The Rookery & Scenes from A Perfectly Imperfect Life

July 15, 2013July 15, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 5 Comments

The Rookery

At dusk, we remark
That they jockey for a limb
The best perch
Before dark
We invade the quiet
Curious

How do you sleep sitting up
Choose your limb
Preen your feathers
And say good night to the bird
To your left
And the one to your right

We have ruffled their feathers
Who is watching whom
The birds
They wonder
Who takes off in a boat at night
To bird
Watch

The limb picking
Hunched birds, silhouette of old men
Mateless, alone
Solitary silhouettes washed in shades of graying
White

We are

Pickers
Of the perfect nest
Needing rest

And solitude
Flocked together

Hunkering down

River, motor cut, we float
Gathered
This night
Stills all that ills

And we float on
Riding the wake
Of a solitary tug

Leaving the rookery

With peels of laughter

Not a bird is bothered
We all flock together

This night lit by precious
Crescent’s light
Slivery, silvery moon

To the solitary bachelors, we say
Goodnight
Two men
And a boat with their wives for
Lives

The night is young
If we are not.

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

Friendship is the binocular view we trade for the solitary magnifying glass; a panoramic perspective through the looking glass of love – Shelly Miller

When life gets lonely, call out the sisterhood. Or gather the troops. Or celebrate friendship. Sequestered away like a monk in a monastery, rapunzelled away in the tower of life, solitude can sting. And one can burrow down in the writing of life and miss the very of living of it. Nose nestled into the pages of the recording device. How nice to take big gulps from the real and the swim into the seas of living.

And months and days, and weeks and fortnights of lots of time alone, writing make one parched for real life. We need a splash of technicolored friendship. So I sent an invitation to celebrate friendship. And waves of words saying I want to come washed up on my little island of me, myself and I. There are debaters who like to debate any issue that comes along. And I have heard voices take sides on whether or not it is lonely to living a writing life. I believe and and yes and no and sometimes.

That discussion is for another time and place. For this is simply a looking back with joy on a gathering of friends. FIfty four years can collect friends like life-lines, along the way. Or did they collect me. Some new, some old. Strangers and children. Around the banquet table living life on a rainy day. We gathered. And I am reminded of the shifts that come when we view our lives through a different lens. I, the one fascinated by perspective. Not knowing why perspective fascinates my soul.

We are hungry at the table again. The way He intended. By His very design. He purposed us for fellowship. And calling to mind and memory His gifts, the ones He gave with good pleasure.

This day, I saw joy in sets of eyes and lengths of living, lengths of hair, faces shine back at me. Sun soaked souls, happily wrinkled, we. Laughter echoed through the Bistro. And we feasted on each other and the manna of life and love.

A simple day celebrating friendship, they answered the call to come gather. My life seems like an episode of “Antiques Road Show” on a day like this. Not knowing the value in friendships that stay hidden, dormant for too long. How the value is revealed when brought out and into the open.

I asked when I invited, please bring a line or a word about friendship. And I will gather your words in one poem. Weave together the words you offer into one offering of poetry. That is in the works. As we continue living in the wake of a tidal wave of pressed memories. Pressed deep within my soul.

Thank you friends for loving me in life and on this rainy day. I cherish the minutes marked this day and the years we have between us. Of living and breathing, mothering and parenting, writing and laughing.

So much more than I can ever say. You make life rich and wonderful.

There was nothing perfect about it. No engraved invitations or place cards and party favors. Perfectly staged and planned events are so fleeting. But it was wholly and wonderfully perfect from my lens. Chairs were shuffled, friends cancelled, three at the last minute. We were wet from the flooded parking lot. But we dripped with joy for an hour or two in the middle of July.

It caused me to pause, reminded me, necessarily to stop and gather, stop and break bread, stop and celebrate life and all its imperfect perfectness. We shuffled places and shared meals and sent one back to the kitchen. With gracious apologies returned with kindness and it is all so okay. We are all flawed. We are all perfectly imperfect ourselves.

But love prevailed and introductions were made. And we gathered this side of glory. And learned from one another and prayed for the absent ones.

But mostly we laughed. And we loved.

And I was reminded not to wait to celebrate this simply ordinary extraordinary imperfectly perfect life.

Thank you Shelly, of Redemptions Beauty, for the words you wrote and gifted me on this day which are the inspiration for this post.

Joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com

(Photo Credit – Wikipedia – Egret)

Why I Am Dreaming Small and Under The Oaks

July 11, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

(Thank you. Yes, you. Dear readers here, you who are uncertain of poetry. I too, am uncertain of poetry. But you are still here reading. Or maybe you have left, because of poetry. So I’ve decided I am going to make a little space for more prose. To offer both, together, for a season. Each time I post I will publish prose and poetry. Thank you for journeying with me as I pen this life, look for beauty, reflect my faith, and place words, some shaky, some brave, into this community. Let’s see how a vision of prose and poetry will look, here. And now that the comments are open again, I would love to hear your thoughts on two writing forms, together. Here, in this little corner of the inter-webs. Wising you grace, elizabeth)

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

Under The Oaks

I spot threes
Write sounds in threes
See the world in
Triplicates
Focus a lens on multiples
Trios

So fitting, that on a street named Venning
The street with three n’s
There are three souls, new
To me
Three new friends have I
I spy beauty

Grace and elegance

Grand dames
I could have come and gone
Perish the thought
I’d never known the life behind the smiles
Life lines on their faces
Telling

Me
New one on the street with the winding sounds
Learning of life
I make my way
Up and down the tree lined street

Life learned
From a trio of grace
From the Ladies of Venning

Quiet now, they are living large
Speaking softly, they live and breath
A writer, a gardner, a traveller
Lover of film and land
Living their stories

Wonder and awe
It is well to
Listen

To the three
Ladies of well-lived
Lives, it appears
From where I sit and stare

And wait to earn a place
Of friendship
Among the three
Who barely know me
And yet, have shown

Friendship
Grace

So I study the lines
My eyes trace their living
Laugh lines, crows feet
Fragile lines around the eyes
And mouth

Of these three
Ladies, each

Under the oaks
With me.

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

Why I Am Dreaming Small

And so it seems everyone is dreaming big. Anyone that dreams at all has big dreams. Thrown up and out into the sea of living. Brave and big. Bold and large. The bigger the better. Super-sized. These dreams of man.

Words crisscross my screen every day about these dreams, the ones that I see looming large. But I think I am dreaming small. Not because of fear. But I , like everyone have my share of fear. Not because of lack of faith, for mine is at least the size of a mustard seed.

Because I hear a clear crisp call to small. One that whispers in my ear of dreams scaled down, sized in miniature. But lovely nonetheless.

Small dreams now from a grand and glorious God who is the one that’s large.

How beautiful and whimsical, are my little hopeful dreams. The ones I have dancing in my mind, by day and keeping me awake at night. They lack nothing in the winnowing. The paring back and whittling down.

It is not really that I have a shrunken faith. Or fear to take my dreams and expand them on a larger scale. Truly, not.

It is, rather, that I am seeing beauty in the small things, after all. It comes with age. A grand release. And in my younger days I dreamed so big. And came to value all that is small. I walked to here, a place of growing contentment, in the smallest acts of kindness, moments, and conversations with a friend.

And somewhere in this life, I am coming to a place. That not all measurements are more wonderful, the larger they become. So we are looking for a home. Another house to call our own the remainder of our days. Is this the eighth. I can’t count. But graciously and gratefully , one that will be new for us. Or maybe held the joy of others for sometime. Another through the years.

New is not necessary,nor is big.

And I am dreaming of one small and cozy. I dream on Pinterest and in my mind and with The Patient One. And look for beauty, comfort and a house with just a little this and a little that. For my children and my children’s children.

I’m finding contentment after all, in you guessed it, things so small.

Last night we found a house we love. It fits my dreams just so.

I am dreaming small. We laughed at the little number the realtor printed on the sheet; the one that revealed the total space, for living, here. But I know we would have just enough. All we need. Even though we dream of adding a bit to what is there. Because we have a history of piling up and piling on and living in a cozy space. Just wearing out and down the soul of every house we’ve owned. Even though we have lived large. Between the walls of lots of space and things.

Small now calls my name.

I heard a story of a man, a writer in his graying years. And he had published seven poems. Ever in his life of writing. Only. Until he wrote a little book. And off it went, big and large. A big success from all accounts.

One never knows where dreams might go. I love friends with dreams so big. And God may grow mine bigger.

But for now they are just so dreams. A little small.

So I will write my little poems. Here for awhile. And maybe one day there. And dream a little dream of one days. That maybe I will find a publisher who says lets go and run, or fly or soar. Or maybe even a home between the covers, nestled in a spine. My little poems will settle down and live up on a shelf, in a book leather bound. One that has a name that’s gold embossed, that is my very own. Or maybe my poems will gather. And compile themselves. Into a collection. Walk themselves off to a printer and return to me in published form.

I love my little dreams. They fit me just right, right now.

And that is why my God sized dreams may look a little small. One never knows where dreams will go when they are grown by God.

Maybe tomorrow they will grow an inch or two. After I grow contented with what I have and where I am.

My portion perfected by his loving hand.

Oh to dream, by day, by night. And watch Him change us in our dreaming. Bless us always with so much more.

Than we ever dreamed, was possible or could be true.

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

Joining Jennifer Dukes Lee and Emily for Imperfect Prose

(I am gathering some of my writing to submit to a magazine as examples of my work along with some ideas for editorial content. If you have a prose piece you have particularly enjoyed let me know in the comments. Let’s see where this dream goes. You will be some of the first to know.)

Salty Therapy And Lessons From The Sea

June 13, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall

It is the end of the day and we are explorers launching our boat, ready and expectant. We leave the hot air of the land for the cooler temperatures of the salty mist that hovers over the water. We are small, a dot on a spinning orb, looking for a surprise. We are looking for wonder and beauty.

We leave our lives on shore and transport our hungry souls out into the swirl of blues, greens, and grays. We are hoping for a glimpse of anything or of we don’t know what. But somehow we are certain of where to go for discovery, solace and peace. At least two of us are in need of a re-booting. Life is heavy. This is the place of floating and watching. Life is lighter out here.

And light and lightness filter in and through our souls. Our pores are open, accepting all the sea gives. The sea has a way of prying open a heart hardened by a day. We are more buoyant when we are on board our little boat. Floating out as searchers, collectors.

A sailboat passes us on our way out. They are on their way in, an extraordinarily handsome sailboat from Canada. We release more of the day’s toxins into the cool sea air. We can breath. And we do. Our journey begins while theirs ends. The harbor is their resting place and the waterway becomes ours.

And I wonder if I could teach my child what she needs to know of life, drawing lessons only from what we find in the salty sea. Moments into our voyage, we come upon a shrimp boat returning with their catch. Gulls and dolphin gather around them attracted by the unwanted parts of their catch being thrown overboard. A cycle of life. A recycling of nutrients. It is a study in economics, in hard work, ecology, business, and stewardship of natural resources.

But I find that all I can really focus on, honestly is the wonder, the endless masterpiece of seemless salt, sky and sea. Th rich tapestry, assulting each of my senses. The treasures are palpable.

We would not be here so quickly at the end of day without our motor, but it is time now to turn it off and listen. And to float. White foam tells a story. We hear and see the beginning forming as the frenzied dolphin force the baitfish onto the shore for dinner. We watch a stunning display of a mammal’s hunting and gathering skills.

There is a connectedness, a synchronicity on the water. The gulls in the air, follow the dolphin and the fish they prey on joining the banquet table of blues and greens. We are turning around, three hundred and sixty degrees viewing this extraordinary aquatic life. I am awash in pleasure except for the occasional sting of a horse fly. There is the reminder of pain on board, an unwelcomed passenger biting our flesh. What a small sacrifice to pay to hear the dolphin blow through their holes with audible force and might. To witness their play, their mating, their dining. Their very lives heal our weary worn out souls. Tired from fighting the battles on the land.

And we spin around as the waves rock us under the bright night sun. It is relentless in its slow set. And we determine we cannot wait for it to go down. We must return to the toxic heat and pressures of the land, and to our dinner. Our own evening ritual of dinner and conversation draws us back to land. And we bring our appetites, increased by the sea air which stirs a hunger in our bellies.

There would be math lessons or physics lessons if I were to extrapolate the lessons from the sea. If beauty were not beckoning me to focus on asthetics, tending to ignore science and numbers and concrete factoids for a child to store away. Approaching the dock is timing and speed and distance and I know there must be some physics involved. The wind blows the boat and the man infront of us misses his mark over and over as he tries to fight the current and wind and the elements. His problem solving, patience and determination would be a life-lesson chapter, if I were using the sea as a classroom.

But I am distracted by a study in the hectic lives of the Purple Martins. Of their colony of dozens dining on mosquitoes and swarming around as they pitch and dive, feeding before they enter their gords.

We are almost home, restored, awash in salt and seawater. And new memories gathered up in a short trip out to the floating classroom.

Beauty teaches, salty therapy restores and we have taken sweet lessons from the sea.

All we needed for today, the sea has lovingly offered up to us. And we are grateful explorers returning safely from our aquatic expedition.

Jesus, The Cross &Tofu Scrambles

April 4, 2013April 4, 2013 ~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 12 Comments

It was Easter and we had not watched any of The Bible series on The History Channel. I had planned to sit with the conclusion, the final episode this Easter evening with my husband and maybe a teenage child or two if we could get them to sit down and stay still. More challenging than the toddler years, some days with all the moving around. I longed to experience the story on the screen and to honor Him in re-living the story of His suffering as the creators portrayed it through art. But I was hesitant too because this was the final night and this was the Cross.

And as we prepared dinner and snuggled by a Spring fire, burning wood, warming the room, I said to my husband, I hear this is really hard to watch.

His brilliant response to me was isn’t that the point. I meant what I said and so did he and we were both “right”. Yes, it was both hard to watch and the point of the Cross.

We watched and it was difficult and that sounds overly simplistic. But don’t we want to turn away from the suffering and the blood. We want to shield our eyes and our hearts from the slow painful walk to the cross, Jesus falling over, the cross, so heavy, so very tortuous in its weight on his back. The magnitude of the moments there on the screen so filled with the cruelty of man. The vinegar on the sponge, the mocking. And there was certainly an out for us, golf or basketball or even Duck Dynasty re-runs. But not truly. There had to be the cross. And there was no out for Jesus.

And in the days since Easter the discontent and pain right here, well its hard to watch too. A teenager struggling mightily, friends and strangers arguing about theology or discussing scripture and its truths. Its hard to live it out. The pain of this life, this side of glory. The disappointment this week is oppressive. And wasn’t it just Easter with all its glory and hope and new. The news through the phone, through the screen, through the mouthes of those I love. There is suffering here.

But this we know.

I stumble on a recipe for tofu scrambles. While the photography is beautiful and the ingredients are fresh I don’t choose this for myself. Or my family. But I am not going to throw tofu scrambles under the bus. Literally or otherwise. I may throw them down the drain if I have a chance. Or I may think twice before turning my head in visceral disgust. Tofu, not a big fan.

But more and more I am learning about life and God from people who do not see the world or faith the way I do. And when I start to shut my ears and eyes and heart then I shut down my capacity to love, the different, the not quite like me, the others in this world. When I start closing myself with all my senses, my capacity to love my willingness to love, well it will be next. And I am called to love, maybe not agree, but love.

My faith, my world-view and my interpretation of scripture are all as they are for me, now. But I seek to love those who have a nuanced view of this life as believers, as Jesus followers. And those who are not believers. Because I am called to love like Jesus loved.

More and more I find refuge and beauty in poetry. More and more I run there to express my heart, to find my creative place to play, to delve deep into life through the framework of the poetic.

But I step out of that for this. These words here.

I must think about how Jesus loved, to review all that He said of love. Review in my mind how beautifully diverse his followers were, especially the early ones, the inner-circle. And aren’t we called as followers of Jesus to love as best we can in our brokenness and sinfulness like he loves. Like he loved. And in and by His power we can love deeper and more tenderly than on our own.

I have seen so much fighting and disagreement in these recent days. And though I am tucked into my little part of this world, I know I am not alone. I have seen it very close up, audibly in my world. And I have witnessed it from a distance too.

This is being human. This is the world this side of heaven.

But can we love as we disagree? And disagree as we love. Can we honor those with whom we don’t agree on matters of faith and walking- out- life decisions. Can we wrap ourselves in the cloak of the greatest of these, the one that bears all, the banner over all – Love.

And you can have your tofu scrambles and I may have my cheeseburger. And as I play back in my mind’s eye my night in front of a warm Spring fire while watching Jesus walk bleeding and bent. Christ wearing a crown of thorns, a cross on his back covered in blood, carrying my sin in scripture and on the screen. I want to weep.

I have to ask myself now and daily, how would Jesus love. And then I must walk out the answer as I hear it, in my daily living.

My poetry awaits. It is sort of like a carriage waiting to carry me off to a place of beauty and peace. But I cannot hide. I must love like Jesus.

I want to live as a child of God and I want to love like Jesus. So can we sit at the table of fellowship with our tofu and our cheeseburgers, break bread together, love harder and better and more like him.

And remember the Cross.

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

joining Emily, Jennifer, and Shelly