch
the edge of an angel's wing,
fiery white.

Exploring the Artists

"As I understand the gift of the spirit in art, so I understand prayer...
At their best, both become completely unselfconscious activities; the self-conscious, fragmented person is totally thrown away and integrated in work, and for moments of such work, be it prayer or writing, I know wholeness, and sunside and nightside are no longer divided."


Lately I've been more fascinated by other writers than attempting to write for myself. Fortunately, this is a good thing because as I immerse myself into their hearts and minds and words, I resurface with new creative inspiration! So anyway, I am thinking of posting other voices in addition to my own for awhile. Maybe, if you check this, you were hoping I'd say that a long time ago! ;)

To begin, the quote above is by Madeleine L'Engle, from The Irrational Season, p. 122. I believe prayer, work, art, and love are all things that draw us out of our "fragmented" selves into something greater, a greater prayer, a greater art, a greater work, a greater Love... but what the source or inspiration of these things is, is key. We can have many motivations to do the things above that may be escapist. But when God is our motivation and our inspiration, they become good, beautiful, and blessed. And we, unhindered, discover joy, freedom, and fruitfulness.