I Am No Longer Waiting

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I Am No Longer Waiting

I have run out of waiting
Used up the dormant days of stand-by
Ushered out the back door the inactive verbs
(The hing creaked, screen door slammed them in the big back-side)
The action verbs threw confetti
Celebrating the retirement of the passive ones

The decision to hang art
To house a cherished antique dresser
In the kitchen of this house built in 1908
Required sacrifice
I wash my dishes at the kitchen sink
By hand (how perfectly primative the naysayers would love to say)
Because of all the art we chose to hang

Because of art and a cherished chest-of-drawers
I can gaze and rinse
And I do
Rubbing the ebony stains off my mustard yellow coffee cup
I do not load and unload
Waiting on tomorrow
Counting on the brighter days to come delivered by the man in brown who carries packages in his big brown truck
Instead, I linger in the soapy water
Striving to clean and no more
Soaking in the now
Soaking in the view of raindrops on the elephant-ears, a verdant giant in my gaze’s line of view

One day last week
I gave up waiting
All the nows are what is life
Like the tinker toys, the wooden orbs of now
Connect me to my life again
Now cannot abide the waiting
She elbows in and stands beside me at the sink

We lay the just-cleaned dishes on the drying rack
And check the back door
Lock it, tight
Safe, secure
Bolt the door
Now stakes her claim
In the kitchen filled with art and dirty water down the drain

I am no longer waiting
Now reigns
Wears her royal crown of rubies
Reflecting
Her red royalty
In the bubbles in my soapy kitchen sink
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Joining Laura Boggess. Because it is Monday.

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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)

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RSVP, Merci

pink beach sadie

RSVP, Merci

On the tip of the earth as I know it
I look out
Imagine more
Hidden, veiled in mystery
Concealed by cover of tan and blanket of blues
In a wink and a nod
I blink
It is all still there
The beautiful
Blows by, brushing by the strands of my windblown hair
I stare
And as the haunting, beguiling ghost crabs
I crawl, slow then quick step, padding through the heat
Weaving up and down, then back
A strategy to cover the breadth and depth and width
With these weaving
As I
Pass sediment on the shore
Waves shake hands with hot brown sand, as if it were
Flipped in the cast-iron skillet where the grease pops scalding
Hot
Vapors rise up in waves of heat-rising
Day is cooking herself under a blazing summer southern sun
I whisper and inaudible yes
Say yes to all this and more

There is a call in the barren places
Where I walk
And pass not a soul for a little long while
The sea is stingy this day
Giver of gifts on many a Sunday stroll
Tumbling treasures, teasing me
rolling gifts up and rolling them back

down, yo-yo style
Free-style
Playing with me
Tempting me to step one more step in search of more

surprise, it is not about that which I can touch or take
My hands may leave empty, today
But the attic of my soul will not
It is storing up
poetry
And I respond
It is collecting
art and beauty, dreaming of the soul-work
yet to come
Merci
To all my searching soul can see
Along this stretch of shore and life

I respond, with a song of Sunday gratitude
No more
Merci
It is all I know to do

Empty beach shadow profile

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Joining Laura Boggess

A Matter Of Grace

Grace

A Matter Of Grace

For the life of me

I cannot find where it stops

And starts

There are those who have the off valve at their disposal, and those

Who cannot find the switch marked “on”

They,  being of a large herd of people, otherwise known as sheep, who hear his voice and claim to control the grace valve

For the life of me

I stand under the pining Jesus, starring, as though never before having been introduced to grace which is my imagination at work, because I have known grace for an eternity, marveling at raw new grace as if for the first time, for the life of me and all the sheep

And I ask him to stand by me

As if we were looking out in tandem, out at the world on the cusp of another July

And I ask, in a muffled prayer, and squint the eyes of my heart, because they are closer to 20/20 than my old eyes, arriving upon another July

“Where does the grace begin and end?”

Because

For the life of me, of which there have been 56 July’s, to add a frame of reference to some of the things I’ve seen

And I weep and he wails

This artist has depicted him bent and bemoaning

And I as an artist, writing of grace, I feel it is perfectly fitting because of the pain

And for the life of him

I cannot find the end

Of unceasing grace, unending gift, a long tangling and untangling of one more lagnaippe, gift upon gift, generously unfurled

From on high, an example of how to unfurl the fists, clenched

The hands in the crucifix hold the flow of grace

Upon grace

For the life of holy, sacred

Him

For the life of me, I think I may now see, the one more small added grace, upon the existing grace, upon the extended grace, upon the amazing grace, upon the forever and ever amen grace

ad infinitum

let grace flow

For goodness’ sake, for the life of Him in us

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