In Which The Quiet is Loud – Letters From The Village

a fave of the rain leaves and flowers

She sat in the quiet and collected herself, or was she collected by it. Swallowed up by reflection. And the rain pummeled the tin for hours on end and if she didn’t know better she thought it might never end.

But she peered ahead and she knew from reports, that hours from now it would all be dry. And the sky would find peace and quiet again from the raging rains of biblical proportions. But until then the quiet is so loud while the clouds open up and release their crocodile tears.

She held her own back because it would sound redundant and too cliche to let them roll down the cheek while they fall from the sky. This is heaven’s day to rain down. Hers will wait.

Nestled in the quiet, the disappointment and the dreams she released seem to act out and cry for attention like a parlor clown. Needy and demanding. 

It occurred to her the other day that each day feels borrowed, like a library book which will need to be released back. That ever since she stepped into that place, on the generously other side of the half-century mark,  there is no time like the present for all of it. The days become numbered, fragile and fewer.  Marking them important, marking them royalty, holiday, worthy of celebration. Just for being. Each is exceptional, worthy. It was always that way, only now it truly is. She decrees it as law, for her life.

So she resolves to speak love more, forgive more swiftly and loudly, to create more art for the one single solitary sole that may be  in the path of it, and to laugh.

Like the raindrops lodged in the screen so tight, she holds on to her saline tears and waits for release. Because today there is joy in the drenching wet grey world, and there is hope, though hiding out somewhere. Perhaps in the white and weary sky. 

Because the weather wants to mirror her mood, or is she simply reflecting external conditions.

And she knows at the end of the winter there will be a spring and at the end of the sadness there will be joy. She knows well from the past and the present tells too. There are visible signs in the vine, it will bloom.

mcvl

mcvl close up lily fence

On the to do list there,  written in stone, the mundane, though joy-giving things are outlined to be done. There is folding and washing, sweeping and such. There is walking and splashing with dogs in the rain. There is shaking the remnants of last nights bad dream. And peeking round corners for surprises from Him. There are phone calls and letters to a girl in Peru, and making the trip home from school seem special indeed. Homemade soup is always comforting on days filled with rain. And by evening they all will come home once again. 

There are poems to be written and prayers to be prayed.

And she knows from reports that the rain will soon end and the quiet loud will become quiet again.Recede with the waters that look like a flood.

It wouldn’t be pollyanna at all if she said, the sun waits to shine at the end of this day.

(author’s note: this was the end of the post until the phone rang. This is my revised ending.)

And a phone can ring in the middle of a life and speak  words that a mother could just die from, the shared grief shatters the soul like the rain on the tin.

We lost a young friend the age of my son just hours ago. And so fragile and breakable is indeed life and our hearts.

Lord, mend and heal and quiet the loud cries of your people. Now we do join the tears of the heavens with our very own.into every life a little rain

Joining Jen and Heather and Emily Wierenga.

In My Dreams I Play A Song

In my dreams I play a song on a keyboard, piano
Not keys drab and gray.
And sing for you a song of hope with words,
They are my notes.
But oh how I wish that they would sound
Like music to your ears
The sharps the flats, allegro con brio
Beautiful chords played by dancing fingers on piano,
Ivories, like flying love gifts up and away, dolce
Kite tail like they waft and drift up to the
Heavens and to your ears.
In my dreams I play a song on the black and white
Keys that strike the chords of harmony and rifts
Up and down they dance in line, a beautiful song.
And I would play a song back straight on the bench
Hovered over piano shiny black
Not keyboard Macbook back lit.
No it would be a baby grand and there I would
Pour out my heart in song to you and let the notes
Sing and sway right to your soul.
And sing, like tender lullaby a song of
Hope and Longing, poco allegro.
But this is what I have instead
My words, not notes, not song
So dream with me that they are music
And listen while I play for you
A love song, a hope song, a grace song
As gift, that in the downbeat you would know
That
In my dreams I play a song on keys, piano,
Just for you.

(photo credit: wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons)