The bees come to worship at the foxglove tree.
They pay homage at each purple-blossomed shrine.
Hiding their faces in the blooms,
they breathe deep the holy air
and collect pollen like manna.
Only enough for today–
no more, no less.
And they, fed by the foxgloved hand of God,
want for nothing.
How quickly our days are spun and spent
like the string of a kite
caught on an updraft,
the spool held in loose hands,
spinning fast and faster.
To slow the spinning
is to stop the climb–exultant, liberating.
To wind the string back onto the spool
is to move backward, to sink, to stunt.
How should I live these unraveled days?
How can I rise and yet
come back down?
The spool, its frenzied turning,
burning my hands.
I am afraid.
The days spin on, uncounted, uncontrolled,
but soon, before I know,
the string will catch,
the spool will slow.
Oh help me live these kite-string days!
Truly live them, spinning and wild,
and I, a breathless child
with burning palms and
racing heart,
will hold on lightly, lightly.
I will trust the wind that carries me
to the place where earth and heaven overlap;
knowing the string, however long, is short,
and, once spent, will surely snap.
The days stretch on–
a blurred line,
a slow succession
leading into mist
which never parts.
Is everyone’s future
so unfathomable?
Or do some see it
stretch before them
like a bright river,
carrying them, all anticipation,
swiftly onward
to their destination?
These days and days and days
take out all
the fight in me.
I shouldn’t be so tired.
But where there was fire,
there are now only embers
smoldering, cooling, waiting
for some sweet breath
of wind to blow
and coax
them to a warmer glow.
I dare not hope for a blaze.
And yet, in this haze,
this march of days,
I find a quiet, bending strength.
And maybe the fight in me
hasn’t died; it has learned
a steady stance.
Perhaps the fight
isn’t always flame and spark.
Perhaps it’s standing, enduring,
even through the dark.
Even now I find
that day after day,
the fight isn’t a battle.
It’s the will to stay.
In these lean hours of respite
these quiet moments between
When I allow myself to wait
wait
wait
and listen to the rhythmic rush of blood
in my eardrums
counterposed to the ticking of the clock
on my wall
(my own heartbeat
striving relentlessly
against the current of time)
In these moments
I slow down my racing thoughts
my frantic fears
my desperate wishes
And it is enough
enough
to rest in this transient calm
to know that all is well
and will be well
Tomorrow will come
with its dizzying demands
and I will face it
and surely fail
to meet all its myriad requirements
But the steadying truth
is right here in this silent stillness:
It is well.
Build an altar
Raise a stone
Dig a well
Do something, anything,
To alter the barren landscape
Of your heart
The monotonous stretch
Of your memory
Make a mark
To disrupt the linear, unchanging path
Of your trudge through the wilderness
So that when you look back over your shoulder
As you dig your toes into the soil
Of the Promised land
You will remember
Who brought you this far
In the desire to be strong,
it is easy to become hard,
and vulnerability
often feels like frailty.
How humiliating it can be
to admit that we need–
That we aren’t able to keep going
alone–
That we are desperate to know
and be known.
Even now I hide behind this word:
“We”
when, if I’m being honest,
I mean “me.”
The well flows with water
but it’s empty for me
My parched lips touch the cup
And I drink long and deep
But it never fills me
Never satisfies
It’s not water that I need
But where is mercy liquified?
I keep drawing from the well
Hoping something new will rise
But it’s always just the same
And the longing never dies
Oh, come bend down close to me
Tell me everything I am
Lay bare my secrecy
So I can no longer pretend
That this water is enough
That my life is not so rough
That my heart is pretty tough
Tell me that you know
Every gross indecency
Every hidden part of me
Voice it plainly since I won’t
And set me free
Living Water, speak and say:
“Messiah – I am he.”
Every day I stumble
On the road to somewhere
My knees are bloodied
My palms scraped raw
But nothing is wasted
Every embarrassment
Every hesitation
Every doubt overcome
Every ounce of pain
And disappointment
It is all transformed
And used for my good
Nothing is wasted
Every day I push myself up
On the road to somewhere
A moment of fortitude
An exertion of will
And nothing is wasted
Every unseen victory
Every unspoken hope
Every secret generosity
Every well-done task
And unrecognized potential
They are all accounted for
And acknowledged by God
And nothing is wasted
Write something good today, I determined.
Something good:
like a sunset bleeding crimson and gold
over gently rolling hills of blue grass
Something good:
trees bending graceful in the wind like dancers,
like a lover bending to his beloved
Something good:
a baby’s first smile, a mother’s fierce pride
that rises so strongly and suddenly that it chokes her up
Something good:
the smell of rain on rich, dark earth
when the plants are just beginning to bloom
Don’t write of sorrow, or loss, or regret
Though those things help us love
all the somethings good
Today, take only the beauty
Only the bliss
Wrap it up in spun-silver words
Pass it on like a gift
And expect nothing in return
Give it with joy and thankfulness
And remember to fight for it
every day of your life
Resist greed and apathy,
Because something good
is worth fighting for,
Even if the battle is never-ending.
Sometimes, it is wiser to be silent, even if you feel you have something to say.
Don’t be afraid of thinking and questioning.
It is easy to regret words rashly spoken. It is also easy to regret silence when something needed to be said.
Tradition is important, but it can still be wrong.
Some well-intentioned people may discourage you from expressing your questions, thoughts, or doubts. They may make you feel guilty for having them. God is not one of those people.
There is so, so much we don’t understand. Don’t be quick to say you do.
Pride is your worst enemy. Sooner or later, it will absolutely humiliate you.
Think boldly; speak carefully.
You don’t have to go on a life-long search for significance. You don’t have to “make something of yourself.” Your life is already significant by default. You matter, no matter what you do.
To be continued… (for the rest of my days)
Woman With a Pen 