nothing to see here

David Ruston
floral art by David Ruston, flower arranging genius

I have to write!

Which begs a million tangents.

But I’m in my bath robe

and my house needs organising

and these papers need sorting

and there are dates disappearing

into forests of my mind that choke with unclearing.

And an artist has died, and the whole world should have cried

but it all goes on.

 

The dust is swirling

and threatening

to come over my fence.

Too late.

It lands so finely over everything

reminding me of that dream the other night

when I saw you.

 

Our embrace.

 

And nothing was said breathed.
Except understanding.

 

And the wind is picking up the dust again…

sepiated

img_20170212_233703_199

(I took this photo yesterday of my father. He still works as a landscaper, at 83! He helps to take care of this beautiful property for his friend, who died a couple of years ago. He helps to lovingly tend it for her children who currently live elsewhere.)

*

your whispering  legacy haunted

those delightfully enchanted trees

they bashfully danced to the harmony’s spell

you cast on ebullient breeze.

gentle tread of your variegated spirit

autumned now with so much grace

I know you have moved on in silence

but our movement here follows your trace.

the impression of a loved one’s silhouette

caught tenderly in a still frame

is a clear photographic injustice

to the care that he takes in your name…

unseasoning the season

The immutable reality of change

the longing to keep “before” in range

it’s cratered the cortex of my being

and reverse refracted all my seeing

my inner core blinded by the white

lasering the absence on my sight

the snow in sympathetic silence

weakening the contrast in my blindness

reaching for the knowing of the past

the sewing pain of beauty will not last

or the hope is, it will, in fact, diminish

and these lines, for now, remain unfinished…

the euphoria…

evaporating from me in clouds,

raining back down

to drench me again,

even as I thought I was outrunning it,

energised by the grass under my feet

and the breath giving coldness of marble walls,

their vapour mixing with mine.

 

Their incongruous corrugation

oscillating to unheard music

helping to propel me

to the memory beyond.

 

But the hands reaching out

were not.

The face appearing

was not.

 

Confused by dream mediums

I dragged in the shallows.

The wave overtaking.

The gorgon emerging.

 

Stone icicles –

entombing my vapouric bliss.

Glistening more in the unreaching…

hikikomori

I had the most interesting conversation with a dear, elderly friend recently. Every time I do, it makes me lament even more how our culture doesn’t value the wisdom of the elderly. There are times when I truly grieve over stories lost forever.

We talked about the fear of man…

the fear of God…

the misunderstanding of the fear of God and how radically it is exacerbated by the growing fear of other humans, the context being, that we believe humans were created in God’s image.

The astonishing kindness of anonymous bloggers, their anonymity injecting poignancy straight into my veins.

I told him about the phenomenon of hikikomori which fascinated him, but he immediately responded with words straight from his mature, listening heart, ‘no wonder people are afraid of God. We are forever doomed to create him in our image…’ or something to that affect. Ugh, my awful memory does not do him justice.

And this post does not do this issue justice. but I want to get in the habit of writing more regularly so this will have to do for now.

 

nepenthe of nepenthes

Compelled to her feet
He reminded her of the Garden.
It kept her walking…

Breathed to her healing
the Leaves’ Scent from the Garden.
She exhaled
running

to Light
piercing through dimensions
outlining her shape

the distant memory of tears
welling up
and spilling
on the River drenched Fruit.

She was flying …

the-light-the-light

 Gen 2:7-9
Ezekiel 47:12
Psalm 34:18
Luke 10:33-35
John 19:34
Rev 22:1,2
Isaiah 40:31

Photo credit: Chase Miller

What does this c(h)ord do?

I didn’t even realise until my grandfather’s funeral. The first funeral of someone close to me. That so much of the time we just aren’t paying attention.

So we watched him being lowered into the ground.
It’s overwhelming isn’t it? That kind of grief.
And now you are hearing and seeing things you never heard before.
Right when you think the world should stop.

Now thanks to this artist I love, releasing this album at this time because of the loss of his child, I time travelled right back to that graveside. And all the other gravesides.

I have been to many funerals. My husband is a pastor. I have had the indescribable privilege of being at a few death beds. There is so much that I could write about. But there are already many words. And this trailer expresses some of it just perfectly.