Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. ~Robert Frost “Fire and Ice”
Whether we are consumed by flames or frost, if we rendered ash or crystal — both burn.
Yet ashes remain ashes, only and forever mere dust.
If encased in ice, a thaw can restore. Frozen memories sear like a sculpture meant to melt, and thereby the imprisoned are forever freed.
Be a womb. Be a dwelling for God. Be surprised. ~Loretta Ross-Gotta
Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of – throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself. ~C.S. Lewis from Mere Christianity
Whenever there is the temptation to hunker down in retreat from the rest of the world, and God Himself, content with the status quo and reluctant to stretch beyond clear boundaries I’ve carefully constructed for my one weary life~
I am surprised.
Whether bunker or cottage or palace, when I seek safety or simplicity, it is not enough. I am not a dwelling for God until His remodel project is finished~
He puts down His chisel, hammer and saw, sees what He has salvaged from the junk heap, looks me over and declares it good.
Wind finds the northwest gap, fall comes. Today, under gray cloud-scud and over gray Wind-flicker of forest, in perfect formation, wild geese Head for a land of warm water, the boom, the lead pellet.
Some crumple in air, fall. Some stagger, recover control, Then take the last glide for a far glint of water. None Knows what has happened. Now, today, watching How tirelessly V upon V arrows the season’s logic.
Do I know my own story? At least, they know When the hour comes for the great wind-beat. Sky-strider, Star-strider–they rise, and the imperial utterance, Which cries out for distance, quivers in the wheeling sky.
That much they know, and in their nature know The path of pathlessness, with all the joy Of destiny fulfilling its own name. I have known time and distance, but not why I am here.
Path of logic, path of folly, all The same–and I stand, my face lifted now skyward, Hearing the high beat, my arms outstretched in the tingling Process of transformation, and soon tough legs,
With folded feet, trail in the sounding vacuum of passage, And my heart is impacted with a fierce impulse To unwordable utterance– Toward sunset, at a great height. ~Robert Penn Warren from “The Collected Poems”
I wish I could be as sure as the geese and swans flying overhead in unwordable utterance~ they trust where they are led is where they belong.
They may not make it there but nevertheless they go when called.
I wish I might fly into the setting sun on such a path of pathlessness knowing only I am sent because the call is stronger than I am.
When, in the cavern darkness, the child first opened his mouth (even before his eyes widened to see the supple world his lungs had breathed into being), could he have known that breathing trumps seeing? Did he love the way air sighs as it brushes in and out through flesh to sustain the tiny heart’s iambic beating, tramping the crossroads of the brain like donkey tracks, the blood dazzling and invisible, the corpuscles skittering to the earlobes and toenails? Did he have any idea it would take all his breath to speak in stories that would change the world? ~Luci Shaw “Breath”
Breath created the world by forming the Words that tell the stories that change everything and us.
Walking in February A warm day after a long freeze On an old logging road Below Sumas Mountain Cut a walking stick of alder, Looked down through clouds On wet fields of the Nooksack— And stepped on the ice Of a frozen pool across the road. It creaked The white air under Sprang away, long cracks Shot out in the black, My cleated mountain boots Slipped on the hard slick —like thin ice—the sudden Feel of an old phrase made real— Instant of frozen leaf, Icewater, and staff in hand. “Like walking on thin ice—” I yelled back to a friend, It broke and I dropped Eight inches in ~Gary Snyder “Thin Ice”
We are surrounded by divisive opinions about all manner of things — how we should live, who is privileged and who is marginalized, who we should believe, who we cannot possibly believe — these battles of words hog headlines, scroll the bottom of our screens, blare from classrooms, city squares, radios and podcasts.
Continual conflict, literally a splintering crack creaking with our weight, occupies too much of the world’s scarce resources, while compassionate people stand stranded on the frozen lake of political emotions.
The trouble with such overheating in the middle of winter is that we all end up walking on too-thin ice: both those who are far too overconfident in expressing their own righteous views and opinions about how much more they know than others, and those of us who passively listen and judge between the blowhards.
We’ll all end up breaking through the ice, thoroughly doused by the chilly waters below.
Lord, have mercy on us, show us your Light, blend the division between shadow and dawn, help us recognize the cracks creaking beneath our feet, compelling us to fall to our knees, before you and you alone.
‘May you live in interesting times.’ Chinese curse
If you ask me ‘What’s new?’, I have nothing to say Except that the garden is growing. I had a slight cold but it’s better today. I’m content with the way things are going. Yes, he is the same as he usually is, Still eating and sleeping and snoring. I get on with my work. He gets on with his. I know this is all very boring.
There was drama enough in my turbulent past: Tears and passion – I’ve used up a tankful. No news is good news, and long may it last. If nothing much happens, I’m thankful. A happier cabbage you never did see, My vegetable spirits are soaring. If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me. I want to go on being boring.
I don’t go to parties. Well, what are they for, If you don’t need to find a new lover? You drink and you listen and drink a bit more And you take the next day to recover. Someone to stay home with was all my desire And, now that I’ve found a safe mooring, I’ve just one ambition in life: I aspire To go on and on being boring. ~Wendy Cope “Being Boring”
Four days snowed in might be boring to some folks.
It was wonderful, especially when I’m snowed in with a special someone who I love to stay home with, who is my safe mooring.
Today I’m heading back out on slushy roads, back to the life of all-but-boring clinic work, full of non-stop drama.
But my ambition is to go back to that boring life on the farm with that someone I want to stay home with. Soon.