Darkness is an interesting concept....without light. It can also be shadow, but shadow is created by light shining upon the "real". I have felt darkness this year. Real darkness, thick darkness, palpable darkness, and I have discovered it is still safe. "Where can I go from Your presence?"
I have included God in my darkness and He was comfortable there. "They" say our description or belief about God tells us more about ourselves then it ever can about Him, and yes, my belief about God has told me a great deal about myself this year. And my changing views of His Mercy and Grace heaped upon me, has taught me more about Him than I could ever imagine.
There is a light I carry within me. I have wondered about this light. I have been grateful for this light. I have guarded this light, worried about the losing of "it". I thought perhaps it was possible to make enough mistakes for it to be extinguished, but the more I doubt and the more mistakes I make, and the more I "fail", the closer I come to empathy and love and humility, and the light is there, still bright. I know. I can feel it strong in me.
And the world is a wider, brighter place than it has ever been. Do we fade as we lose ourselves, as we let go of identities and expectations? Do we become more transparent, so the world around, both real and spiritual become more accessible to us?
These are questions for the asking, not for the answering, for I'm learning...here at the end of 2013, that the question is often the answer if we examine it again.
Life Is What It Is
I lay here on my four poster bed
Balanced between heaven and hell
Bound to pillars - four sides
Self - God - the devil - all I see
Naked to the night
Naked to eyes that see me
Naked
Ten thousand questions and desires
Burn holes in my head
And clouds rush, seas boil, rain falls down slaking burning tongue
That talks too much, incessantly needing voice
To find a place to matter
To be seen
To exist
In words and voice and thought.
I raise burning body
Arch and drop
And fall gentle through space and time
Back to the germinating thought of God
The Alpha of God
And find there are no answers outside of God-answers.
Fetters fall and I stand up naked
Head bowed in supplication to life
All that is -
without explanation
without expectation
sorrow is sorrow
the table a table
a stone just a stone
No more words or lessons to be wrought from parable forms
See it as it is.
friend is friend
song is song
leaf is leaf
Can I kiss the obvious?
Or must I remain, straining bonds of explanations
searching for answers
To questions that were never meant to be asked?
Heather Macleod copyright 2013 December
I have included God in my darkness and He was comfortable there. "They" say our description or belief about God tells us more about ourselves then it ever can about Him, and yes, my belief about God has told me a great deal about myself this year. And my changing views of His Mercy and Grace heaped upon me, has taught me more about Him than I could ever imagine.
There is a light I carry within me. I have wondered about this light. I have been grateful for this light. I have guarded this light, worried about the losing of "it". I thought perhaps it was possible to make enough mistakes for it to be extinguished, but the more I doubt and the more mistakes I make, and the more I "fail", the closer I come to empathy and love and humility, and the light is there, still bright. I know. I can feel it strong in me.
And the world is a wider, brighter place than it has ever been. Do we fade as we lose ourselves, as we let go of identities and expectations? Do we become more transparent, so the world around, both real and spiritual become more accessible to us?
These are questions for the asking, not for the answering, for I'm learning...here at the end of 2013, that the question is often the answer if we examine it again.
Life Is What It Is
I lay here on my four poster bed
Balanced between heaven and hell
Bound to pillars - four sides
Self - God - the devil - all I see
Naked to the night
Naked to eyes that see me
Naked
Ten thousand questions and desires
Burn holes in my head
And clouds rush, seas boil, rain falls down slaking burning tongue
That talks too much, incessantly needing voice
To find a place to matter
To be seen
To exist
In words and voice and thought.
I raise burning body
Arch and drop
And fall gentle through space and time
Back to the germinating thought of God
The Alpha of God
And find there are no answers outside of God-answers.
Fetters fall and I stand up naked
Head bowed in supplication to life
All that is -
without explanation
without expectation
sorrow is sorrow
the table a table
a stone just a stone
No more words or lessons to be wrought from parable forms
See it as it is.
friend is friend
song is song
leaf is leaf
Can I kiss the obvious?
Or must I remain, straining bonds of explanations
searching for answers
To questions that were never meant to be asked?
Heather Macleod copyright 2013 December
Drumbeg Evening
There is a moment, rounding a curve in the path. It stops me, strikes me wondrous! And the world glows...not with light, but with Thought. I drop to knees in dampened earth and weep for the glory of it, for it is Holy all around.
Molly waits patiently for this to pass...and here I kneel, in love with grass stalks, dead leaves and black earth.
Molly waits patiently for this to pass...and here I kneel, in love with grass stalks, dead leaves and black earth.
Don't look for joy in Nature
or peace or quietude Look for the moss, the fluid grass, and ordered fern See tree trunks rough-smooth, rising pillared Catch wind in open nostrils Broody bracken, greening lichen, silvery branch Grey sea, golden sky, steely-soft sandstone |
Shake loose the hair and let the world around make love to you
Your blood will rise, hawthorne-berry red Wave-rhythm slow, steady, rising, falling Wind breath caressing shivered skin This is enough, this ancient bliss Formed before senses knew all possibilities Ancient, yet...bringing new gifts Peace, Joy, Quietude...and Delight. |
Love this quote from Rainbow Rowell's Eleanor & Park . ! I'm thinking about something that happened to me. A photographer took a picture of me and is using it commercially without my permission. Not with bad intention, I know, but it made me think about this identity I have created. As I get older I recognize the creativity that is always pouring out of me. In songs, poems, teaching, dancing (by myself!), in the clothing I wear, my hair, yes, even my bare feet...it is difficult to separate the art from what I prefer anymore. It simply IS. There is no actually painting, or body of work that I can really show people...
Do we become the art we love? Do we make ourselves a work of art? This identity that is myself is my own art, my own creation...loved by some, hated by some, and ignored by many...this art has been stolen without my permission...I am intrigued by my response to this.
Do we become the art we love? Do we make ourselves a work of art? This identity that is myself is my own art, my own creation...loved by some, hated by some, and ignored by many...this art has been stolen without my permission...I am intrigued by my response to this.
A Bright Grief
"I am glad you are here with me, Sam. Here at the end of all things." Frodo in The Return of the King
December 2013. Another year almost gone, and I am thinking a lot about grief these days. How I process it. I am thinking about friends and acquaintances who have made their appearance on my stage and graced my "story" with their particular flavour. I am glad to have had all these lives collide with mine over these past years.
If I've learned anything about grief, and I have had enough loss to practice well with this particular emotion, it is that GRIEF is ever changing. It is not one emotion, but a collection of many emotions and processes. I recall the "grief of loneliness" when I was first left in a boarding school at age six...the conditioning myself to learn how to count down days and "cope" until I saw my parents again. Sometimes it would be 3 months at a time. I remember the "grief of denial" after my adored father died when I was 14. Because the loss was too big for me to process, I simply told myself he would be back again...it would just be a much longer separation, but I was USED to separation, so I would cope. When I was married, I remember the "grief of disappointment" as my dreams of a happy marriage came crashing in, due to early years of intense fighting. I coped by telling myself it was my fault and I would have to learn to live with it. I remember the grief of this young husband's death. The "tearing, angry grief" of malpractice and words spoken and unspoken and all the could-have-beens. And in this grief I looked for "good" to come out of his death, so I could begin to see REASON for loss. I began to try to build PURPOSE and something NOBLE out of loss.
Fast forward to this past three years..and my separation from my husband of 12 years. I began to approach this new grief with trepidation. I was sick of feeling pain, so again...denial, laughter, coping, running away to a different life....the being "strong" and "rising above it all" and "being a good example", but reality sets in and the coping mechanisms begin to slide away...and there is a deep, raw wound when the scabs are pulled away.
I went to see a counselor recently to talk about the deep sadness, and she said something quite profound ..and simple..."Maybe it's time to stop coping and just let yourself be sad...and weak." But, NO, I hate feeling sad! I have an expectation about myself that sadness should not be a part of who I am.
I have pondered my relationship to sad...firstly I have treated it is an emotion that needs to be ignored and coped with, then I began to see it as an emotion that will teach me some wonderful lessons if I will pay attention to it, and finally I am viewing it as an emotion...plain and simple...that I get to feel. Sadness. Weakness. Grief.
And so these past few weeks I am allowing myself to be sad. Sometimes it knocks me out behind the knees and I go down, wailing. I might be doing the laundry or working in the Herbe Shoppe. There is no special time. But it feels OK, and it feels safe.
I was driving down the road a few days back and began to feel it welling up inside. I kicked back to automatic and heard myself say, "No, no! No sadness today!" Ah, but I caught myself quickly and just allowed myself to be sad. Now I'm wondering if sadness, or the feelings of discomfort within my body which I associate with sadness, will be something I come to love. I am weary of fighting this grief. The world is full of grief and I would be peaceful with it.
“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep...that have taken hold.” Frodo - in The Return of the King
December 2013. Another year almost gone, and I am thinking a lot about grief these days. How I process it. I am thinking about friends and acquaintances who have made their appearance on my stage and graced my "story" with their particular flavour. I am glad to have had all these lives collide with mine over these past years.
If I've learned anything about grief, and I have had enough loss to practice well with this particular emotion, it is that GRIEF is ever changing. It is not one emotion, but a collection of many emotions and processes. I recall the "grief of loneliness" when I was first left in a boarding school at age six...the conditioning myself to learn how to count down days and "cope" until I saw my parents again. Sometimes it would be 3 months at a time. I remember the "grief of denial" after my adored father died when I was 14. Because the loss was too big for me to process, I simply told myself he would be back again...it would just be a much longer separation, but I was USED to separation, so I would cope. When I was married, I remember the "grief of disappointment" as my dreams of a happy marriage came crashing in, due to early years of intense fighting. I coped by telling myself it was my fault and I would have to learn to live with it. I remember the grief of this young husband's death. The "tearing, angry grief" of malpractice and words spoken and unspoken and all the could-have-beens. And in this grief I looked for "good" to come out of his death, so I could begin to see REASON for loss. I began to try to build PURPOSE and something NOBLE out of loss.
Fast forward to this past three years..and my separation from my husband of 12 years. I began to approach this new grief with trepidation. I was sick of feeling pain, so again...denial, laughter, coping, running away to a different life....the being "strong" and "rising above it all" and "being a good example", but reality sets in and the coping mechanisms begin to slide away...and there is a deep, raw wound when the scabs are pulled away.
I went to see a counselor recently to talk about the deep sadness, and she said something quite profound ..and simple..."Maybe it's time to stop coping and just let yourself be sad...and weak." But, NO, I hate feeling sad! I have an expectation about myself that sadness should not be a part of who I am.
I have pondered my relationship to sad...firstly I have treated it is an emotion that needs to be ignored and coped with, then I began to see it as an emotion that will teach me some wonderful lessons if I will pay attention to it, and finally I am viewing it as an emotion...plain and simple...that I get to feel. Sadness. Weakness. Grief.
And so these past few weeks I am allowing myself to be sad. Sometimes it knocks me out behind the knees and I go down, wailing. I might be doing the laundry or working in the Herbe Shoppe. There is no special time. But it feels OK, and it feels safe.
I was driving down the road a few days back and began to feel it welling up inside. I kicked back to automatic and heard myself say, "No, no! No sadness today!" Ah, but I caught myself quickly and just allowed myself to be sad. Now I'm wondering if sadness, or the feelings of discomfort within my body which I associate with sadness, will be something I come to love. I am weary of fighting this grief. The world is full of grief and I would be peaceful with it.
“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep...that have taken hold.” Frodo - in The Return of the King
Rivendell - a retreat to silence and listening
A few weeks after the "Great Sorrow of September 2013", I was desperate to get away into my own silence and just be with myself. I happened upon this retreat quite close to my own island and just a few days later I rounded the corner to Rivendell. I spent 3 wonderful days unwinding, hearing my own voice and the voice of God. It was here in October of 2013 that the music really started to pour out of me...it hasn't stopped. I have added some of the writing I did while at Rivendell .it is a memory of those wonderful three days of quiet and healing.
*******
How are there days of such pure joy that the sun sings to me its warmth and the leaves chatter their business; where every action in my day, no matter how mundane, is a morsel of perfection. Moments like this do not come from things possessed or needs met. They are products of emptiness. No wonder the ascetic sought the desert life and the monk his lonely cell. i had wondered at this...
*******
I wake to look out my window. The Big Dipper, low on the horizon, most enormous! Brim up, perfection...As though waiting to be filled by God.
*******
My coffee is perfect this morning. I cradle it between hands and sit at the window...a far flung view and coffee for breakfast! What more could I want? Close up, evergreens, then mist...rising over forests, then Howe Sound, more hills, and finally snow dusted mountains; the beginnings of our Rockies.
and yet...in all this vastness before me, I am aware that even the immensity of our entire globe, nation piled upon nation, mountain range stumbling over continents, is just a speck of spinning God-dust when viewed from the Cosmos..."behold what manner of LOVE..."
*******
The fog has almost cleared. Just scattered floss on north-facing hills. The wind is up here on the bluff, and the sunlight strong, reflecting off trembling alder leaves, white pine and spruce. The cedar does not so much reflect light today as absorb it...
*******
I am discovering that love given is more fulfilling than love received. I can be sure of love given, because it emanates from my own knowing. My soul responses, so quick to jump up, may cloud the love response, but given time, and it is quicker with each passing year, my love wins. This love is only possible through the love of God I experience within myself. I have wondered, often, about this.
*******
"For he does not wish that men should love Him more than anything
Because he died; he only wishes they would hear him sing." Stevie Smith (The Airy Christ)
*******
If my mind was a full green field
and my thoughts of blame and hurt
just a flock of blackbirds
thick, thick on the ground
I would startle them all with my merry, merry laughter
at this whole crazy mess
They would rise as one, swirl, circle
and hightail it to distant meadowed minds
then my field would peaceful-be
full of green and growingness...
*******
At 5 o'clock every afternoon a great bell is rung outside...it tolls out over the steep hills like a church bell...and indeed, I suppose it is a church bell of sorts, for it calls us to Sacred Hour...
End of day, and sacred hour was music and silence. I think I could love these Catholics; their love of sacred. There is a tall, gaunt man. Dutch, I think; one plump woman with beatific smile on beaming face, and lately come a girl, her hair all curls that fall just past her shoulders, but the face is strong, almost boyish, with fierce dark brows; an angel's face, all curls and glory.
Our guide is an old man, with white beard. He is tall still, though stooping slightly, and gentle through and through. He starts the music, voices chanting in splendid harmonies; voices only, their notes enough to lift me, and then silence, which I'm not so good at.
I notice the ant. There was one yesterday as well, which I took pity on and freed to the gravel outside, only to realize he was a carpenter ant and preferred the wood of the building to the great outdoors. This ant I left alone. He traversed the wide, warm floor of our round sanctuary, like he was exploring a vast desert. He climbed the Kleenex box and inspected the chair legs. Why is there only one ant per sacred hour? Do they take turns?
*******
"We begin our renouncement of creatures by standing back from them and looking at them as they are in themselves. In so doing we penetrate their reality, their actuality, their truth, which cannot be discovered until we get them outside ourselves and stand back so that they are seen in perspective. We cannot see things in perspective until we cease to hug them to our bosom. When we let go of them we begin to appreciate them as they really are. Only then can we begin to see God in them. Not until we find Him in them can we start on the road of dark contemplation at whose end we shall be able to find them in Him."
Thomas Merton (Thoughts in Solitude)
*******
"Take off your shoes, Take off your shoes!! Pay attention to the burning, Hear God's voice and let the prophet emerge." (reading at sacred hour)
There is mist outside my third floor window. I can only see the trees close up. How indicative of life right now. But I can hear water; water everywhere; on the rooftops, on the leaves and ground, running down gutter pipes and larger currents rushing down hills.
My future is shrouded in mystery, but Living Water is here to play. In this moment, this is enough. Holy Water wash. Wash through dead leaves on parched ground...cleansing...quenching...filling...overflowing...
*******
The Four Elements of Change
Water - washing
Fire - burning
Earth - dying
Air - rising above
*******
Hands open, hands open
Always, hands open
To give AND to receive
Hands open, always open.
*******
TODAY
Today I will be still, let silence wash over me.
Today I will be silent before God.
I will contemplate the plumey clouds and hovering snow peaks,
stark pines and close-up fragrant herbs
I will contemplate the beauty of God in the centre of sorrow.
Today I take communion alone
i eat His body, broken open for my sorrow and my peace
And drink His blood, spilled to bring me near
I contemplate my indifference to this Wonder.
Today I will paint with soft, wet strokes
Pastel pictures quite unnecessary
Pastel pictures to silence my doing
To silence the the rush and the go
and the driven-ness that is in me.
*******
RIVENDELL
Still. Sacred. Silence.
I don't know these words
Pentecostals bounce, shout, dance
and often miss the still, sacred, silence of His voice
I will learn from Babylon perceived
-seven hills with scarlet woman-
These people, simple in living,
gentle to me through and through,
are not decadent Rome
As I am not frothing hell-fire
Children of God all.
(All the above taken from my journal of October 2013)
*******
How are there days of such pure joy that the sun sings to me its warmth and the leaves chatter their business; where every action in my day, no matter how mundane, is a morsel of perfection. Moments like this do not come from things possessed or needs met. They are products of emptiness. No wonder the ascetic sought the desert life and the monk his lonely cell. i had wondered at this...
*******
I wake to look out my window. The Big Dipper, low on the horizon, most enormous! Brim up, perfection...As though waiting to be filled by God.
*******
My coffee is perfect this morning. I cradle it between hands and sit at the window...a far flung view and coffee for breakfast! What more could I want? Close up, evergreens, then mist...rising over forests, then Howe Sound, more hills, and finally snow dusted mountains; the beginnings of our Rockies.
and yet...in all this vastness before me, I am aware that even the immensity of our entire globe, nation piled upon nation, mountain range stumbling over continents, is just a speck of spinning God-dust when viewed from the Cosmos..."behold what manner of LOVE..."
*******
The fog has almost cleared. Just scattered floss on north-facing hills. The wind is up here on the bluff, and the sunlight strong, reflecting off trembling alder leaves, white pine and spruce. The cedar does not so much reflect light today as absorb it...
*******
I am discovering that love given is more fulfilling than love received. I can be sure of love given, because it emanates from my own knowing. My soul responses, so quick to jump up, may cloud the love response, but given time, and it is quicker with each passing year, my love wins. This love is only possible through the love of God I experience within myself. I have wondered, often, about this.
*******
"For he does not wish that men should love Him more than anything
Because he died; he only wishes they would hear him sing." Stevie Smith (The Airy Christ)
*******
If my mind was a full green field
and my thoughts of blame and hurt
just a flock of blackbirds
thick, thick on the ground
I would startle them all with my merry, merry laughter
at this whole crazy mess
They would rise as one, swirl, circle
and hightail it to distant meadowed minds
then my field would peaceful-be
full of green and growingness...
*******
At 5 o'clock every afternoon a great bell is rung outside...it tolls out over the steep hills like a church bell...and indeed, I suppose it is a church bell of sorts, for it calls us to Sacred Hour...
End of day, and sacred hour was music and silence. I think I could love these Catholics; their love of sacred. There is a tall, gaunt man. Dutch, I think; one plump woman with beatific smile on beaming face, and lately come a girl, her hair all curls that fall just past her shoulders, but the face is strong, almost boyish, with fierce dark brows; an angel's face, all curls and glory.
Our guide is an old man, with white beard. He is tall still, though stooping slightly, and gentle through and through. He starts the music, voices chanting in splendid harmonies; voices only, their notes enough to lift me, and then silence, which I'm not so good at.
I notice the ant. There was one yesterday as well, which I took pity on and freed to the gravel outside, only to realize he was a carpenter ant and preferred the wood of the building to the great outdoors. This ant I left alone. He traversed the wide, warm floor of our round sanctuary, like he was exploring a vast desert. He climbed the Kleenex box and inspected the chair legs. Why is there only one ant per sacred hour? Do they take turns?
*******
"We begin our renouncement of creatures by standing back from them and looking at them as they are in themselves. In so doing we penetrate their reality, their actuality, their truth, which cannot be discovered until we get them outside ourselves and stand back so that they are seen in perspective. We cannot see things in perspective until we cease to hug them to our bosom. When we let go of them we begin to appreciate them as they really are. Only then can we begin to see God in them. Not until we find Him in them can we start on the road of dark contemplation at whose end we shall be able to find them in Him."
Thomas Merton (Thoughts in Solitude)
*******
"Take off your shoes, Take off your shoes!! Pay attention to the burning, Hear God's voice and let the prophet emerge." (reading at sacred hour)
There is mist outside my third floor window. I can only see the trees close up. How indicative of life right now. But I can hear water; water everywhere; on the rooftops, on the leaves and ground, running down gutter pipes and larger currents rushing down hills.
My future is shrouded in mystery, but Living Water is here to play. In this moment, this is enough. Holy Water wash. Wash through dead leaves on parched ground...cleansing...quenching...filling...overflowing...
*******
The Four Elements of Change
Water - washing
Fire - burning
Earth - dying
Air - rising above
*******
Hands open, hands open
Always, hands open
To give AND to receive
Hands open, always open.
*******
TODAY
Today I will be still, let silence wash over me.
Today I will be silent before God.
I will contemplate the plumey clouds and hovering snow peaks,
stark pines and close-up fragrant herbs
I will contemplate the beauty of God in the centre of sorrow.
Today I take communion alone
i eat His body, broken open for my sorrow and my peace
And drink His blood, spilled to bring me near
I contemplate my indifference to this Wonder.
Today I will paint with soft, wet strokes
Pastel pictures quite unnecessary
Pastel pictures to silence my doing
To silence the the rush and the go
and the driven-ness that is in me.
*******
RIVENDELL
Still. Sacred. Silence.
I don't know these words
Pentecostals bounce, shout, dance
and often miss the still, sacred, silence of His voice
I will learn from Babylon perceived
-seven hills with scarlet woman-
These people, simple in living,
gentle to me through and through,
are not decadent Rome
As I am not frothing hell-fire
Children of God all.
(All the above taken from my journal of October 2013)
Always
October, 2013
There is always a way home
Child, mother, father
You may think the door is locked tight against you
the pathway barricaded
the welcoming warmth grown cold, but
There is always a way home
You, who have committed yourself to the outer-ness
who have listened to the voices of despair
And you, who have been rejected and abandoned by those you trust
Or you, who turn away from the light of home fires
"Unworthy!" shouting in your head.
No, no, no! There is always a way home!
Turn back your gaze and see the chink of light
Beneath sill and portal.
This lostness is a sneaking lie
And the alone-ness a cloak of deceit.
The world is too wide and high
to close you off in darkness
And this God too glad and laughing to leave you there!
Eyes, unveil yourselves!
Throw off the burial shroud and stumble from the cave.
Your choice, to lift face to fiery sunlight;
Burning God-light!
It is always there, always has been
It shines on clear path, marking homeward.
Burning, yes. But still we walk it, shoes off.
And we bear the burning, the cleansing burning
For it is holy ground, and it leads home
Home to the heart of God.
Marjorie Esther Ross Macleod (Pat) at 42 years old and 65 years old. Nov 1928 - Nov 1995
Remembering Songs...
I sing the hymns of my childhood more often these days, rediscovering their words and nuances, the flow of their melodies and the meanings I never heard as a child.
They are more my mother's songs than mine, although I'm sure I can remember hundreds. She is close to me these days. I see her laughing eyes and aging hands holding that precious cup of tea. She is always singing. She is always eager to hear what is happening in my life.
I am becoming my mother and I'm glad. She was a vibrant woman with a zest for life, an eye for adventure and an ability to press through grief, loss and disappointment, with a song in her mouth and a sparkle in her eye. Snippets of songs, long forgotten, return to me now...and I sing. I will always keep her song going.
They are more my mother's songs than mine, although I'm sure I can remember hundreds. She is close to me these days. I see her laughing eyes and aging hands holding that precious cup of tea. She is always singing. She is always eager to hear what is happening in my life.
I am becoming my mother and I'm glad. She was a vibrant woman with a zest for life, an eye for adventure and an ability to press through grief, loss and disappointment, with a song in her mouth and a sparkle in her eye. Snippets of songs, long forgotten, return to me now...and I sing. I will always keep her song going.
The World's Words
Let the talking cease
The explanations and remonstrances
The figuring and the solving.
Shut tight the mouth that would try to explain
that which I cannot
And be content with the words of the world around.
They speak better to me anyway.
Let the grass underfoot attest to joy
and the drip of rain to clarity
The crackle of fire is my burning
the rush of wind unknowable Spirit Presence.
Let the Unknowable make Himself known to me
Through the shuttering of my lips
And the opening of other senses.
The mouth has made itself arrogant
with words too big for me
And consumed food, too much to fill these empty places.
Let me shut my mouth and feast instead on Love.
The explanations and remonstrances
The figuring and the solving.
Shut tight the mouth that would try to explain
that which I cannot
And be content with the words of the world around.
They speak better to me anyway.
Let the grass underfoot attest to joy
and the drip of rain to clarity
The crackle of fire is my burning
the rush of wind unknowable Spirit Presence.
Let the Unknowable make Himself known to me
Through the shuttering of my lips
And the opening of other senses.
The mouth has made itself arrogant
with words too big for me
And consumed food, too much to fill these empty places.
Let me shut my mouth and feast instead on Love.
Kindling
He always leaves me kindling
when he goes,
As if it is a grand replacement
to warm this empty house.
I would have done well
to watch the fireplace...
when he goes,
As if it is a grand replacement
to warm this empty house.
I would have done well
to watch the fireplace...
This Day
This day, this day when miracles are broken
and hearts lose their courage
the fog has visited me
It is a death shroud for all that is gone
buried in remembrances
The silence hurts my ears today, but I will cherish it again
when sunny days lift joyful faces
and morning breaks bright
and hearts lose their courage
the fog has visited me
It is a death shroud for all that is gone
buried in remembrances
The silence hurts my ears today, but I will cherish it again
when sunny days lift joyful faces
and morning breaks bright
Dark Earth
Let it die
like withered grass and rotting vine
Let the keen furrow blade deep-slice the darkness of this earth
and bury my love there
We are afraid of winters
but it is Fall yet
And there is time to strengthen the faltering step
before cold stones are underfoot
and then, earth circling,
Spring waits with promises
To send from burial grounds
the bright, bright flowers of a constant heart
And the reminder that they who sow in tears shall reap with joy.
like withered grass and rotting vine
Let the keen furrow blade deep-slice the darkness of this earth
and bury my love there
We are afraid of winters
but it is Fall yet
And there is time to strengthen the faltering step
before cold stones are underfoot
and then, earth circling,
Spring waits with promises
To send from burial grounds
the bright, bright flowers of a constant heart
And the reminder that they who sow in tears shall reap with joy.
Quiet
I am happiest when the quiet pushes in
Not a passive quiet
But an active quiet where the bang and crash of the world have stilled themselves
Long enough to make room for the whoosh of ravens' wings and the stutter of squirrels
Even the refrigerator's hum is meditative as I lay diagonal across the bed
Sunny, summer afternoon... sunshine filtered through white drapes
Aware, as always, the heart will break to find this moment again.
This quiet blessed minute is better than gold bars and bright jewels
It is starlight and promises woven through the silky air of life
It is perfection.
It is joy.
Not a passive quiet
But an active quiet where the bang and crash of the world have stilled themselves
Long enough to make room for the whoosh of ravens' wings and the stutter of squirrels
Even the refrigerator's hum is meditative as I lay diagonal across the bed
Sunny, summer afternoon... sunshine filtered through white drapes
Aware, as always, the heart will break to find this moment again.
This quiet blessed minute is better than gold bars and bright jewels
It is starlight and promises woven through the silky air of life
It is perfection.
It is joy.
Broken Hearts
Sometimes I think it's OK to let myself be broken-hearted, even when there is no reason. Maybe it's an old memory, or perhaps the feeling of "being the receptacle of the corporate grief of the world". We are a broken-hearted people, but courage is ours and we exercise it daily. So go ahead and grieve for what is or is not, for what could have been and wasn't; for sorrows we don't know yet and for sorrows we have endured. Perhaps this grief of ours will wash us to a place of compassion. If compassion is the end of grief, grieve on!
And then...of course...there is the promise that He has come to "bind up the broken-hearted"..
And then...of course...there is the promise that He has come to "bind up the broken-hearted"..
On becoming human
How will I unplug myself from this machine? The click and whir of the wheels, the uncrumpling of pixels, the strobe-flashing shininess. I have set my goals, and finished the self help books. The pace has been set, the dial tuned in, the monster engaged and I'm well on my way. Look! See! What I have accomplished! Watch and wait for all that is still to come...and I crumble gently, brain birds pecking away at the bits till I'm naked again and the accomplishments to me are just paper, wet by rain and shredding.
What does it mean to be human? To touch the wet earth with bare feet and caress the rain heavy cedar fronds as I pass. There are heavy berries...rich with juice, the thorns pulling at me impatiently; nettles sting behind my knees and turn away giggling....silly imps! I would connect with flesh and blood, warm and pulsating...not just words and flat pictures that can no longer be trusted to be true. I am too old to not believe. I believe! I believe in everything! So let me return to the concrete, the touchable, the wet and the groaning; life with its sadness and laughter, silent staring and quick conversations.
Is there water enough in the air and the clouds, off the roof and in the ground to meet my needs? And is there medicine to be found in the woods for what ails me? Is there enough dirt and seaweed and leaves to feed the soil to give me food to fill this stomach that is always much too full...on media and ideas...and the latest Hollywood fashion which I don't really want to see, but I'm dragged in anyway because I hang out on an internet that is designed to numb, numb, numb my mind...this machine mind. Can I become human again? What is it...being human? Is there enough humanity around me to connect with and remind me what it is...this being human?
What does it mean to be human? To touch the wet earth with bare feet and caress the rain heavy cedar fronds as I pass. There are heavy berries...rich with juice, the thorns pulling at me impatiently; nettles sting behind my knees and turn away giggling....silly imps! I would connect with flesh and blood, warm and pulsating...not just words and flat pictures that can no longer be trusted to be true. I am too old to not believe. I believe! I believe in everything! So let me return to the concrete, the touchable, the wet and the groaning; life with its sadness and laughter, silent staring and quick conversations.
Is there water enough in the air and the clouds, off the roof and in the ground to meet my needs? And is there medicine to be found in the woods for what ails me? Is there enough dirt and seaweed and leaves to feed the soil to give me food to fill this stomach that is always much too full...on media and ideas...and the latest Hollywood fashion which I don't really want to see, but I'm dragged in anyway because I hang out on an internet that is designed to numb, numb, numb my mind...this machine mind. Can I become human again? What is it...being human? Is there enough humanity around me to connect with and remind me what it is...this being human?
Living a life that won't compute...
"So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it."
I love this verse from the Mad Farmers Liberation, a poem by Wendell Berry. I have it written on a piece of driftwood, hanging outside my Herbe Shoppe.
I read it again today, sitting on the deck processing herbs. I thought about what it means..."Do something that won't compute". I think this means do something that doesn't make sense financially, that won't necessarily turn a profit or be a good financial "move". Do it just because!
"Love the Lord." I always thought I "loved the Lord" until a couple of years ago when I realized I didn't really know much about loving the Lord. I read a quote somewhere from another seeker who said, "Lord I do not even know how to WANT to love You, help me to WANT to WANT to love you". Loving the Lord involves loving my neighbor, my friends and family and even my enemies . No getting around it. I cannot Love the Lord without loving others.
"Love the World" - I will assume that is the width and breadth of this whole earth, the green beauty of it and the wounded burned places as well.
"Work for nothing." - the nothing would be money, because the working always results in something wonderful. I want to learn to work hard with more than just my mind and hands. I want to work with my body, to learn to love the "sweat of my brow" and the achey muscles at days end. Yes, there are many times I work for nothing, but it's never really nothing. Here on our 5 acres I want to learn how to come up with thrifty ways to solve problems, not always running to the store for things we need. I want to utilize what we have. I want to be brilliant and handy.
"Take all that you have and be poor". What DOES this mean? I will think of it as being willing to give all that I have away to others who need it more. I wonder, as our world changes and more and more people are frightened for their future, for their security, if I can learn to be poor with a grace and gratitude that keeps me feeling rich. I am not afraid, as I have seen provision after provision in my life.
"Love someone who does not deserve it" - something hard to do, but when I remember there are people who probably think I don't deserve to be loved, I yield.
No one said that Wendell Berry has it all right, but I like this poem, and again and again I read it, and I wonder what it means, and I try.
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it."
I love this verse from the Mad Farmers Liberation, a poem by Wendell Berry. I have it written on a piece of driftwood, hanging outside my Herbe Shoppe.
I read it again today, sitting on the deck processing herbs. I thought about what it means..."Do something that won't compute". I think this means do something that doesn't make sense financially, that won't necessarily turn a profit or be a good financial "move". Do it just because!
"Love the Lord." I always thought I "loved the Lord" until a couple of years ago when I realized I didn't really know much about loving the Lord. I read a quote somewhere from another seeker who said, "Lord I do not even know how to WANT to love You, help me to WANT to WANT to love you". Loving the Lord involves loving my neighbor, my friends and family and even my enemies . No getting around it. I cannot Love the Lord without loving others.
"Love the World" - I will assume that is the width and breadth of this whole earth, the green beauty of it and the wounded burned places as well.
"Work for nothing." - the nothing would be money, because the working always results in something wonderful. I want to learn to work hard with more than just my mind and hands. I want to work with my body, to learn to love the "sweat of my brow" and the achey muscles at days end. Yes, there are many times I work for nothing, but it's never really nothing. Here on our 5 acres I want to learn how to come up with thrifty ways to solve problems, not always running to the store for things we need. I want to utilize what we have. I want to be brilliant and handy.
"Take all that you have and be poor". What DOES this mean? I will think of it as being willing to give all that I have away to others who need it more. I wonder, as our world changes and more and more people are frightened for their future, for their security, if I can learn to be poor with a grace and gratitude that keeps me feeling rich. I am not afraid, as I have seen provision after provision in my life.
"Love someone who does not deserve it" - something hard to do, but when I remember there are people who probably think I don't deserve to be loved, I yield.
No one said that Wendell Berry has it all right, but I like this poem, and again and again I read it, and I wonder what it means, and I try.
REST
Cease the constant busyness
Slay the demon who drives you to distracted accomplishments
What motivation chisels out these lists?
The daily tasks that rule my head
and vice-grip my neck
twisting my shoulder to numbness.
In these moments,
when I am quiet enough to discern the difference between one bird song and another,
the sun-full warmth filtered through cedar limbs across my face and bared shoulder,
clothes slipping lazy,
I discover then, that breezes have more than one temperature
and seed heads all dance with a different rhythm
the reflection of sunshine on leaves is pure light
-white light
You, who are weary from a world of doing,
lean back your head and droop
arms hanging heavy
bare spine against cool wood chair
and worship with delight
Rest, rest, you who are afraid of letting go.
The tide knows its direction,
the boat is sure,
the path leads home.
Heather Macleod (July 2013)
Broken Walls
I wonder how many women (or men) of my generation (or perhaps it's all of humankind) who, in executing one small matter in their lives, suddenly realize they've conquered a veritable stronghold.
I am thinking of my penchant towards "pleasing others" and "keeping the peace"; "placating" or "acting sacrificially", "keeping my word" and "holding my honor". In one small act of defiance I crumble prison walls and step out into fresh air.
Certainly there is rubble left, dust of these actions still hanging in the air, the after effect of the crumbling barricade as it hits the earth and scatters.
These things cling to me for a while. Perhaps i stumble over a stone or two still laying on the ground, but I will step away soon enough, venture past the carnage. The fresh air and spring-promise rain will wash away the dust of that particular barricade and I will breathe free again until I happen upon yet another wall.
It is in the breaking down of restraining walls again and again that we not only free ourselves from a lifetime of believed lies, but we also allow those around us to be free as well. If I back down from the challenge and shrink back into the cool darkness of prison cells, how will I then step out into the blinding heat of mid day; the fire that burns away all shame and regret.
I am thinking of my penchant towards "pleasing others" and "keeping the peace"; "placating" or "acting sacrificially", "keeping my word" and "holding my honor". In one small act of defiance I crumble prison walls and step out into fresh air.
Certainly there is rubble left, dust of these actions still hanging in the air, the after effect of the crumbling barricade as it hits the earth and scatters.
These things cling to me for a while. Perhaps i stumble over a stone or two still laying on the ground, but I will step away soon enough, venture past the carnage. The fresh air and spring-promise rain will wash away the dust of that particular barricade and I will breathe free again until I happen upon yet another wall.
It is in the breaking down of restraining walls again and again that we not only free ourselves from a lifetime of believed lies, but we also allow those around us to be free as well. If I back down from the challenge and shrink back into the cool darkness of prison cells, how will I then step out into the blinding heat of mid day; the fire that burns away all shame and regret.
A Musical Escapade
I had so much fun "coming out" musically. Although I'd grown up singing and had continued to write and perform for most of my life, the last 10 years I have been largely silent. This was a great time, with some wonderful friends to support me. 'Nuff for this year, but who knows, maybe next year...a musical?