I
have discovered some rhythms to my life, like the blending of spice,
Cinnamon and thyme, cardamon and lime and all things that rhyme.
Harmonizing scents, broths that warm with bay, tea that tastes like
hay, flavor's rowdy play, it’s a brand-new day, come what may,
I’ll stay with this.
Ginger takes the lead, dill chips and chia seed, vanilla bean and peppermint leaves. Chili flakes on potato
cakes, onion rings and worthy things.
I’m all in.
December wind cools the already cold air. The morning walk is bundled and pulled inward, so unlike the early Autumn walks, the rolling up of sleeves, short skorts, and morning humidity heating me up and slowing me down just a little while ago. Today I choose the long, puffy coat with the generous hood. A pair of gloves are conveniently stuffed inside its pockets left there the year before. It's turtleneck-time and corduroy-rhyme. It's long socks for tall boots and scarfs pulled snug around the neck. The garden rows all needy and running wild in June now must wait. The sowing of seeds, the pulling of weeds pause to the season of cozy blankets and warming thoughts tossed around on soft chairs. It is time for the steaming cup of chamomile and lavender tea, a candle wafting fragrant scents into the air, the stove top boiling broth and herbs making the house a scrumptious, homey thing. I'm all in. Morning monotony be damned? It is this glorious sameness I crave. It is in these rhythms that I've found an understanding friend. I'm all in.
Creamy, tender skin is iridescent in morning light, plumped with
life, like it's been filled to its capacity with the morning dew. It is
the small hand of the Zinnia Princess, and she is out in her garden
again. She points a decisive finger at her first choice, a
voluptuous, hot pink bloom.
“Wower”, she
aptly calls it. I, and all the others in the garden are hushed and stunned by this
unexpected declaration. A light breeze jiggles the stems of the
congregation and gives the flowers a responsive shutter as they
receive the honor of their new name; “Wower”, indeed.
She reaches forward,
clutching a chosen stem and I, her most humble servant, cut it loose
from the plant with my pruning shears. She reaches again to fill her
other hand; there is more than enough. She picks a coral pink this
time, the perfect complement, a brilliant choice. The faint rippling of applause from the rosemary bush looses its fragrance with the sudden enthusiasm, and the aroma wafts into the air.
I carry her around the south side
where a red zinnia wower blooms scantily along the picket fence
painted a cedar color. Only three red blooms today. She will not pick any of these.
I, toting the
princess on my hip, step over the stone border and enter the garden.
I sit the princess down atop the mulch-covered ground and she drops
her stems while reaching her hands up to hold mine. She disappears between the tomato and the okra, needing some assistance
she is generously willing to take me along with her. It is a morning immersion, and she invites
me along into her exploration. She is young-wise and I can easily see she feels there is
much here to discover. I am intrigued.
Her pause pales the
importance of the ticking time in my head and the rush to get off
into the business of the day. Her slow and purposeful gaze into tomato tangles is unique
in these parts and I think I must imitate her if I possibly can.
I glance down into
the glossy pools of her dark eyes and find the stirring waters there. Now I realize I had at some point wandered away in pursuit of something else less worthy and less wonderful. My heart
lurches as two tears break free to race down my cheeks, and I feel the familiar, subtle stir in me once again. Wisdom hushes me, shutting me up
to hear. If I am willing, it will open me to see and to learn with this Zinnia Princess,
Princess of the Wowers. Like the Pool of Bethesda where the wounded and ailing rushed to moving waters for healing, she is sensitive to the effervescence all around us. She has just recently arrived from God's heart, and the glinting of His kingdom is still upon her though she is unaware. So, she has come to preside over this garden, insistent in its mystery, and with an infant's watchful eye.
Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.
I slow myself and I follow her
gaze flower to flower, and it becomes obvious to me why she has innocently insisted on a more expressive name, calling sorry eyes back to the WOW in a zinnia again. This is a most appropriate and sensible
response in a dulled world, dutifully looking into the small boxes ever in our hands. She leans a soft nose
straight into the brilliant color and sniffs it, pulling the subtle
scent wildly into herself, and blowing it rapidly out, almost violently she breaths
the scent in and out then turning her attention towards me, she points
the pollen covered stamen at my face and demands I do the same. So, I
do. And so, I yet will.
I
drove between water because smart and skilled men made a levee and
poured a road out on top. The sun showed through a sky stuffed with
gray clouds and hit the lake tinseling the water and making me cry.
The Lord touched my eyes with tinsel on water and gave me the word to
tell it today. He touches my heart with tinsel and water, and my life
is a wonder. I am distilled
in tinseled water, in the plucks of guitar strings and simpler
things. I’m distilled
in the wisps of wind and warmth of sun and those little
paddle-footed-waddlers
quacking along a grassy path. I’m preserved
in moonshine and fair things. I am
clarified
in
laughter, in the eyes of a caring friend, in voices and cat purrs, in walks on fallen leaves, and thoughts of higher things. I’m
distilled
under warm covers and preserved in gratefulness. I’m purified
in sun rays and sprinkling rain and baskets full of adjectives for
what I see. I’m refined
in vanilla peaches and love, in prayers at the table and on my soft couch. My shelf life has no care for I’m distilled in eternity.
“Come let us reason together”, says the Lord. ”Though your sins be as scarlet, they will be white as snow.” Isaiah 1:18
Snow covered the yard and wind was relentless for days.
Nevertheless, snow is exciting, and tucks one into a cozy frame of
mind, removing a myriad of options from a day off. In the quiet house
clocks tic toc the time, the faucet is dripping away to protect the
pipes from freezing, and cars ease by on a snow covered 3rd.
I sliced a box of plump little multicolored tomatoes and slid trays
full into the dehydrator, but not before saving some of the seeds. I
covered the seeds lightly in a little box of soil and put them near a
window. Seeds have come up with no care at all in past compost piles
and random spots in the yard and garden, so maybe these seeds will find
their way to germination too. They will help with the wait for spring
either way. 😊
I often dream of what I could accomplish if I had a string of days
like this. I imagine all the reading I would do, the notes I would
take, the food I would fix and the plans I would make and accomplish.
Then a day comes when downy snowflakes fall from the sky and into my lap
is a snow day.
And it has happened again, weather that says, “Just cozy up
inside. There’s nothing for you out here. The view out the window is
best.” Rain fell in the night and giant trucks slid over yonder, off the
interstate pavement into the trees and up banks of icy ground. Ice is
nearly non-negotiable and it’s not wise to try, but oh, how we try
anyway.
Black birds visited the yard in a throng, pecking the ground looking
like digital creations. Maybe they are searching for pieces of pecans
discarded by gluttonous squirrels. They all rose and filled the hickory
tree, filling in the gaps left by fallen leaves, but only for a moment
before moving like a black cloud across the lawn to the pecan tree, then
to the ground again before flying away to who knows where. I watched
them from my second story window snapping pictures.
“Come let us reason together.“
I slice the tomatoes and dry them for a day. How different they taste
when not carried in a splash of water, how chewy and sweet. In my
excitement I held one finished piece in the light of my window before
eating it. The winter storm had changed my dead yard to a glamorous, all
white stage where the tomato became a marvel before it. As if before a
spotlight now, I saw the seeds exposed in their deep and secret place
suspended in time, an intimate peek into a scarlet explosion in the
heart of the fruit, like little, fat exclamation points, like
rambunctious, young sperm in pursuit of the egg. I’m shy at the sight of
it. If they had a voice I’d hear shouts of joy and the whisper of…
“Come let us reason”.
It’s been days still simmered on this theme, these thoughts pulled
apart. I started an ancient practice in a jar on my kitchen counter,
fermenting milk. It is silky and white and tart from growing bacteria
that is good for me. Then I dried pounds and pounds of strawberries into
sweet, red chips. Yesterday, I put them all in a plastic bag and felt
so pleased with this work. The whites and the reds glaring again. A
simple, messy life, tucked in a measly river valley town has things yet
to say. Important lines to repeat out loud in my own simple way.
“Come let us reason“
There is nothing more or less going on in this life long mess of
discarded strawberry tops and the feelings and experiences. It is all a
boiled down in a line from Isaiah, older than the kefir grains
preserving the milk on the counter. It’s older than time. It is of the
foundation and that’s as solid as it gets.
“Come let us reason.”
It’s not “Just do what I say!” It isn’t, “Blindly follow me.” It
isn’t, “Let me take you, use you, control you.” It is higher and bigger
and breathtaking.
“Come let us reason.”
Engage the matter of your life and your outcomes with the outcomes of
truth. Reason, dissect, use your intellect. God has nothing to hide.
The cuckoo clock click, click, clicks as I pull the pine cone
weights up again. I hung the clock some four years ago, but the ticking
is a wee fast, or a wee slow. It requires a perfect setting for
perfect time and since I’ve never performed perfection in my life, I
wait for a day of visitation by the divine, a day when the clock will
keep the perfect time and I will then never again touch the wooden
weight, and will eject anyone else who tries. Until then, I admire the
artistry, the movement and the sound, and move on to opening the shades
and tying the curtain back so I can see a peek of 3rd from the blue
room.
This place is all art, the cuckoo clock, the sunlight making shadows
on the wooden floor, the quirky, twisty willow in the big patio pot
outside and the morning glory that’s been creeping up the branches all
summer. And again, inside, the desert rose has been pushing out shining
new leaves since the day it moved from a friend’s bedroom to its spot
near the window here. I went to a gallery to see paintings and pictures
of things I see every day; mountains, rivers, lakes, butterflies, people
posing, people doing peoply things. Right now the shaky, quivering,
high leaves of the water oak out the second story window in my home is
more than I can thoughtfully endure. I can’t render adequate words,
can’t take it properly inside me, the emerald greenery cutting the view
of a sun-drenched, wispy cloud formation sailing slowly by whether I
ever see it or not. I can’t figure out what to do with this kind of
wisdom and beauty. I can’t own it, can’t take an adequate photo with my
old phone. I can’t devour it and make it a part of me, but still, I try
to capture it in this way, in the ways of words, making friends with
failure again.
My jolly, funny Wheatens beg for an essay of adjectives to pull
together the scenes of their frolic and folly, their carnival of comedy,
their shackle-less hearts of joy bounding around a back yard. I would
leave pristine paragraphs, heart-melting songs, lovely letters for my
grandchildren, the great, great, greats and beyond. The yearning to
leave something after I’m gone keeps trying me. And I see only art
today, and that gives me a good chance.
Some days all the scenes transform, as if seen through gray, cracking
glass, or viewed to the sounds of school bells telling your racing
heart that you are late for class, unstudied for the quiz, ill-equipped
for another day of the 7th grade. On those days, the roses whine about
needing dead-heading because the old blooms are ugly and many, the
Bermuda laughs while invading the garden again and very likely plans to
take it over for good, the hum of the air conditioner that cooled and
comforted only days ago, begins to whisper that I didn’t have the unit
serviced this season, so who knows what issues are building in the box
outside.
But today, I see art, and today I say I will only see art forever,
and face failure again when it comes. A man said that when grief or
terrible upheavals come, this is the best opportunity to send your loves
notes up to God, to imagine your hugs, your surrender and devotion, to
remember your bliss about the cords of love He’s wrapped you into
Himself with. He called this worship, and this makes sense to me. In the
pain, what’s real remains, and a worthy story has its proving ground,
its rendering of art and worship.
You have a worthy story, an artistic rendering of life in its time,
its scenes. And the rules of your life are golden and your scenes are
soft, no matter how hard, in the light of this blazing context:
All things work together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.
Romans 8:28
Some days you wake falling, bored, unsure, slow-wafting into the
abyss, flung away from a familiar plan. You’ve woke with the gray,
cracked glasses before your eyes, you’ve accepted their strange fit with
their poor visibility and you must strain the familiar strains to piece
together the fragments of what you see. What appears is ugly, fearful,
mediocre, and not what you’d planned.
I picked up a paper and a pot full of Prisma pencils. This morning it
felt random and new, though I’ve done this before. I needed to make art
today, so I stared at the paper and doodled the body of my favorite
bird. I couldn’t remember how to add the head, but I tried. She looked
like she was falling, so I drew her a blue sky in which to descend, I
gave her some clouds for her free-falling. I wanted to encourage her, so
I penciled the words, “Trust the Fall”, to comfort her. As I watched
her fall, to my surprise, all at once, I saw the rays of a golden sun
below, the sun she was falling towards, not away from, so I penciled in
the sun. She was falling into the light, not into the abyss. “Trust the
Fall!”, I whispered to her. I cheered for her quietly because it was
morning, and I had only had a few sips of coffee. Instead of the
free-fall, I saw, instead, a trust-fall, and soon she would see the sun,
she only need believe. Her face now looked of surrender, I gave her
innocent eyes that looked like ones who trust until they see.
Psalms 92:12 The righteous will flourish like the palms tree: he will grow like a cedar in Lebanon.
The best thing about us is the YOU in this little person-realmy-realm. You are the flavor of spring in me, the buzzy-bee, happy-We. You smell like hyacinth, you feel feather-light, your magic swells my senses. I am high. I am high.
The world is full of magic things patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper. W.B. Yeats
You are the way to hopeful days, the glimpse of light, the glint of gold, the hallelujah here.
You are the way to say, to say the words that like to play. You lend a phrase to display the holy way that unloads the heart of its heavy joy, to spread it around this little patch of world I move in.
Earth's crammed with heaven and every common bush afire with God; but only he who sees takes off his shoes. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Lord, how shall I celebrate a new morning? Birds are already singing it up a storm out there, rooster is saluting the morn, frogs in the pond are piping and I, the tallest, weightiest of all sit in a silent stupor. Why is this? They are so fully invested with YOUR purpose, so without hesitation of their call. It is You in their throats, in their chests, in their movement and song. It is Your eternal purpose in them, without choice they go along happily it seems. It is beautiful, sure, purposeful, comforting to know that they will always do what they were intended to do; not robots, but creatures full of divine, unaltered purpose.
It's the creatures with choice that falter. It's us with our own navigation systems that go the wrong direction. It is us with doubts about our purpose that sit in a stupor unhinged. We, often as if sitting behind a curtain, live veiled from the movements of God-- adrift without a compass.
Jesus said he did only what He saw his Father doing. He showed what synchrony between the two can do. When he sparked debate at the temple or stood speaking to the crowds, when he struck out in a boat to meet a demoniac on the other side, he saw it first in the place that we also can see. He did what his Father was doing and put His hands and feet to this on earth. Isaiah 60:l
What is perfection to me?--
The bark on an old oak tree,
the colors of a lake just waking up,
the cool waves of the sea?
What is perfection?--the chubby hands of a child,
the evening call of a whipporwill, frisky puppies going wild.
The cardinal in his flaming red suit, showy and brilliant always catching my eye, the embrace of a mother calming the fray, the calloused hands of a man gently leading the way. Perfection is living and loving and seizing the day.
What is perfection to me? The heart emptied of pride now filling with life, the turning of the eyes towards the light. Perfection is the beginning of redemption, the first steps towards "home".
Who can condemn the heart who's relented, repented and real? Not perfect in all of our ways, but perfectly in process of being healed.
What is perfection to me?--It is love covering another's faults, it's holding of hands and carrying on. Perfection is people clean through the cross, all covered in grace, accepting themselves, who we are, who we were, and who we will be.
