Thursday, April 30, 2015

But He did

 

 
Everyone wonders.
Why the stuttering fool.
Cannot get over.
The story of grace.

Smacked in the face.
With the wonder of it.
My lack so desperate.
And His love so beyond.

Figuring out.




And the wonder of creation.
Mysteries so stunning; stupefying even.
Things beyond the naked eye.
Photos revealing the heavens.

Star clusters and galaxies.
And reams of color thrown around
like a madman happy and
exuberant and free.
Creating glory and miraculous.

Beauty pointing.

Like a road sign. 




Because every single day.
While distracted with life.
Living daunted.  In our own story.
Sometimes shaken.

There is order. 
Our world governed.  And ruled.
By holy.

Stars in the heavens.
Planets spinning.
Sun coming up.  Setting.
Winter turning to spring.
And the tide going out .
Again.

All under.  His control.

His creation.  His palette.  His art.

Glory. 

And Grace.

And I lift up my eyes to the hills.
And to the heavens.

And every single time.

Smacked in the face.
With the wonder of it.

I never could have thought it all up.

But He did. 





Tuesday, April 28, 2015

When sometimes

 


I can't and I don't know sometimes.
But I do try.
To figure out this good life.
One day at a time.
Being joyous and living grateful.
It is a choice.  I know.

But there are so many.
Choices.
And it makes my head spin.
To understand.
Where to go and what to do.

So much of the time.

When sometimes.
Honestly.

All I really want to do.

Is dance crazy with abandon.
Singing loud. The lyrics.
Like a rock and roll singer.
On a stage. 
In my living room.  My kitchen.
The dog cowering.
But dancing nonetheless.

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is put on my smock and paint.
Bold strokes and big color.
Canvas large upon an easel.
Paintbrushes dripping hues.
Paint all over me.

And the final product.
Well. Could have spent more time.
On it.  Someone tells me.

What the dickens!

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is run through a meadow.
And explore the streets.
And the passageways. Of a village.
Faraway.  Or here at home.
Snapping photos. 
Like a wild woman all giddy.
Thinking I've discovered.
This art.  And these places.

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is sit in a beach chair.
Sand warm and breeze gentle.
Beach bag full; books and a journal.
To write.  To read.  Undeterred.
Pens and pretzels and pizza.
Gulls screaming.  Waves breaking.
The language of summer calling.

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is paddle down a river.
With tributaries to explore.
All silence except the small splash.
Of an oar.  In a canoe.
Heart beating wildly for adventure.
Might as well be the Amazon.

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is cook pasta. Chop up some basil.
Simmer some sauce.  A glass of wine.
Friends and family filling the table.
Laughing.  Sharing.  Supping.
And around that table; authenticity.
Speaking grace.  Freeing the soul.
To breathe deep and calm.

For I am a crazy wild romantic.
Kind of girl.
And I thank my man for loving me.
Because.
It's an ordeal sometimes. 

For him.  I'm sure.

Complicated and messy and just too.
Everything.

But no longer making excuses.

No longer trying so much.
To march in formation.  Soldier-like.
At attention.  All tense.
And performance-like.

Just cause my dad thought so.

But he didn't live it.
He just commanded it.

From his place at the rudder.
Commanding ships around the world.
Chasing his dreams.  Chasing beauty.
Never marching to anyone's beat.

He never did; living to 103.

And I can't.  Either.

March to orders and fall in line.

That is because.

All I really want to do.
Is be the person the Joy-maker.
Made me to be.

And so I will.

Greet each day.
Throw open the shutters.
Welcome the beautiful. 
Being grateful.

For there is always. 
Something beautiful. 
Even in the midst of hard days. 
Something to be grateful for.
To appreciate.

It is a decision.  Every day.

To sing happy.  And dance.
With sauce on your face.
And to get out the paints.

And paint.






Friday, April 10, 2015

Glimpses of ordinary

 
Ten On Ten
April 2015
 
 


 
 


 



 
            
                It's not down on any map; true places never are.  Herman Melville