There’s the thing I shouldn’t do
and yet, and now I have
the rest of the day to
make up for, not
undo, that can’t be done
but next time,
think more calmly,
breathe, say here’s a new
morning, morning,
morning,
(though why would that
work, it isn’t even
hidden, hear it in there,
more, more,
more?)
❓
Resolution by Lia Purpura
repeat over and over…
God goes out for whiskey Friday night,
Staggers back Monday morning
Empty-handed, no explanation.
After three nights of not sleeping,
Three nights of listening for
His footsteps, His mules sliding
Deftly under my bed, I stand
At the stove, giving him my back,
Wearing the same tight, tacky dress, same slip,
Same seamed stockings I’d put on before He left.
He leans on the kitchen table, waiting
For me to make him His coffee.
I watch the water boil,
Refuse to turn around,
Wonder how to leave Him.
Woman, He slurs, when have I ever done
What you wanted me to do?
❓❓❓❓
Reason by Robin Coste Lewis
Get off my back, God.
Take your claws out of my shoulder.
I’d like to throw you off
like I would brush off some particularly repellent insect!
Sometimes I get the feeling that if I could turn round
quick enough
I would see you
grinning at me,
full of glee, plotting, scheming, devious, challenging
The hell with all this stuff about fire and storm
and still, quiet waters.
I’ve got your number.
I’ve unmasked you.
I’d like to throw you off
like I would brush off some
particularly repellent insect.
You’re a daemon!
Unfortunately, you seem to have this great attachment
to me.
Actually, being honest, I know in my heart
I’d miss you if you weren’t there,
leering at me, reminding me of death and dread and destiny,
winding me up and puncturing
my pretensions.
I know, with a sinking feeling in my gut
that all the best of me
– the fire and storm,
and even, now and then, still waters,
are born out of the death-defying struggle
that we wage,
my dearest daemon.
💪🏻
Wresting With God by Kathy Galloway
I didn’t ask for this,
did I?
in fact, I believe I tried to block it,
avoid it at all costs.
But here I am feeling
outta sorts,
facing my bittersweet days.
Wondering where the hell
this is gonna take me?
What is my purpose here?
here,
where I lived my experiment for 5 years?
here,
what was taken
now returns,
and I am not sure what to do with it…
light it up
or
burn it down?
all I know is this is the place
I have been called to
at this moment
for only God knows what,
and He’s not talking,
hasn’t shown his face in weeks.
I must rely on this silly sliver of a promise,
that it is meant for my good
– somehow,
someway.
Any-hoo,
Trust is a ruthless business,
an extreme proposition to live.
I am not leaning to my own understanding,
or natural desires,
even a bitty-bit,
or I definitely wouldn’t be right here
– right now
or anytime in the future.
Yet here I am,
standing on this holiest of my profane grounds,
way out in the back forty
of thecomfort zone,
knowing beyond knowing,
I’m in the only place
I’m supposed to be
right now.
This is where the magic happens.
🌎
Amy Lloyd (AL)
God wants to encounter you with His love, so you can become a light everywhere you go, your life will shout to the world, ‘I’ve seen Him, I’ve felt Him. I’ve heard His voice. He is alive. He is here with us. In us. For us.’
THE LIGHT OF YOUR SOUL
There are no manuals for the construction of the individual you would like to become. You are the only one who can decide this and take up the lifetime of work that it demands. This is a wonderful privilege and such an exciting adventure. To grow into the person that your deepest longing desires is a great blessing. If you can find a creative harmony between your soul and your life, you will have found something infinitely precious. You may not be able to do much about the great problems of the world or to change the situation you are in, but if you can awaken the eternal beauty and light of your soul, you will bring light wherever you go. The gift of life is given to us for ourselves and also to bring peace, courage, and compassion to others.
❤️
John O’Donohue
Excerpt from ETERNAL ECHOES
The Beloved can think of nothing more beautiful
than her children running toward her
so she stands a bit away
so we will come to her,
but she is not waiting in faraway places:
no, it is in people whom we least suspect.
When we look at the stranger ―
Ah! There she is.
Then she gives that gift
to us for our own delight.
The Beloved has hidden us
in one another,
waiting for us to see
and come together in astonishment.
____________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
When you are loved, you can do anything in creation.
When you are loved, there’s no need at all to understand what’s happening, because everything happens within you.
― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
Love is not a fluffy thing, it’s got edges and teeth. Love refuses to play small or sell out.
– Julia Butterfly Hill
I am the land upon which Winters snow falls,
Unnoticed and trodden, numb, unaffected,
Pain laid unsheathed as the spring starts to thaw,
This heart’s ever hopeful to wear a new skin.
I am the land upon which Autumn leaves become rotten,
Which once had life, now ended, now dead,
But nourishment lives with all that’s forgotten,
This heart’s always faithful to beat once again.
I am the land upon which the Summer sun scorches,
Whose once swollen rivers run dry and to dust,
Existence in stasis, be still with the forces,
This heart wills the moment to beat its own drum.
I am the land through which spring will awaken,
The beginning of life full of beauty and newness,
Quicken the pressure all barriers forsaken,
This quickening heart has forever to live.
❤️
Constancy by Paula Doran
Facebook/Women’s Spiritual Poetry
As I approach,
it comes to me quickly –
all four seasons are flowing,
visible residents
of this mornings beach.
Here are bands of snow
from this spell
we call Winter.
Here, layers of leaf-surf to shuffle through the memories,
we called Fall.
Which, seems to me,
was just yesterday?
The sands dna carries the Summer sun,
still warm,
within its restless, shifting soul.
It whispers promises of returning warmth and sunshine as I stand, here and now, in cold, driving rain,
working through markers of time,
arriving at my favorite season,
Spring!
Grief, death and hope are front and center,
as Vinnie’s beautiful, driftwood cross
still stands as a memorial to his mother’s recent passing,
as well as, the hope of springs sure arrival!
Easter carries the sharp winds of death,
alive with the eternal mystery of resurrection.
I realize there are many symbols of spring,
on this mixed media stretch of grainy life.
The all-weather gulls floating, trusting,
eternally free.
The rhythm of the waves forever dancing with,
continually kissing,
the shore.
Then there’s me,
aware and alive,
with possibilities
of love,
music,
even that slippery word,
happiness,
surrounding my steps!
It doesn’t matter
that I don’t know what that looks like…yet.
Knowing I am worthy of all this is enough.
Hopes awaken,
rising strong on mended wings,
trusting the healing path taken,
the work continues.
Allowing the
shy, twinkling lights
to glow and illuminate
the most fearful, secret corners
of the darkest rooms
of my heart.
I smile and silently shout, Yes!
Yay!
I promise to love and be loved!
Can you hear me, wherever you are?
Will your heart shout out as well?
I can’t stop smiling.
Courage,
that fearless lion,
who will lead us all home
right where we belong.
🦁
AL
.
i dreamed my body the size of colorado
mountains ranges and free open spaces
thirsty arroyos and slippery canyon walls
my lungs the wild breezes over the plains
reincarnation nothing more than fresh flowers this spring
and death the blaze of falling leaves
.
yes i will live here a thousand years
barefoot and hungry
wild and free
roaming a wild country in my buffalo self
in a pathless land
.
somethings will not change and remain fact always
we are ashes of stellar death
particles of infinity
flowers on the range
.
.
.
.
.
wild plains by Adam DeFranco (C) 2016
We are waves of One.
Our purer self has no name.
Even our hollow places are full of light.
Don’t take a breath, receive it.
Know everything before you have a thought.
Be what ripens on a jagged branch,
still hard and bitter.
As soon as you are soft and sweet
a doe will nuzzle you, and you will fall.
Her little fawn will crush you on its tongue.
Exist as purple food
so that the least furry creature might
leap and play on a Sunday morning.
Be the burgundy pulp of a glistening heart.
Now fall even deeper into green meditation.
Agree to become the radiance
in the atoms of a plum.
🍈
Alfred K. LaMotte
I was dead, and I became alive; I was tears, and I became laughter. Overcome by the power of love, I turned into that eternal power.
~ Rumi
When the world does not conform
to the story in my head
I get a feeling that
“something’s not right.”
Why is the story in my head
not down-loading properly?
Why do I sense that the world
needs to be fixed
and I must repair what is “wrong”
by imposing my story
onto the mystery
of the ineluctable?
Yet the world is not a problem.
The problem is
there’s a story in my head
but it’s not quite the same
as your story, is it?
And so there is conflict,
there is suffering,
even if our stories are about
salvation, about justice
and equality, the perfect
marriage, the cleanest
environment, or gaining
enlightenment…
Happiness cannot arise
if we slather the world in the thin
veneer of our narration.
Happiness is the dance
of atoms ordered by
the dynamics of chaos
in the heart of the now
when we let both story
and teller disperse
like a fine mist,
when we let things clarify
all by themselves
the way silt filters and falls
through a mountain brook
in liquid transparency.
Now rest in the miracle
that has always
already happened.
Just shut up and see.
A rain cloud vanishes.
There are crystal drops on
blades of grass, each containing
the sun.
💫
SOMETHING’S NOT QUITE RIGHT by Alfred LaMotte
Let us go forward quietly, forever making for the light…
Vincent Van Gogh
these anniversaries
the marking of dates
building Ebenezer memorials
from the stones of help
bringing me to this place
tasting again
the bitter herbs
the roasted lamb
the flat bread
the milk and honey flowing over everything
the fresh dates and figs
of now
sitting with this
bitter-sweet
sweet-bitter
this life
this love
this past
this practice
this present
this grateful
that gratitude
that changing
this constant
this birth
this death
this resurrection
always this love
ah this love
just.
this.
love.
always the path of thanks
always the gifts presenting
along the diamond road
this is my tradition
my version of holiday
each one
my best of days
my worst of days
feeling it wrapping around my senses
these memories clouds
wrapping around me
enveloped from behind me
me always facing forward
always facing toward the rising moment just ahead
the path before me the most important
always remembering,
along with that other Southern Belle…
tomorrow is another day…
the best is always yet to be!
🗓
AL 7/23/16 gratitude/tradition
Life
truly
is beauty
beauty
salted
by rare moments
of exquisite suffering.
Life
truly
is suffering
suffering
peppered
by rare moments
of exquisite beauty.
🌹
https://www.claudiuskeepsakes.com/collections/frontpage/products/duality-of-life-mug
there’s this summer song
of cool wind on my skin,
playing sweet percussion through the tall, lush marsh grass
gentle water
invisible birds singing in surround sound
my heart resonates with the language we have spoken
the songs we have sung
the rich vibrations of our connection
over the past few days
the new sun warms my back
my shadow sits large
writing poems
this silence my gratitude
this morning my pleasure
this day my gift
this moment my life
thank you for reaching out
for breaking through the darkness
for holding my hand
💞
AL
The worst isn’t the last thing about the world. It’s the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It’s the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring. Can you believe it? The last, best thing is the laughing deep in the hearts of the saints, sometimes our hearts even. Yes. You are terribly loved and forgiven. Yes. You are healed. All is well.
– Frederick Buechner
The Final Beast
Then I walked
straight forward
out of the gate,
through the wood,
along the river,
toward the mountain
and I thought of the future
I could make in the world
if I walked toward it
like this,
with my face toward the hills
and my eyes full of light
and the earth sure
and solid beneath me,
walking
with a fierce anticipation,
and a faithful expectation,
with the sun and the rain
and the wind on my skin
and that old sense…
of many paths
breaking from one path.
So learning to walk
in morning light
like this again,
we’ll take our first
light step
toward mortality,
walking
out of the garden,
through the woods,
along the river,
toward the mountain,
its simple,
that’s what we’ll do,
practicing as we go
and
we’ll be glimpsed,
traveling westward,
no longer familiar,
a following wave,
greeted, as we were at our birth,
as probable
and slightly
dangerous strangers,
someone
coming into view,
someone about
to find out.
Some wild
and improbable risk
about to break
on the world again.
..
David Whyte
Adapted from LEARNING TO WALK
From RIVER FLOW:
New and Selected Poems
I gave myself permission to feel and experience all of my emotions. In order to do that, I had to stop being afraid to feel. In order to do that, I taught myself to believe that no matter what I felt or what happened when I felt it, I would be okay. – Iyanla Vanzant
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
📝
The Layers by Stanley Kunitz
there are people and places
which live inside me
I feel them
as I spin the kaleidoscope wheel
they come into focus
moments
smells
textures
visuals
each hold exquisite love
each hold delicately intense, brutal, suffering
each hold ruthless trust,
radical hope,
extreme faith,
continual healing.
each person,
each place a threshold
of practical practice,
of growth and becoming,
of wrestling with letting go,
of spiritual teaching towards love,
of defending my tenderness,
of stepping into ‘I am’,
of allowing myself,
of removing the toxic tarter buildup of my own soul,
of seeing glimpses of the unlimited, ever-unfolding mystery.
I’m so grateful for these people,
these places,
the ones I carry,
seen,
and those still before me,
as yet, unseen.
🕘
AL
Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.
🔔
Birthday Poem by Ted Kooser
Reborn as a court reporter
Inside a waking dream
Trapped between misspelling Subpoena and shouting guilty over and over
In a feudal land someone personified Justice as a woman, as a joke.
Oh the bliss that reason brings
Cold, calculated, harmony of all things
Where we agree, to agree, to disagree
That we can all agree on something.
“If only I got what I deserved”
Said no man ever.
The wrongs of another cannot be punished too harshly
Until you turn the eye inward,
To the mote and see yourself,
Know yourself,
Judge yourself,
Find mercy for yourself if you can.
Such a futile exercise for man
When you are done with yourself,
Ask if you can ever withhold forgiveness again?
🙀
Finding Mercy by Charles Cooper
We are all of us judged every day. We are judged by the face that looks back at us from the bathroom mirror. We are judged by the faces of the people we love and by the faces and lives of our children and by our dreams. We are judged by the faces of the people we do not love. Each day finds us at the junction of many roads, and we are judged as much by the roads we have not taken as by the roads we have.
The New Testament proclaims that at some unforeseeable time in the future, God will ring down the final curtain on history, and there will come a Day on which all our days and all the judgments upon us and all our judgments upon each other will themselves be judged. The judge will be Christ. In other words, the one who judges us most finally will be the one who loves us most fully.
Romantic love is blind to everything except what is lovable and lovely, but Christ’s love sees us with terrible clarity and sees us whole. Christ’s love so wishes our joy that it is ruthless against everything in us that diminishes our joy. The worst sentence Love can pass is that we behold the suffering that Love has endured for our sake, and that is also our acquittal. The justice and mercy of the judge are ultimately one.
⚖
~Frederick Buechner originally published in Wishful Thinking and later in Beyond Words
Somewhere between what it feels like, to be at
one with the sea, and to understand the sea as
mere context for the boat whose engine refuses
finally to turn over: yeah, I know the place—
stumbled into it myself, once; twice, almost. All
around and in between the two trees that
grow there, tree of compassion and—
much taller— tree of pity, its bark
more bronze, the snow settled as if an openness of any kind meant, as well,
a woundedness that, by filling it, the snow
might heal…You know what I think? I think if we’re
lost, you should know exactly where, by now; I’ve
watched you stare long and hard enough at the map
already…I’m beginning to think I may never
not be undecided, about all sorts of things: whether
snow really does resemble the broken laughter
of the long-abandoned when what left comes back
big-time; whether gratitude’s just a haunted
space like any other. This place sounds daily
more like a theater of war, each time I listen to it—
loss, surprise, victory, being only three of the countless
fates, if you want to call them that, that we don’t
so much live with, it seems, as live for now among. If as
close as we’re ever likely to get, you and I, is this—this close—
⛵️
Carl Phillips.
Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 19, 2016, by the Academy of American Poets
I am not your enemy.
I am for you, not against.
I am not like your anger,
I am not your fear.
I am your joy, your peace.
I am your breathing, your heartbeat,
your blood, your Being.
I am the fullness of you,
unfolding as you let me.
I have only blessing for you,
like a mother for her newborn.
I am your perfection, longing for you.
My judgment is not harsh, but pure mercy,
my seeing your brilliance folded in the bud,
my knowledge of your beauty waiting in you.
I do not judge your doubts
but give you strength to tear them open
and find in them the mirror of your grace.
I know your childish fears,
your helpless lashing out,
I have seen the rage seeping into you.
My wrath burns not against you but that lie.
I will hold you until you quiet in my arms.
You are angry because you are afraid
that I am not here for you
but I am here
for you.
Be still, and let me hold you.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
perhaps we are
saving each other
one song at a time
endlessly moving
wind, waves, water
kissing the shore
achingly beautiful
true colors
of black and white
melting together, dancing
in and out
through each other
ever weaving, creating
new life
filling the empty
emptying the full
like music
itself
🎹🎹🎹
AL
It was after dinner.
You were talking to me across the table
about something or other,
a greyhound you had seen that day
or a song you liked,
and I was looking past you
over your bare shoulder
at the three oranges lying
on the kitchen counter
next to the small electric bean grinder,
which was also orange,
and the orange and white cruets for vinegar and oil.
All of which converged
into a random still life,
so fastened together by the hasp of color,
and so fixed behind the animated
foreground of your
talking and smiling,
gesturing and pouring wine,
and the camber of your shoulders
that I could feel it being painted within me,
brushed on the wall of my skull,
while the tone of your voice
lifted and fell in its flight,
and the three oranges
remained fixed on the counter
the way stars are said
to be fixed in the universe.
Then all the moments of the past
began to line up behind that moment
and all the moments to come
assembled in front of it in a long row,
giving me reason to believe
that this was a moment I had rescued
from the millions that rush out of sight
into a darkness behind the eyes.
Even after I have forgotten what year it is,
my middle name,
and the meaning of money,
I will still carry in my pocket
the small coin of that moment,
minted in the kingdom
that we pace through every day
🍊🍊🍊
This Much I Do Remember by Billy Collins
He sculpts, carves, whittles
a fresh block of words
he’s been led to
by winds that whisper
or make him shiver.
Slowly, lines take shape,
come alive with sounds
the ear cannot hear;
reflections only seen
by the inner eye;
raw, natural scents
from the tree itself.
He pulls colors from a rainbow,
the surf, or maybe the sand;
at times he adds moisture
from a tear.
And as with raw wood,
he whittles—whittles, going with
the grain—braces the wood
to flatten a knot, smiles at its
character coming through—
will make a good piece.
He sands until is all-over smooth,
seals it with the joy of the craft,
a fine piece that holds
a part of himself—
now transformed into form
that lets the poem speak
🌈🌈🌈
The Poet and His Craft by Camille A. Balla
photo sources found at http://www.pinterest.com
Yeah, so, the past month has been an intense one for me in every way. A bit emotionally brutal. We can all relate, I’m sure. It’s shown me a lot of new things about myself, also revealed some new glimpses of this mystical mystery named, so simply, “Love,” in our language.
I’ve been a student of the nature of Love for the past 7 years, which doesn’t seem very long, now that I write it down, but, I have to report, just this short time of study, it has changed me in every area of my life.
My studies are always, first and foremost, practical. To me nothing I ‘believe’ is worth anything if it does not actually work in my living to bring me healing, make me a better human, remove my baggage to reveal my highest and best self, lead me into paths of peace and load my arms with fruit to share with fellow pilgrims along the way…and, so, I began by asking God to reveal what love was and how love worked.
My first flash came in 2009, riding on a CT commuter train from New Haven to Branford, looking at the marsh fly by. I had been asking for some days, intensely seeking, when God showed himself to me as ‘LOVE.’ That brief instant changed everything for me. I experienced the Aleph of The Mystery and left that train, completely changed a flash or, in real time less than 30 minutes…
Many wonderful writers have helped me along this open-ended, unlimited path of discovery on this topic. I must give much beautiful credit to Henri Nouwen, who helped me early on in my excavation of this topic. His revelations, and life surrendered to this mystery, have inspired much learning in my own voyage on this simple, yet so radical, path.
Over these years, I felt lead to share some of my tiny bits of insight with others – it has just been so amazing! So beautiful! So everything – I just wanted others to open to it as well, to learn and heal along with me! Over these years I have learned to be a writer and a poet. Until recently I didn’t feel I could claim those ‘titles,’ but I do now, just another way love has changed me. I am so grateful.
This brings us to yesterday, which brings us to Frederick Buechner’s 90th birthday! Buechner is one of the best, most beautiful, writers ever. Sometimes I stop breathing when I read his words. I won’t say more, at this moment, as this is becoming a very long post, but here’s my best advice: read him!
Recently someone, somewhere, on Facebook, posted words by poet, Fred LaMotte. They deeply touched me and so I ‘friended’ him. Then he began posting his words and I found myself on Amazon ordering one of his books. I received it last week, and it has been moving me into some very deep waters.
Yeah, so, back to yesterday, I re-posted a happy birthday write-up about Buechner and then…
I got this comment from Fred LaMotte:
He was the reason I became a teacher and a school chaplain. When I was a 10th grader at Exeter Academy (near Boston) he was the school chaplain. It was before he became a writer. One dreary morning in late Winter, we were 700 half asleep boys in morning ‘Chapel’ (it was just an assembly really), and decided to read to us. He read the entire 7th chapter of ‘The Wind In The Willows,’ ‘Piper at the Gates of Dawn.’ It was very long and I think I might have been the only one stayed awake. It was amazing. Not only did it show me my first real piece of spiritual writing, but I thought, “Wow! This is his job? Reading to people about the great God Pan? I want to do this!” Thank you Frederick Buechner.
💞
WOW!! Then Fred LaMotte shared that chapter of the Wind and the Willows, ya know, the one that inspired some pretty intense poetry, which is, at this moment plowing up some new fields in my back forty…
Wow upon WOW!
Here’s that link. My advice: Read it!!
http://yourradiance.blogspot.com/2013/03/piper-at-gates-of-dawn.html?m=1
I have not read The Wind in the Willows since I was a teenager, and, at that time I remember thinking it was rather stupid. My thoughts being something like, ‘Good grief, what in the heck is this about?’
Yesterday, I finally ‘got it!’ I broke down. I took my shoes off and bowed to the glory. Yesterday, a gift of love I offered was returned to me, unaccepted. I ‘got it!’ I broke down. I took my shoes off and bowed to the glory. There’s no right or wrong here, just gift. I choose to be only grateful to continue on in the, ‘yes and amen!’ of it all.
I have no idea what Love (God) will teach me next. I am a very humble beginner. No Master here. Just a girl who cannot believe how lucky I am to be on this narrow road. A very unlikely pilgrim, I. Always wearing inappropriate shoes for climbing these steep hills, but somehow, always getting the view of the most beautiful sunsets imaginable. I guess it’s true what Babe Ruth said, ‘You can’t beat a man who keeps getting up!’
Here’s a song I wrote for my children’s musical about my life of faith, named: The Fantastical Inside-Out-Upside-Down Journey of a Rich Little Poor Girl
You Otter Know (verses spoken in the style of Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant/choruses in Sinatra style)
I was walking in the forest
I was feeling all alone
The birds and bees were sleeping,
the weeping willow weeping
Then I heard a little creature
Start moving oh so slow
and the little brook began to play
music with its toes
the woodpecker was keeping time
upon that tall oak tree
and I could not help start dancing
cause I knew it was for me
and as I whirled and twirled about
I came upon a log
and the beaver and the otter (Frank Sinatra style Beaver. Sammy Davis Otter)
were acting more like hogs (pushing each other to get to the log stage with microphone)
and then they each began to croon
they’re words were oh so rare
I stood there for a moment
my foot still in the air
and they sang to me…
You otter know I love you
loved you from the start
(if you’ll beaver me
then I’ll beaver you
You never walk alone)
You otter know I love you
love your precious heart
(beaver me it’s true
I’ve always loved you
You’re never far from home)
and the band it just kept playing
and my happy heart did gasp
Cause this was so much better
than that silly talking a**
uhhh donkey
Then my heart it felt so happy
and my eyes at last could see
That though I hadn’t been aware
You’d never once left me
and as I danced on down that path
I swear I sang this song
The one my friends had written,
which had been there all along
and I sang…
You otter know I love you
loved you from the start
(if you’ll beaver me
then I’ll beaver you
You never walk alone)
You otter know I love you
love your precious heart
(beaver me it’s true
I’ve always loved you
You’re never far from home
💞
AL
Ephesians 1:4
Even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes.
New Living Translation
You don’t have to melt
until you are ready.
Remember this:
Each moil of your unoiled joints,
every numb stiff gristle of resistance,
cramp of anger, clabber of shame,
clot of envy, opinion or belief,
is simply a mass of refusal
contracted into “me,”
a particle afraid to waltz
with its field, a wave
that will not settle to its sea,
a sky who thinks it is a cloud,
a self who didn’t give up
I-dentity…
Don’t let go until you’re
ready, friend. You have forever.
You remember this:
To melt is not to pass away,
but to pulverize diamonds
with your dancing,
watch the spiraling fire
of your body, and witness
the whirled.
🔥
Alfred K. LaMotte
Some mornings
I wake up a king,
anointed, anticipated,
shining.
Some mornings
I wake up a pilgrim,
on a journey yet unseen,
but on a road laid out
with adventures to be met.
Some mornings
I wake up a mule.
No power to wield,
nowhere to go,
just me, just here,
dull and pointless.
Those days
I must be
most vigilant and ready,
for my master
is a good samaritan
and I never know
when I will be needed
for something luminous.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
photo sources found at http://www.pinterest.com
life: acoustic & amplified 