Today is Day 12 and 13. I hope you don’t mind. I am compressing time, two days into one. As I think about the days behind. And dream about the ones to come. This is quite a journey we are on.
Thank you for being on the 31 Days of Noticing Journey with me. You are a gift.
At one o’clock I looked up and asked the world to stop
As if I were the only one
Who’d ever tried to stop a day
Or seasons of a life
As they go racing quickly by
Quite a selfish soul am I
Who wants to take control
Of rates of speed by which they go
One day at one o’clock I looked up and asked the world to stop
It had been my deep desire
To freeze the quickly passing hours
For me the moments had become nothing but
A dizzy blur
I do not need to tell you here
That I did not succeed, I’ll make that clear
One day at one o’clock I made peace and let the world go on
And chose instead to notice all
To go with it and not be left
Not stop the whirling, twirling spinning ball
As if I had that power at all
I will tell you once again
As plain as I know how
That there is such a sweet release
In letting go
And giving in to Him
Who created, loves and holds
Every single minute, day and hour
And amen again
Time and time again
Lord give me grace
To passionately embrace
The one o’clocks and also the two o’clocks
If I were in charge of time, the speed, the rate
We’d all be chronically
Chronologically backwards, sideways and
Running perpetually five minutes late.
( You may click here to read the previous posts in this series, The Art of Noticing)
If there were a list of rules for who can visit,
A book of names to let some enter into
Communion on the ledge
By virtue of his title
He’d be turned away.
But when it’s quiet
And thought has pulled me deep,
Where worry debates with faith and reason
Pulling piece by ragged piece,
In the dusty corners where the deep grooved tracks from a childhood
He comes alone, staring deep within my soul
Feathers meet a feeble friend.
I’ve begun to wait for him.
He sings a shrill of flats or is it sharps.
Tilts his head
I don’t know which, or what he says.
Peers through glass at me then folds a caring nod
As if the feathered feeder friend
Sings his song for me.
There is no space for other songbirds when he comes.
His birdsong gurgles, sucks up all the space and time
With a melody of winsome caring,
checking through the pane.
Ebony and streaks of red ask
“Have you found at last your peace on matters on your mind.”
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 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.
‘Til he’s needed.
Catching some Z’s,
Bring a gift of laughter, sing yourselves into his presence.
Joining Sandra today and a new friend, Cheryl.
When Autumn rolls around in the deep South
Sometimes you get to crack a window.
Sometimes you get to raise it high
At night in the fall, every now and
Every once in a blue moon, you cut off the air
And breathe in the fresh,
In the South sometimes.
And if you do
And when you do
You enter a Lewis Carroll world of wonder
And whimsy resides in the night and in the dawn.
In the South after summer when the fall rolls around
Like a big sweaty mess she arrives.
But sometimes she sits still
Long enough to cool off and breathe deep
A touch of crisp
Blowing in the window raised high
Or even two up to catch the wonder, catch the breeze
Hear the whimsy in the morning
Wipes the dew off her brow, we don’t sweat, we Southern women
And Autumn is a lady.
Fanning herself in the cool of the evening, sipping tea
And blowing her fresh air through the curtains,
Billowing, white cotton- grandmother’s.
There is a feathered one there at dark early, dark thirty.
He sounds like a feathered stand up, doing his best to sound
Like a bird.
Truth is stranger than fiction.
Truth is its a bird chirping out bird morse code
In the dark, in the wonder, in the whimsy.
Truth is he sounds more like a psalmist
Announcing the new mercy of the morning
In the cool, in the dark, in the deep South.
Truth is he invites by proclamation.
Come wander in wonder and wade in whimsy
And see what new awaits
In the cool in the fall in the South.
He made, He invites, He extends
A walk into new, a journey
On the trail of the psalmist bird, dropped
Like breadcrumbs, wooing us
To the wonder of it all.
When Autumn rolls around in the deep
In the South
At His command.
And the small feathered ones
Seem to always know first,
As they call us out
Of the sleepy
And wake us up to wonder.