There Is A Place

Robert Lewis Stevenson

There Is A Place

When I grow up I want to be
Queen on her throne
Reigning over the land of just be
Dipping toes in Crayola blue
Birthed in a crayon in 1903
My subjects and me, merry and mindful as awake as can be
Living and thriving in the place where we can all just

Discover the joy of the  ruby red hummingbird’s throat

and the brittle loud harmony of a drove of Cicada

perched in a tree, serenading Narnia my she billy goat

(Now I can breathe)

The verb is quite over-used and frightfully misunderstood
But when I grow up
I will let you be
Alone
And yet not
For you will be alone with me
Whispering grateful hymns of praise
In the land of “There Is A Place”
Rooted, established in
Astonishing un -extraordinary

ordinary

Grace

Subjects and a queen, you can be

queen bee

we shall have scones and tea

precisely at three

and listen to the garden grow grace

oh how happy and peace-filled our kingdom shall be

in this land of “There Is A Place”

++++++++++++++++

Joining Laura

Waxing In The Waning

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I have not sought the moon this Spring. Intentionally looked up and made mental notes of its stage and size. Cycle and rhythms. Dimness and brightness. Color and stage. But I should be. Marking and noting. There are lessons there for me in the heavenlies.

Rather I have been looking down and to the side. Over and under the small spaces. Seeking the growing. Cataloguing the seed, the bloom and the fruits of the earth and of the the sea. Miniscule milestones in the garden and broken pieces of shells coughed up by the sea. Roughed up and beaten up and then honed into the beautiful.

Waxing in the waning is a banner over my life. Growing in the dimming. Increasing in the lessening. Smallness is wearing her beautiful crown. She is royalty and majesty. The paradox is grand. The center is a whisper, faintly wooing with her call to pause in the now.

I live on the cusp of exploration. Steps from the salty marsh where so much mystery hides in the folds. The waves weave a hiding place. The tides will unveil, pulling the curtain back for peaks. But stand guard, awake and present. Or you will miss much in the changing of the guard.

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The dolphin break through the glass ceiling that is the glassy sea. Looking at us as we  strain to study their graceful acrobatics. A day is labeled wonderful if we have spent time with a pod. Or even a mother and her young. We are students of the sea. Since I was a child, I have been near in my soul or body or both to the place of salty mystery. Everything is new. Again and again. I remain a child at the seeking of pieces of joy hidden, then revealed. Revealed and then hidden.

Before I even touch the snow pea to my lips I have savored goodness with my eyes. This is just the crescent. But the crescent is enough. The moon in all her fullness. The pea at her ripest, cooked or raw, eaten or not. Archiving the now, fully alive, fully awake fills us with His goodness. Seeing the holy moments. The holy in the moment. Touching and smelling. Seeing and tasting all that He has created brings us closer to the Creator. And that is where abundance is poured out. Every blade and seed, He made. Every dolphin nose. Wet and sleek.

There is a waning to my years. I do not recall the glory-filled details of much of my living from long ago. I come from Dementia. My mother, my grandmother and my aunt have known it too well. And I may be traveling toward Dementia. I may well be in the line of that fiery disease.

But I am going down fighting for a magnificent, magnified view of the poetic now.

And there is a moon and there will always be a moon. And she will meet me in the heavens tonight. This I know.

For now.

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