Standing At The Sink

wpid-20140212_145037.jpgStanding At The Sink

If you find me staring through the pane
Fuzzy, focusing on things
That aren’t right here
Far away I seem to you
Wandering out
back in again
Lost in thought inside my head
Making art and hearing holy whispers to press ahead
Bubbles resting in the kitchen sink
It is not the labor that you think
Upon first glance,
upon a second glance
You’ll see
Breathing rapid at the chance

To go chase Robins in my dreams
Daily washing worry down the metal
Drain
Choosing to find beauty in the ash
He bowed
Wrestled something from the soil
Hope, I think, was birthed on my front lawn

He landed there in front of me
As I stood steeped in worry at my sink
The birds transformed me into
Something holy new

Now I am rusty breasted in my dreams
Wings will take me far from here
I can join the Robins and
Go places in my mind
Disappear, fly somewhere other
Than leaning on the dirty sink

Every anxious thought
So filled with fear
Is floating in a sea
Made of foamy bubbles laced with dirt
I am a vessel
Propped up, leaning on the counter
Trying not to
Sink

Even the drain does not want
To take from me
This toxic waste

And if you see me resting in the rocking chair

Here but not, a countenance
Filled with worry and concern

I am not resting, idle though it seems
I have run away, escaping to my
Dreams
Asked them to carry me
Someplace other than right now, right here

The words give solace
Comfort
And remove me from
A place of tears

Now I have joined the Robins
Dancing on a sea of brown
They’ve brought
A story laced with hope

My soul
Is grateful for a flock of orange breasted birds
Content when digging
In the wormy dirt.
And I am back now
Washing dishes in the sink.

Paris Comes To Me

night on the water

Paris Comes To Me

And not even if the boat were bigger

Nor if the moon was  any rounder

Not if the air was any crisper

Could this night  be more splendid

We agreed it felt like Maine, though we have never been

So much of what we know and love will only be here

We may not pack a bag or sail away

Even for our 25th

But if we stay right here, exceedingly content is my middle name

I wear it on the nights like this

And you are owl and I am the pussycat off in a pea green boat

But ours is shades of blue

No small detail is lost on us

This night

For though I dream of Paris

To walk the streets I did for a year in  ’78 and ‘ 79

I could not breathe in

More fragrant joy than

This

Place that feels like mine

What I inhale  in this small creek into every pore and place

Ours

The one that spills with laughter, wine and wind

Love into the waterway

Under skies all shades of grey, pink peeks out, the sun and moon wink and nod

And we go home and wonder

One to the other

Could it be more magical than this

I long now for the nights

When Paris came to me

Pluff mud, shrimp boats, and clammers returning with their haul

These are not the Seine or my Boulevard Malesherbes

Maybe home was meant to hold you

And tie an  anchor to your soul

Love so blind we could not leave

Only off  each night in our petite  blue boat

Exceedingly content, my middle name

Before the one you gave to me those 25 years ago.

Creating Wide Margins

(I am linking this post at Sarah Mae dot com. Though it was written several weeks ago, it is one of the most valuable things I have grown to know as true for me. More and more, I parent best, and partner in marriage best, and serve best and live my best life when my margins are place carefully and thoughtfully. The prayer of my heart is to look to Him to order my days.)

I remember placing the crisp white paper in the typewriter, rolling it through and setting the margins.

First. And then typing away. The words, the story, the black keys striking the paper void of anything. Waiting for the keys to dance along within the pre-set margins. To form a story. To make order of the narrative.

And at the end, rolling the paper through the metal machine and seeing words in black mounds, like a tower, resembling a city skyscraper, neatly stacked reaching up and out, while the white margins hemmed in the story.

The white wide margins, like white noise, creating calm on the page amid a sea of black marks made by the striking keys. White noise margins, buffering. White noise margins calming and hemming in.

Margins creating a place of calm. Where the eyes see peace on the page, where rest for the reader is found. For a moment at the turn. Slowing the pace.

Eyes move left to right, but find a calm tranquil sea of white waiting. White soothing. White cushioning the turn from the end of one line before beginning another.

Inspiration and restoration are found in the quiet moment, before rounding the corner.

Rest and respite are found in the cushioning soft places of nothing

The keys stop hammering and the bell rings sweet and soft, as the carriage rings and turns down to the next line of the story.

Recharged and re-energized by a second or two in the margin of the turn. A moment of calm in the ocean of clamoring noise and black chatting keys whipping white paper.

And so too, the margins of my life.

The setting of wide margins where possible, when called, to have space to reflect, rest awhile with Him and listen to the quiet. Listen to the whispers to my soul.

Whispers of His will, His desire for my story, that is my life.

The place where the heart beat slows and life wrestles rushing to the mat. Where the soul is at peace with no agenda, plans, or harried list delineating desired to do’s.

The places where poetry and art find a quiet birthplace. And creativity breathes into the dull and the mundane.

The moments where our soul finds balance and steadies the wobbling worrisome heart.

Moments in the margin where our soul catches up to our living. And catches its breath to go on, into the places of living loud with exuberance and passion.

Seeking a steadying of the soul in the wide margins of His grace. Where we feel anew His mercy because we are quiet and still long enough to feel at all. The margins of our lives where its quiet enough to calm a restless spirit in a moment of renewal. A life-affirming pause.

The found stillness where we are in communion with Him in prayer.

Where the still soothes the soul like a salve to the wounded spirt. And we can catch a whisper in the net of listening and savor the words.

Where quiet reflection births gratitude and a re-connection to the Giver of All Good Gifts. Where Jesus sits and speaks into the intentional moments of white noise calm reflection.

Right before and right after the hammering black keys of life go dancing along their page.

The margins, wide and wonderful, where possible, when created, communion with Him, the birthplace of thought, the place where a thought can both find a beginning and an end. The space where patience is restored and rediscovered.

And the soul finds a brief moment of peace.

And all the senses savor in unison the beauty of His creation.

Counting GIfts with Ann.

* New beginnings, a first day of a last year of the last year.

* The first movies in too many years to count in a theatre with The Patient One, sharing popcorn, a big diet Coke and a lot of laughs. Priceless. A treasure.

* The Patient One walking an elderly woman to her seat in church, grace-filled tender. He strong, she fragile.

*Sitting with a friend in a hot high school gym watching my daughter and her daughter play volleyball, and seeing her sweet spirit on the court, not just the motions of the game.

*Getting bloodwork back from the hospital. The calls to say all tests were negative. And my daughter feeling better. No diagnosis, but no words carrying worry.

*Working with a helpful guidance counselor at the High School. So grateful.

*An encouraging email.

*A trip to the bookstore with the Patient One, just us two. A treasured memory.

*A beautiful comment of encouragement.

*Hope for the school year and a helper.

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience dot com for Multitudes on Mondays (on a Tuesday)

And joining these lovely communities this week too, a privilege and pleasure

Denise In Bloom dot com

Intentional Me, Thought Provoking Thursday and Always Alleluia