Wonder....

I wonder why in the midst of the melancholy I don't hold onto all the worn photographs of Jesus. Its difficult sometimes too see him so human aging and leaning against the olive trees. Light and lakes where there enough for man made photographs while Jesus lived. Did he amuse himself looking at his image while sailing and catching fisherman? But I'm sure there were tears running down his beard and I long to know what his voice sounded like. Was it ruddy and deep or light and soft like illuminating candles waking up the velvet darkness. I dunno I forget how he can carry our hearts and hands and hold them up against the tide that swiftly moves against us. Next time I lift up my fingers tips to praise him I'll remember to think upon the pictures he's made of me and I of him. Love is a miracle. Light is a miracle. And I can only hope that this miracle is still making me.

Shatter

If you didn't know I own this little property. The building is grandiose in scale but I've been trying to sell it for years. Maybe its just been too difficult to let go. My glass house. It's more like a castle forged on a hill lit ablaze by the burning seashores in my mind. My insecurities have built it. I find a worrying, trying day has caused me to carve out another bookcase, another closet, another mantelpiece with my hands. Things I did not need but could not help create. I don't like being vulnerable not when I've been used to being a strong tower for so many years. The strong tower fell but thats another story. I'd like to throw heavy stones at my glass house and have it shatter to the earth. I like talking about this even less. Kim told me I should write about these moments and share them because they're not really for me. There is something important about the sharing I suppose whether for me or you I can not tell. I do have these fearful days more than I want to admit lately. Not the fears of a nightmare washed away by morning but the childhood fears that linger on and leave you trembling. I doubt my steps. I doubt my relationships. I doubt my gifts. I doubt me. I never seem to doubt the existence of God and that is a relief. Though, I dunno, I haven't had much to say to God lately. I haven't wanted to talk to him. What was there to say? But I realize you cannot love someone and not want to talk to them after awhile. So I go down to the church and sit in a little room where I know the Holy Spirit breathes. For a long time nothing comes....then "God you are my bread. You are the bread in life and I seem to be starving myself. Help me." I leave feeling swept clean for a time. The fear is new from something I had forgotten all about and God bent down and made me remember. It makes me feel afflicted like Job and I never understand it. God makes me remember not out of cruelty who wants to remember pain? But for my freedom. It doesn't mean I have to like it. God in his wisdom allows me the choice not to like it. It just makes me feel terribly weak and upside down half the time. This isn't beautiful or funny or striking to look at. I feel out of step as if I will always be out of step. My gifts jar me at times as if being struck in the face. Powerful and yet for what purpose? I say I have such intensity and the intensity requires meaning but maybe the meaning was just to amuse God and move you. A comedy and a tragedy I make. I tell myself these words are selfish because my heart wonders about me and not something of you. But I can at least tell myself I showed my vulnerability to you for those of you I know out here. I miss Karma. I wish I was healing faster. I wish I was writing books again. I wish I felt more confident. Christ was wholly God in his confidence. Perhaps it is my pride too because I think I know what's best for me but really only God knows. And yet I find I'm still trying to follow God's footprints.

Dreamscape

I have this recurring dream.

I'm walking down a dirt road into the fading sunset surrounded by golden fields of corn. I'm in bluejeans and I'm barefoot. I want for nothing and I have this beautifully carved guitar slung around my back with a thick leather strap. The guitar is a work of art it's carved and has this beautiful golden tone. I am usually singing as the sun sets in this dream of dreams. Its deeply peaceful. I wake up thinking the guitar should be a violin. And I think about Jack and wonder if somehow I'm a part of his wondering gypsies.

Fallen Perfection

God I bare it all before you.
You are glorious and eternal.
While I was made mortal.
Nothing other than a polished man's rib and God's breathing.
I remember you from my dreams when we talked about the manner of songs.
When we ran through honeyed cornhusks, you thought the wind and a robbin's eggshell blue would also kindle celebration in me.
My grandfather found joy with the sound of the slamming porch screen door as I ran to pluck plums from the trees he had grown.
It seems my fervor is held within the scared palms of Christ and my husbands kiss.
I am both reckless and forgiving. Grieved and uencumbered. Cherished and Aching.
A fallen perfection.
There are sun drenched cathedrals beating in this heart and a rush of snowy wings housed in this soul along with the velvet train's childhood call.
But lightening split the old oak I used to walk to.
And Karma's ringing laughter is reserved for worshiping seraphim and my memory.
The only thing I know is what remains is you.