Waiting On Perfection

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Waiting On Perfection

There is a fine brown line between the fig on the vine
Ripe and ready
And the fig on the tree
Still nursing at the breast of the mother-source
Hours away still
From table ready

I have stalked the tree
Begged the fruit
Pleaded and cajoled
For the sweet release of well-timed fruit

There is a dance of courtship
When waiting on perfection

My eagerness to slice the fig
Place it on a bed of young arugula
Covered, no smothered, in cotton white goat cheese
Clouds my epicurean judgement

All decision-making skills go out the window
And I
Hungry and in need
Eager, but unknowing
When to wait and when to go

Pick the time I believe is best

I would wait on perfection
If she and the tree would speak softly and lead me into the thick of the laden-branches with knowledge from the tree
Covered with pea-green youth
Whisper go or stay
Grant me the patience I do not have
Job-like and long-suffering, take pity
Gift me with Solomon-like wisdom of certainty
And precision

But I am growing older now
And I am content with imperfect figs
Deeming
Perfection grossly over-rated

For now,
I am content
Perfectly
With every shade of brown
(Partial though I must admit to Cow’s Ear Brown)
I have no use for perfect fruit
Or perfect
otherwise

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People. I have a free subscriber-only letter. I do hope you’ve signed up. Letter One was sent last week. Letter Two releasing Friday. I think you might want to try it. Spoiler alert…  I promise it is not perfect. Just filled with grace.

The link is here. It is super simple. See you there.

.Click here (A Quiet Place For Words)

Joining Laura Boggess

On Finding A Quiet Place

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On Finding A Quiet Place

There is a paradox in these hours spent awake asleep on the sea
Uncertain at what it is
Exactly
That lies below
Confident in what we see
The surface gives a nod with this very much alive
Twinkling
Like a million silly winks
Her countenance shines, her invitation to join her
We slap slap slap the wet wild surface, with little boat we trust
Like an old man slaps a toe-headed child’s back
In an overly familiar act of brutal love

We grant the mystery of the unseen
A sweet secret keeping place
We have seen them released to us
Confidence builders left as fragmented treasures
Gifts from the sea, encrypted letters
We read always, between the lines

We are here
By choice and grace
A combination which comes around in life
More often than I can count
Though it feels rarer than a left handed conch
At times
We must speak it, in unison
To remember it is true

We have found a quiet place
Gathering moments
Away from our shore
Lost for awhile
At the mercy of the mysterious
Deep blue sea

We must whisper it, in a prayer voice
To Him
In salty, sea-foamed gratitude

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Please join me at my new writing home, “A Quiet Place For Words”. A place I have carved our for pulling words through the blank canvas of the page. It is quiet there. And I am settling in and unpacking in this new place. Still blogging here, but making a home too for you and me in a subscriber only format. Click here to sign up (A Quiet Place For Words) It is free. I like it there. But more importantly, I hope you do.

Joining Sandra Heska King for Still Saturday

Dear Me, Dear You

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Dear Me, Dear You

I heard your news
Third hand
Softened some of the sting of the blow
I would weep
But I am saving my tears
Rationing them
As if there are not enough for the coming monsoon of grief

Age is cruel
Until it is not
We would be wise to remember the softening
Age has given us
Glory-filled awe
If lines could be drawn in the sand
Of where it can go
But no further
We’d let the disease you have
Have some things to destroy

In sort of a death-defying feat of high stakes negotiating
We’d lay down some of our Isaacs
But hold fast to some of our others
Cloning the sacrificial lamb
For more currency
For the wheeling and dealing with death’s cruel march

Let’s say this
In harmony

How bold in its irony
How cruel in its choice

To take your ability to write your name
I weep with you
Willing to let my tears go
The ones I am hoarding
Let them fall on the fire and put out the flame
Memories burning to ash

I will cherish the places your wrote your name
The thing you cannot write
Any more
In the letters
What nonsense we all thought it
When I, the pack rat, the prophet, the foreteller
Somehow knew
We should save the letters you wrote

Those places where you signed your name

And I will try to write
The words that you cannot

Dear me
Dear you

Where To Go When The World Gets Loud

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Where To Go When The World Gets Loud

I continue to ask him to turn the volume down. I want it lower and lower. Perhaps I want it off. I cannot tell you the guilt I do not feel. I should want to know about Iran and the agreement which is there but will be fought over and fought over some more. And I have opinions but not the energy nor the desire to opine.

I do not want to hear the news right now. I was raised to use my brain and discuss and wallow in knowledge and knowing. My Facebook newsfeed yesterday horrified me. I now know things I did not know before. I hurt from reality more than I used to. Hiding is for cowards. And yet, I have a choice. Because the bruising from the world leaves me diminished and I cannot be and make and do and love under the weight.

And yet when I stay away,  I cannot pray and cry out about the things which are wrong and bearing down. So I step in and step out. A paradox of fear and trembling and licking the wounds. And exposing myself. And trusting Him to refuel my soul again and again. That is a cycle. Therein is the cycle. That is the refreshing and rebuilding and restoring He is known for.

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I want to be wise and worldly and know. Until I don’t. The most interesting things orbiting around me are about Pluto. I ask him to turn the volume up. If Pluto were one of us, he would have a complex and wonder on his worth. Disney at least named a character for him. And they bury the story in the back end. A whole mass of creation which is in flux and looking for us to name it and give it its proper place in the systems of the galaxies.

They deem it a footnote. I deem it worthy of a poem.

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When the world is loud. Abrasive. And harsh. The garden woos me to herself. And my pen’s siren call to write promises me too, that indeed, yes, there is a place of comfort and quietude. Of gentleness. Sanctuary, like the psalms.  An economy of words. I heard too much and hurt too much from hearing of brokenness and pain. I want my words to heal. And so I retreat to create. I learned of cancer and dementia, crumbling and cruel, nemesis of the living. Again. Coming through like the enemy on the march. They like to stomp on all my people. Or so it seems.

Peace like a river is in the scriptures. And He gives so many the call to write. And to listen well first. To need and want to be alone in the tapping out now. To run it all through the sieve of the pen. For good.

Social media has blessed me beyond and beyond. That is a magnified beyond. But it is loud. And I crave quiet.

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