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.

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A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Poetry

A funny thing happened on the way to poetry. And humor is long over due. Or due. Or something that involves laughter and joy. Because the world has a weight of its own and a heaviness that is expressed in phrases like the weight of the world.

And then there is the path to poetry. Which had some funny haha and funny odd things happen along the way to it.

There is a long story there that would wind you down a path you would rather not travel on. Should you choose to go there. You would likely feel lost and having not laid bread crumbs along your way, you may be a little mad at the writer and say I never really intended to walk down that long and winding road with you though I do love Paul and The Beattles.

And as much as I love a good story and you probably do too if you are reading, you are prone to like writing. Somehow the two seem to go together like sweet tea and mason jars. i know you thought I was going to say like hand and glove. I almost did. How did you know. But liking a good story as you do you may not be ready for a very long one.

And brevity is possibly a reason for embracing poetry. Though writing about brevity can actually be rather long and cumberson and tiring. So when writing about brevity and poetry it is important to keep it on the brief side or you may in fact lose your reader.

And if there is anything you don’t want to do when writing it is lose your reader. Oh, perish the thought of a lost reader along the way.

But there is a funny sort of thing or two that are worth telling in a short and sweet matter because the matter is sweet. So that would add a touch of the ironic which is always or almost always good to add to keep the reader interested. Irony is just so darn ironic.

But when you set upon a path and you don’t know where you are going, its a bit like being lost in the Hundred Acre woods like a bear and his friends and a  young boy named Christopher Robin who probably wanted to be lost because of the weight of his world. But he had his friends to keep him company in a wild and wooly world in those woods. Yes, he had a friend to hold his hand.

So when on this path of unknowing that involves poetry you may find that what you discovered all along was simply not really poetry at all. Though poetry was a byproduct. Or maybe you found poetry plus a large red cherry on top. Though not as laden with sugar as those cherries. But maybe it was sweeter and richer, in fact.

Because writing is a solitary endeavor, often. Most often. Which is good, because God is close by. But there is still the deep craving for another.

And writers can be lonely sometimes if they are not careful. Unless they turn on the music of the world, not the heavy world but the crisp and light and beautiful noise of the God-creation.

God had the brilliant idea that we live in community and breathe in community and in so living and breathing,  perhaps also writing in community.

So a funny thing happened on the way to poetry. I found a beautiful friend along the way. And you may too if you were to write with a friend, new or old.

You just may find the eternal on the path to your writing.

You may find a treasure. A friend.

This post is dedicated to Holly A. Grantham at A Lifetime of Days for stepping out in faith at the invitation to write in the unknown. She is a gift, she is a beautiful writer and she is now a friend. Her writing home is found here at www.walkingintheslowlane.blogspot.com. She has taught me more than words can express. But one day I will try. For now this is my offering of thanks.

linking with Emily and Michelle

Chosen Joy

Today is Day 21. And its all about JOY.To read the collective tread lightly over here.

Scatter Joy

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Am I the scatterer of, stumbler of the stumbled on?

Do I throw it out for seekers and needers starving for joyers?

Am I the depleter of or replenisher of?

Has He not provided like mana, the morsels of Joy enough to feast on, then re-stock the life shelves with?

When will I be the Joy in the life of the hungry for?

When will I take my portion and give it back to the malnourished in sadness, the Joy-starved?

So Today I choose Joy.

And look to pick up with a cheerful heart, renewing the heart with gratitude.

And knock the socks off others with the Joy that I have so graciously been given.

Strong Joy, meaty Joy, pulsing the veins,the life-blood, beating the heart, filling the soul.

Today I choose, for me and my house, JOY.

She sings like music to the ears of a weary one.

Transforms the death march into the dance of joyous celebration. Trumpets the return of living.

Joy, the tear-wiper, Joy, the soul- cleanser,

Joy the re-storer of dry-bones death.

Ode to Joy, a Alleluia Chorus of Praise for the hearts of the weary women.

Counting it all this in all,

Joy.

Leaning into the Joy of the Lord, a walking cane, a brace, my rod and staff.

Joy.

And I bleet like a sheep, crying out to my Shepherd,

Restore my Joy as I choose Joy,

Today.

Joining Deidra

And L.L. Barkat for In On and Around Mondays.

Catching Some Z’s

Today is Day 20. To  read the collective tiptoe over here for other words. Today’s word is Laughter. And Rest.  A double portion for your weekend.

Hope you are able to rest a bit in His Grace and Mercy this day and every day.Catch some Z’s and LAUGH.

Z’s

Z is zig zaggy.
Beats to his own drum.
With his horizontal, vertical, diagonal sweeps
Zooms in and out, looking for a word to join.
Poor Z, least used.
But Z can be so useful
Zipping up jackets, zesting lemons.
Z should zip his lips sometimes.
Gets too zealous and full of zeal.
Going on and on about zoology and zenzizenzizenzic.
Bragging about his membership in all those
Elite Greek clubs. Watch out Z.
There’s zeta phi and zeta mu and more.
Bu Z knows his place.
At the end of the line.
Hanging out.
‘Til he’s needed.

Catching some Z’s,  

Bring a gift of laughter, sing yourselves into his presence.

Proverbs 100:2

Joining Sandra today and a new friend, Cheryl.