Into The Beautiful

The broken shards, the razor sharp edges , cut like jagged glass. And we bleed. We bleed red, we bleed tears, we bleed fear and trembling.

The spinning earth throws us into a tailspin, head long into her tail winds. Upright vertical, we  now are nearly horizontal. Stretched by the force of  gale force winds of living.

We walk limp and slant. We walk bent and drag our weary cane, invalids on the life march.

Without Your beauty. Rust and all.

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Frame for me the beautiful every time and everywhere. Share your canvas, ripe and waiting.
And let me paint with You.

Lend  your kaleidoscope eyes to me. To see a sky while still barely breathing. Battered from the power of beautiful. Shaken by creation’s power. Every single time. You repeat and re-repeat your holy masterpieces. And form them into new again.

Point me toward the beautiful so I can see as you.

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Hold me in the beautiful, while frayed edges of my soul seem faint and frail and close to death. Mark the God art everywhere and peel the scales from my blind eyes. Take the old and make it new, once again.  you create and re-create at speeds  which dizzy human flesh,  spinning life  in your  formed beautiful.

I lay awestruck in the path of creation’s beautiful. Its blazing trail of color, texture, shape and form.

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Heal me with Your beautiful. Cradle me in the woven glory of your hands. Shelter me in storms of lovely where brilliant moons and radiant light drip down on life lived here. Walk me toward the beautiful. And lay me down in sheets of white linen crisp and cool. Where I  can slumber in the beautiful with knowing of your holy steady hand.

Rock me roll me into a holy beautiful, where I can dance with You. And wake to waltz in fields of beautiful, growing outside the portal of my world.

Teach me, show me beautiful, when broken cries come look at me. And help me see Your beautiful in the midst of raging deadly seas.

Just wrap me up in rags of sacred lovely. That bind my bleeding wounds. And let me feel your healing hands surround me as I lay there soaking in the salty waters, beautiful on sandy shores of grace.

Wash me in the white hot beautiful, clean, awake and ready to receive all beauty made by you. Remove the blinders on my eyes which block the morning dew and green spring new. That shadow, hide the up and coming shoots of Earth’s new offerings.

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And point me toward your beautiful, in broken, shattered, hurting places.

Teach me how to  find the beautiful. Paint it, write it, sing it out. Loud enough to echo toward the deaf ,yet soft enough to whisper with a sweet I love you.

Just spin me, twirl me, brace me in the broken beautiful so I can weave a masterpiece of beauty. And point always back to you.

With your gentle hands of grace.

Lead me steady straight

And cross me over mercifully,

Into beautiful.

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I’m asking God for one thing, only one thing: To live with him in his house my whole life long. I’ll contemplate his beauty; I’ll study at his feet. – The Message, Psalm 27

 

Joining Emily and the group of writers there that have become friends at Imperfect Prose on Thursdays. Come by and read, visit, quietly or drop your own words into the link up there.  Emily’s is the place for grace.

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Dear Henry – “Letters From The Village” – Day Two

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A letter for my future grandchild calls him to see, calling him to be, aware, alive and grateful for the beauty in his grace-filled days.

Dearest Henry,

The squid ink squirts across the night
Sky, a canvas
Blackening, a blanket for sleepy day’s cover
And you will look up while holding my hand
To soak in a heavenly sea of delight
The pin pricked sky over Jeremy Creek
Twinkles its twinkling radiant stars
Flashing and blinking and winking at you

Cast your eyes, your chin tilted skyward
Throw out your vision as shrimpers their nets
Connect the dots with your gaze make big dipper
Then squeeze tight my hand while we gaze
At the moon,together
The man in the moon is smiling at you
Sweet Henry, sweet child
He’s smiling at me, he’s grinning at us

And one night its cuticle thin like a sliver
Cut with precision, smooth as french silk
Capture the glory now in your memory
Maker
Capture it now for tomorrow brings change
Somewhere so briefly between the waxing and waning
A thin sliver hangs graceful over our dreams
Blink and it changes, sleep and its gone.

Tomorrow when sleepy day goes down for the night
You and I will walk out to the edge of the world
The edge of the water its lapping and flapping
Bobbing the shrimper’s boats like toys in the bath
And the sky will become radiant with color
We’ll stare at the pinks, the hot and the cool ones
Right before orange blazes her brush through the sky.

And off to the heavenlies the day will retreat
To sleep beside dipper and man in the moon
The day will rest up for her glorious tomorrow
And you dear Henry will sleep awhile too
For tomorrow there are treasures and glorious discoveries
To make and unwrap, to claim and collect
Tomorrow the sea will deliver her beauties right at the feet of sleepy-head you.

Scales

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Scales

I’d much rather take my pen and paper, my abstract mind, my struggling poetic voice over to the school of fish.

I’d find more peace, though it may be rough and smelly, navel-gazing with the fish,  their coats of small shining shards of fish fashion. The blues and greens and browns sewn on like a quilt of slimy mosaic, smelling of the sea.

Like a stained glass of small cut pieces, the whole is more telling than a microcosm of the total package.

I’d rather meditate and pontificate on the scales which can hurt a girl’s hands rather than the other ones that have hurt girls’ hearts.

Not the ones that society would do well to just plain do without.

Throw the scales out with the bathwater.

Not the ones that bind and shackle, tease and taunt, tell a number, a false gauge of worth.

Not the heavy object that pulls to itself, power-grabber, as a magnet, calling out in a weighing heavy metal empty whisper, from the floor, wielding power it’s stolen from the true granter of worth and praise.

Take the scales off my eyes, that blind me when I try to see, Truth, is not a number.

Remove the scales, deadskin flaking, keeps me from true beauty.

Give me beauty, true, blues and greens on the fish that swims so free, in its coat of many colors, allowing it to blend into the beautiful, blend into the sea.

Wearing proudly the scales designed, meticulous

By the Hands of One,

Who sets the captives free.

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Writing on the concrete helps us understand the abstract. And Amber Haines does it as well as anyone I know. She’s got a great little community of writers writing on scale today. I am there too.

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Scales.

And I am joining Laura at The Wellspring.

And joining Ann at A Holy Experience, though I am quietly walking through my up and down again counting. Lord, give me a disciplined heart for seeing your gifts.

(Photo courtesy of Pam Wooten)

Really, One Word? From Me? Yes !

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I thought of a million reasons why I wouldn’t choose one word.

Actually, that’s not true.

I didn’t give it much thought at all.

But then… the idea sung to me sweetly and the word screamed loud and strong and wouldn’t stop.

Well yes I danced for awhile around the words that I want to shape me and shape my living this year. If I tell you my heart I bare my soul. If I bare my soul you see a seeking, wanting, hungry me.

If you see me there, that is where the real and the vulnerable are and didn’t I always want to live there, really?

I want to Praise more and Love more. I want to embrace possibility and potential. I want to be healed and whole. I want to enter in, not stay on the fringe in fear. I want to be brave and make new friends and serve God. In everything.

Simply, I want an abundant life. Serving and loving and living out of a place of extravagant possibility.

I long for poetry, lots of poetry. And I want to dare to sharpen the eyes of my soul to see beauty, all beauty. The beautiful in everything.

And the word was set on repeat, washing away in the inner chambers. Though I really had no plans or desire to wrap a year of living around a word.

But it focuses my soul. And I fell in love. And it felt like a calling. So I opened the door, well cracked it really. And in came the rush and excitement of  art.

The colors, the sounds, the whimsy, the creativity, the nuance and the wonder.

And when I framed the desires and callings on my spirit it looked and felt and sounded like this, to my soul.

I want to know the art of worship and the art of praise, anew.

My soul longs to experience the art of loving and serving those in my world, my family and community. The friends I have not even met.

I want to seek and find the art of seeing  beauty around me, catching the moment at just the right time, when the light hits just so and the smile turns up on a face in that oh so subtle  way.

I am longing to see with my camera, the art of capturing life and living and creation, anew.

With art as my frame of living, my frame of reference, my hope is that I will be challenged to live fully and abundantly in all that I do. Without fear, without anxiety, without settling for just so.

Wrapping a year of days with art as the rudder, my hope is to encounter all not half. Full not empty. Strong, not weak. Brave not timid.

Embracing the art of abundant living through reconciliation, healing, forgiveness and embracing this one life.

Will you join me as I eat my words and choose one word?

Will you walk through a year of poetry and prose, photography and faith, with me. Looking to the Ultimate Creative, Artist God, all the while.

You make the art of my life so much richer.

Off to the land of artful living; dancing, singing, all the way there. Won’t you come along? Shaking the dust off as we go. Cleansing and washing our days in new.

These words of Pablo Picasso sing it all so sweet and true:

Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life

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Linking with the one word community.