The secret of walking
Is to set out,
Take a step forward,
Explore the unplanned path
Be open to discovery,
Noticing those who choose
To walk with you,
Join with their presence,
Mostly it’s silence that speaks,,
Because, talking would interrupt,
What is heard in the quiet,
Stop to celebrate the views,
Remembering the solitary path,
Is never taken alone,
There are always companions,
Who share the adventure,
If we remember to stop,
Wait and imagine,
Where the next steps will lead.

The anniversary of my Dad’s death passed recently. The years quickly come and go and life is relentless. But, it’s good to stop and remember the gifts that he gave his family. An anniversary is one of those scratches that show what is felt deeply.

The colour red

Red is the colour of
Anger
Sharp pain
Strong emotions
Lost love
Grief
Feelings
That well up
Suddenly….
Red fades quickly
Until it’s scratched
Exposing a vivid reminder
Of what was felt
The anger
Sharp pain
Strong emotions
Lost love
Grief
Feelings
That well up
Again.

Yesterday I was reading Henri Nouwen’s the Return Of The Prodigal Son. I wrote this poem as I was enthralled by what he said about the second son. This poem came as I wanted to explore his words in my own way.

The Second Son

Love known as the returning son,
Is like my first love,
Emotional,
Immediate,
It sees my foolishness,
The tears flow easily,
Friendly pats on the back,
The warm embrace,
Celebrations in my honour,
The joy of the return,
Quickly forgetting
My past sins.

I am also the second son,
The one who has stayed,
Feeling pushed aside,
And questions –
What is my Father doing?
Why isn’t he celebrating me,
What about my loyalty?
The hard work done for you?
Did this matter at all?
Everything done for you, for nothing?
My dark night of the soul,
Says to my vulnerable heart,
There are parts of you,
That I don’t love.

The story is completed,
When I became the second son,
Our Father
Is there for this son,
His love seeing what was hidden,
Exposing my ugly darknesses,
The resentment,
The deep loneliness,
Of the one overlooked,
But then the Father,
Shows how he loves the second son,
The invitation to the first son
Is given to me,
Both sons are loved,
We share love’s welcome,
My longings to hear,
What touches my heart,
The words that say,
“I am His Beloved”.

Love takes me beyond beautiful sunrises,
Chased by awe inspiring colourful sunsets,
With their bursts of fading radiant warmth,
Horizons that stretch into eternity,
Love purely spoken is a clear message,
Gifted from the heart of Mercy’s love,
I appreciate the sound of caressing words,
My smallness is touched by eternal vastness,
The heart of infinite loving my ragged edges,
The source of every word spoken – chosen for me,
Making me safe in his truthful expression,
Eternity’s presence spending time with me.

The lie selfishly demands his version of truth,
Justifying his straw heart with further deceit,
Rejoicing in creating sad disappointments,
His breath blowing the bitter wind of arrogance,
Faking sincere loyalty with earnest promises,
Uncertain distrust are his kingdom’s foundation,

Love starts where my heart and mind join,
Sourced in hearing my name spoken,
Feeling my innermost parts are cherished,
When the Voice kindly caresses my shame,
All those ugly secret parts of me,
No longer needing to be hidden away,
Love rests in this kind conversation,
Centred around finding courage in me,
A conversation with Voice and Flesh inviting me,
My breath joining to share with theirs.

It’s the conversation least wanted,
But, its smarting words,
Remind my soul,
Of the words needed most,
Kinder words joining together,
My head and my heart,
Kindness’s warm breath,
Restoring my spirit,
Drawing me to a conversation,
That has words chosen for me.

The stillness gathers its friends
Silence invites us to slowly join each other,
The water dragon stands at the pond’s edge,
Then ever so slowly it comes closer to me,
Alerted by any sudden movement made,
Appreciation shared of what is heard when quiet.

We wait together – hearing the same sounds,
The crow’s hawk in the background,
The beautiful cry of the magpie,
A distant drum of a helicopter’s rotors.

Nothing is done or achieved in this hour,
Except a reminder that it’s stillness that gathers,
Allowing, timid dreams to come closer,
Knowing, what is too quickly overlooked,
Learning, to listen with a trusted friend,
The water dragon and I listen together,
Attentive to what the silence has said.

To truly see needs time
not just vision,
To truly know needs silence,
not just information,
To truly trust needs faith,
Not just a good plan.

Walking slowly
Misty morning
Carefree
Following rhythm
Welcome respite from the din
Being gratefully
Rest for my mind
Sunset over the lake
Quiet stillness of morning
Trees dancing in the wind
Be a sanctuary
Be still
Be present

Expectation is that with each step taken the earth remains still,
Waiting for my decision about the direction I will take,
Thinking solid ground is always ready for each step forward,
But sometimes a bigger drama is unfolding,
The ground doesn’t act in the way I thought it should,
What I thought was waiting decides to move,
Uncertainty instead of solid ground greets my next step forward.

We spend countless hours moulding our patch of land,
Creating stable foundations on which we build our homes,
Forgetting that I am not the one who has the last say,
My footprint the smallest mark on a landscape
that bears the imprint of countless footsteps,
Sometimes I am amazed at how far I have come,
More often I am awed by my smallness, surrounded by
the vastness of humanity’s pilgrimage,
Each one of us seeking to find our home.

Uncertain ground needs courage to take another step,
Remaining rooted in one spot, thinking my home is found now,
Is a greater uncertainty that will never find solace in this life.
Trust nothing except the faith to take that next step,
Remember the uncertain ground is always waiting for that faith,
I take the tentative step forward and then see what moves,
Like the Israelites trapped on the shores of the Red Sea,
Caught between the terror of what lies behind – certain death,
And, the uncertain wall of hopeless impossibility in front,
It’s only as that fearful step is taken that the waters part,
The way behind closed completely as the next step forward is taken.

Resurrection is a welcome not a weapon,
Jesus resurrected brought a holy presence,
To a world that said to some people, “You belong to God”,
And to others, “you don’t”.
Jesus turned the finger pointed in condemnation,
Into a welcoming embrace that disregards easy judgements.

Resurrection is the testimony of the Lazarus friendship,
Taking me to the searing pain of separation,
The sobs that belong to this life,
Are reminders of the hope trhat resurrection brings,
When the shore of this life meets with the ocean’s edge,
Lifting my eyes to a limitless horizon that draws me to eternity.

Resurrection invites me to new life,
No one can argue with the everyday encounters,
Witnesses to the presence on the Emmaus road,
Walking alongside me in the busyness of today,
A conversation that began two thousand years ago,
Inviting me to hear the words of the Beloved,
Together sharing the loved stories that we know so well.

My first poem
Took fifty years to write,
It was a piercing look,
With a soft touch,
In a few words,
Saying everything,
That was important,
Leaving space for imagination,
Caressing my raw edges,
Combining words who were –
Seeking out my essence,
Words that said much more
Than what I wrote down,
Shared with the risk of arrogance,
Thinking that I belonged,
Hoping that others,
Would open their hearts
To the words
That took fifty years to write.

Love starts in the time given to conversations,
Finding a place to see another’s eyes,
Taking time to pause and be still,
To see the human that is Eternity’s beloved,
A coffee mug lights the conversation’s flame,
Sharing moments that busyness pushes aside,
Honesty challenging sadness’ voice,
The ragged edges of pain peeled back,
Our words finding their truthful soul,
Offered as a sacrifice to vulnerability,
The tentative steps of love are taken.

Love begins in the touch of truth in a conversation,
My life brushes with losses shared with a friend,
Together we open our hearts to honesty,
Seeking to bring the invitation of hope,
Asking questions that brings beauty to our words,
We take time to wander around the tapestry of life,
Discovering the golden thread that holds it in holy awe,
Life begins and ends in a conversation that has love at the centre,
When faith is able to encourage trust in the next words spoken,
Hoping we will will be brave enough to take the courageous path,
When finished it feels like a prayer that was meant to be prayed,
Spoken with the love that conversations are designed to bring.

I started reading a book yesterday called, “The unhurried life”. There is so much in it that I want to think about and claim for myself. This was the beginning of a few thoughts that are emerging as I read.

The unhurried saviour.

Trust was the candle that lights the first steps,
Of this one who came to bring a lighter yoke,
The burden of his world contained in endless lists,
Counting up people’s failures in a world of impossibility,
He came to a world of religious bureaucracy gone mad,
Nothing was left to the blessed sanctuary of forgiveness,
Everything measured in a theology submitted to SMART goals,
Like our daily tally’s of checklists added onto checklists,
Marked against a performance review of missing the mark,
The candle of trust is the light at the end of the tunnel,
Beckoning me to live to a different rhythm,
God loves it when we choose to dance with him,
When we say no to one more task that threatens sanity,
Instead choosing to sleep or daydream to ensure rest’s restoration.

In an evergreen world it’s easy to forget the desert,
That place where Jesus walked to by himself,
Choosing to begin everything with silence and hunger,
Leaving behind the rush and bustle of the market,
The heated theology of his day with endless discussions,
Even his friends with their earnest hopeful questions,
Needed to know that first comes the desert,
A place where loneliness is the companion who speaks loudest,
And, temptation is a constant distraction that desires
to drown out what is most needed to be heard.

The beginning always starts with a single thread,
That joins one with another
and another,
Creation forming out of a sliver of thread.

At first its:
purpose;
pattern;
shape;
Are difficult to discern,
But, slowly in the threads,
I see a shape, a pattern, a purpose,
At first known only by me,
Until it’s shared with another,
We see together,
The gift that is hard to find,
If only given a quick glance.

Life is all about rhythms – they are the heartbeat of existence,
There’s the annual marking of time that says another year passed,
New year’s comes again with its fireworks and hopeful statements,
Changing the calendar numbers and resolutions for a better me
Hair greying and another number added to experience.
Then within in each year there is the shift in seasons,
From cool winters to scorching summers,
Short days that feel cut off too quickly – not enough done,
To days lengthening that bring the swooping magpies …
Their fierce protection tell me the cycle of life is about to begin again.

Rhythms remind me that life has its limits – I am finite and life will end.
As the numbers have added up in my life I see that I am not invincible,
And, life is not so much about the words that I say, and there are plenty of them,
I know that it really is the silences that speak more about my what’s in my heart,
Once I thought that poems needed to rhyme because this is what life is like,
That was the simplicity of youth that thought everything would have a happy ending.
Nowadays I struggle with a poem that rhymes or has the perfect form,
I look for poems that match life’s rhythms – they don’t follow the primary school verse rules,
Remember the ones that we were taught to make sure that every second line rhymes?
These poems really don’t interest me much at all, For me poetry is
not the search for the perfect rhyme, it’s all about the imagination discovering words,
That speak to the heart of the creative source from where I came.

Then there is my desire for a deeper rhythm that can be my guiding light,
It’s the rhythm that satisfies the endless searching of philosophy’s deepest questions,
But, then go even deeper to seek out the nature of love’s truest source,
As the years of my life are counted up I find that this is the place where I spend most of my time,
Sure I worry about bills and family and what people say and where we will go for a holiday,
But, the place I really want to spend the most time is the shortest and longest distance to travel,
When I am busy I often will neglect it and I find that my life is overwhelmed
my list of things to do becoming a burden that I can never be free of.
It’s then I seek out that deeper rhythm or I die. I know this sounds dramatic,
but this is the truth I had to learn the hard way. I remember the despair that came
when I forgot about the sacred rhythm my life was always intended to follow.
Recently the glimpses back to the despair are always held in the light of Beauty’s words to me.

Rhythms exist in love and friendships – They require the regular pulse of new blood…
Without this fresh flow painful bruises arise are evidence of a lack of fresh life and
show the world the blows that caused them to come to the surface.
Sooner or later these blows will leave their mark on the relationship,
they can be healed but the violence that they began from also needs healing.
Love and friendships hold the capacity to delight and disappoint. Joy and sadness
are always close at hand when my heart is opened wide to another’s.
And I have have felt the worst and best of these. Love’s ebbs and flows, and lost,
friendships cherished and friendships missed are all part of life’s rhythms.
I feel the pain of a love torn apart, the wrenching of a broken heart,
and I know the pain of when a friendship is painfully discarded,
by the one that is loved. Even when I would have died for what I cherished most,
I realised too late that something had already died between us – The rhythm of life and death
doesn’t forget the beat that continues as life pushes me ever forward. But, I will
continue to love, forgive and trust. These are far better than allowing disappointment’s
painful blows to only leave hate, anger and anxiety…
It’s not just the fun times and shared moments that mark the progress of my most loved friendships,
sadness is also the painful reminder that life continues to remember my name. I am not forgotten
even in the midst of a world of broken hearts, my painful cries are heard.

Surprise is in the unexpected beauty
in what rises every day,
Light tinged with colour wakes my heart
along with my eyes,
A mounting list of drudgeries
waiting for me
As I think of what must be done,
Are forgotten in that moment
when my eyes turn toward the sun,
I love the surprise of beauty everyday,
It always renews and reminds,
New life is always waiting for its turn,
When I remember to open my heart,
To the life that rises in me each day.

I recently came across a Mary Oliver poem “Five A.M. in the Pinewoods”, that finished with these lines:

“I was thinking:
so this is how you swim inward,
so this is how you flow outward,
so this is how you pray”.
When reading the last line I started thinking about how I pray and the unique voice that God has given me. Her poem is about finding a space to consider the nature of our existence through an encounter with some deer. Her concluding words led me to write, “This is how I pray”.

When I wrote my poem I started with the creative voice of my imagination and the gift of a community in which I can share that gift. The light shining for a friend is that moment of connection created when an idea is shared with someone trusted enough to appreciate the gift that is brought. This sharing with another helps me better understand the essence of prayer.

Then as I considered the creative work of prayer I wondered about the best environment that allows my prayer to be expressed. It’s often in the midst of beauty, or stillness or daydreaming that possibility is given the freedom to be explored. Doing nothing is often the best way to birth and nurture creativity.

Finally I explored the creative work that came from making a space to explore the jumble of thoughts in my head. A poem grew out of enjoying my own unique expression of prayer. The poem is my creativity that came from allowing a space that permitted an idea to tramp through my head and take the form of text on a page.

I have discovered over the past year or so that prayer is not an endless list of requests that are streamed up to God. It has become a beautiful creative act that is a part of the imaginative work that God formed within me when he created me in his image. Prayer is a solitary work of finding ways to express to God my joy, surprise, hope and expectation as well as my disappointment sadness and loneliness. And, then when it’s shared and appreciated by others it becomes an even deeper expression of my connection with God’s community,

This is how I pray

An idea flashes,
Jolting my my thoughts,
With what could be!
The jumble of imagination,
Untangling itself,
Into a pattern of ideas,
And, seeing the light shine,
For a friend,
Who sees my imagination,
Wondering too what could be?

It’s not the peaceful forest,
Or, the first shaft of light,
Breaking into the morning,
But, in the middle of beauty,
I sit with possibility,
Silently,
Searching,
Lost in my thoughts,
The footsteps of an idea,
Tramping through the beauty,
That surrounds my still activity.

A poem captures,
And, releases,
What cannot be said,
This is how I pray,
There are many more verses,
That are best left to silence,
Prayer isn’t just what is spoken,
I mostly listen,
Learning to hear,
When the footsteps pound,
Or, when there is no silence,
I remember the gift,
Of learning how to pray.