The people gathered around Aaron, and said to him,
“Come, make gods for us, who shall go before us.”
—Exodus 32.1
We tire of believing in a God so slippery,
a Lover so invisible,
so we make little ones
that we can set somewhere and not lose.
The golden calf of being busy.
The idol of producing.
The image of conforming.
The little god of being right.
We worship the god of having things under control.
We bow down to the idol of understanding things.
We give our gold to fashion the calf of being liked.
We adore the image of a happy, easy life.
Forgive us, God.
Take away our golden idols
that have so spectacularly failed us
and give us yourself instead.
Teach us to repent with each breath.
Help us to let go and trust
your Mystery, your Presence,
your Infinity, your Love.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light http://www.unfoldinglight.net
Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief,
turning down through it’s black water
to the place we cannot breathe,
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering,
the small round coins,
thrown by those who wished for something else.
The Well of Grief
David Whyte
I grieve
a simple bottle of shells,
it has held me for years.
it has held years for me.
In this large, stormy cloud is also hidden:
the apple tree,
coffee on the deck,
Aunt Margie,
the saxophone,
guitars I bought –
not for me –
the songs I couldn’t sing for you,
the losses I couldn’t prepare for,
the love I couldn’t earn,
the lessons I have learned,
more than a few, broken pieces
of my soul
mending as the salt falls,
making room for something new,
more must be felt,
but I know,
as spring comes to April,
sun breaks through and finds room
to grow some new flowers
in my heart
ACL 4/5/13
Green things change,
become the color of surprise,
the color of gratitude,
the color of morning.
Bees still buzz quietly
but it is the color of letting go.
The color of something inside you.
An eye opens, and closes.
A reckoning, even as leaves fall:
not subtracting, but adding up.
Seed pods lift their empty hands
and blacken, become still.
Trees tunnel down into themselves.
Garden plants become song.
They are not dying, not giving up.
They are getting ready for something new.
________________________
Weather Report
A day also otherwise,
as even mourning bears joy,
and the beginning of autumn here
signals in the Southern Hemisphere,
where also our beloved live,
Spring’s splendid revival.
“I was afraid but that is the beauty of past tense. It’s over now.”
– Amanda Helm
amandaspoetry.tumblr.com/
The simplest things in life
Are the most extraordinary
Let them reveal themselves.
– Paulo Coelho
There is magic in every little thing.
Your very breath is magic.
You, showing up on this tiny planet,
at this very time in history,
purest magic.
The way the sun glints off your hair,
magic-magic.
The way the trees recognize you,
all magically-like.
The way a child can turn their head
and plunge you into instant grief,
the deepest-darkest magic.
It’s all about perspective.
Einstein reminds us, We have a choice in how we live.
One of two ways –
As if nothing
OR
As if everything
Is miraculous!
I’m so glad,
so extremely blessed by,
that moment I chose to see the enchanted pathway.
It’s always a fine day here.
No matter the circumstance I find myself in,
Magic abounds.
And somewhere,
along this bewitching, musical, star strewn, pathway,
I forgot to be afraid anymore.
ACL 11/22/13
Light of Dawn, awaken me,
that I may always be mindful of You.
Warmth of the sun, fill me,
that I may radiate the love of Christ.
Breeze of wisdom, give me breath,
that all I say may be true and loving.
Embracing earth, receive me,
that I may always forgive.
Songs of birds, delight me,
that I may sing joy, sing joy.
Falling rain and growing grass remind me
that I live and die into You.
Flesh of my body, rejoice,
for I am Your vessel, I am alive,
I am here.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light http://www.unfoldinglight.net
Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,
you are sitting under your porch roof,
looking down through the trees
to the river, watching the rain. The circles
made by the raindrops’ striking
expand, intersect, dissolve,
and suddenly (for you are getting on
now, and much of your life is memory)
the hands of the dead, who have been here
with you, rest upon you tenderly
as the rain rests shining
upon the leaves. And you think then
(for thought will come) of the strangeness
of the thought of heaven, for now
you have imagined yourself there,
remembering with longing this
happiness, this rain. Sometimes here
we are there, and there is no death.
“1996, V” [“Some Sunday afternoon, it may be”] by Wendell Berry
On this bitter-sweet morning
I spot the jar,
and deliberately,
lick spun honey from a spoon.
Remembering my Grandma Duvall,
always a mystery person for me,
always had that,
and other, oh-so-wonderful,
treats at her house.
As a little girl,
I loved it so,
I love it still,
tho it goes right to my head,
and makes me a bit dizzy.
My more mature tastebuds know
there must be balance.
Remembering the wisdom
of Solomon in Proverbs.
How kind words are like honey.
How important it is to choose the sweet,
right in the bitter.
I suck the last bit off the spoon,
smile a bit,
and move along.
Angels visit us in strange ways some days.
A bit of healing
right there in the kitchen.
A bit of grace
right in the mess.
A bit of heaven,
right here and now,
on a rainy Tuesday.
If you could be soft in what you are. In what you’ve felt in the world.
If you could release, just for a moment, how he held you, or how the kids should have come home.
If you just put down the can of paint. Listen.
All along you’ve been waiting. A couple long sighs, a piece of the way things wave and you’re off.
Have you considered much what it is to sit on the lawn. What is under your fingers, what is under your hands. And how to live an agreeable life, and how much it takes in a night to get through what you must first get through in order to just sit here and be happy.
For today, I will memorize
the two trees now in end-of-summer light
and the drifts of wood asters as the yard slopes away toward
the black pond, blue
dragonflies
in the clouds that shine and float there, as if risen
from the bottom, unbidden. Now, just over the fern—
quick—a glimpse of it,
the plume, a fox-tail’s copper, as the dog runs in ovals and eights,
chasing scent.
The yard is a waiting room. I have my chair. You, yours.
The hawk has its branch in the pine.
White petals ripple in the quiet light.
“Solitudes” by Margaret Gibson
A tree you pass by every day is just a tree. If you are to closely examine what a tree has and the life a tree has, even the smallest thing can withstand a curiosity, and you can examine whole worlds.
– William Shatner
The aspen glitters in the wind
And that delights us.
The leaf flutters, turning,
Because that motion in the heat of August
Protects its cells from drying out. Likewise the leaf
Of the cottonwood.
The gene pool threw up a wobbly stem
And the tree danced. No.
The tree capitalized.
No. There are limits to saying,
In language, what the tree did.
It is good sometimes for poetry to disenchant us.
Dance with me, dancer. Oh, I will.
Mountains, sky,
The aspen doing something in the wind.
the sky is varying shades
of pale baby blue.
the water is like a silver mirror,
endless beautiful.
the same rocks that glittered
like a million diamonds,
just yesterday,
are silent today.
big dependable rocks,
ready for Monday work week.
still the same.
still awesome.
still beautiful.
just in a different mood.
today the brilliant emerald moss
on those huge rocks,
suspended
in the metallic mercury,
glow against the silver.
I think of Ireland.
my heart yearns to visit
the Emerald Isle
on the other side of this pond.
life is different there,
yet the same.
I watch as the oyster boat trolls.
a heron waits,
until just the right moment –
then takes off,
flying so close to the water.
on and on
until I lose him in the horizon.
I feel him.
I am waiting for my moment.
resting for the next phase of flight.
and in the fullness of time,
at just the right moment,
I will take a breath and
fly.
staying close to the water,
my source of life,
as the epic journey home
continues.
My heart knows one thing for sure –
my love story has
a very happy ending
AL 4/15/13
Morning light, green shoot,
door quietly opening,
what dawns upon you
that hadn’t before,
pilgrimage toward this moment,
first step at the Red Sea,
so much left behind,
and what abides,
and who,
and what is not yet,
what you have and
what will be provided,
divine promise,
its keeping yet to come,
new, and yet from of old
prepared, awaited,
led into the room
already set for you,
without your being able to know
what blessing is in store,
how you are needed here,
what grace is about to unfold.
First day of school.
Let there be light.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light http://www.unfoldinglight.net
life: acoustic & amplified 