I watch where I step and see that the fallen leaf, old broken glass, an icy stone are placed in exactly the right spot on the earth, carefully, royalty in their own country. ~ Tom Hennen, “Looking For The Differences” from Darkness Sticks To Everything: Collected and New Poems.
If the pebble, the leaf, the walnut shell, the moss, the fallen feather are placed exactly right where they belong, then so am I ~even when I might rather be elsewhere~ even when I could get stepped on, even when I am broken apart, even when I would rather hide in a hole, even when exactly right is feeling exactly wrong.
I’m placed right here, watching where I step for reasons beyond my understanding: indeed – a simple peasant asked to serve a royal purpose.
Sometimes the night was beautiful Sometimes the sky was so far away Sometimes it seemed to stoop so close You could touch it but your heart would break Sometimes the morning came too soon Sometimes the day could be so hot There was so much work left to do But so much You’d already done
O God, You are my God And I will ever praise You O God, You are my God And I will ever praise You And I will seek You in the morning And I will learn to walk in Your ways And step by step You’ll lead me And I will follow You all of my days ~Rich Mullins
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Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come. ~Jane Kenyon “Let Evening Come”
And into nights when bats were on the wing Over the rafters of sleep, where bright eyes stared From piles of grain in corners, fierce, unblinking. The dark gulfed like a roof-space. ~Seamus Heaney from “The Barn”
The barn is awake, There is no mistake, Something wonderful is happening here. Yellow panes glowing, it begins snowing. Over rafters a hoot owl takes flight. A safe place to dwell—all here is well— when we’re in the barn at night. ~Michelle Houts from “Barn at Night”
Usually, after turning out that forgotten barn light, I sit on the edge of the tractor bucket for a few minutes and let my eyes adjust to the night outside. City people always notice the darkness here, but it’s never very dark if you wait till your eyes owl out a little….
I’m always glad to have to walk down to the barn in the night, and I always forget that it makes me glad. I heave on my coat, stomp into my barn boots and trudge down toward the barn light, muttering at myself. But then I sit in the dark, and I remember this gladness, and I walk back up to the gleaming house, listening for the horses. ~Verlyn Klinkenborg from A Light in the Barn
Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations. Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies like a snowflake falling on water. Below us, some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death, snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn back into the little system of his care. All night, the cities, like shimmering novas, tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his. ~Ted Kooser “Flying at Night”
The night barn is a type of beacon as darkness falls. Light falls through the cracks to guide our footsteps. It becomes protection from wind and rain and snow. It provides creatures comfort so their keepers can sleep soundly. It is safe and warm – full of steaming breath and overall contentment. It is a kind of sanctuary: a cathedral sans stained glass grandeur or organ hymns.
Yet the only true sanctuary isn’t found in a weather-beaten barn of rough-hewn old growth timbers vulnerable to the winds of life.
An illuminated night barn happens within me, in the depths of my soul, comforted by the encompassing and salvaging arms of God. There I am held, transformed and restored, grateful beyond measure: all is well here.
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and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.
I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening
a prayer for being here, today, now, alive in this life, in this evening, under this sky. ~David Budbill from Winter: Tonight: Sunset
Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. ~Annie Dillard from “Write Till You Drop”
At its best, the sensation of writing is that of any unmerited grace.
It is handed to you, but only if you look for it. You search, you break your fists, your back, your brain, and then – and only then – it is handed to you. From the corner of your eye you see motion. Something is moving through the air and headed your way. It is a parcel bound in ribbons and bows; it has two white wings.
It flies directly at you; you can read your name on it. If it were a baseball, you would hit it out of the park. It is that one pitch in a thousand you see in slow motion; its wings beat slowly as a hawk’s. ~Annie Dillard from “Write Till You Drop”
I began to write regularly after September 11, 2001 because that day it became obvious to me I was dying too, though more slowly than the thousands who vanished in fire and ash, their voices obliterated with their bodies. So, nearly each day since, while I still have voice and a new dawn to greet, I speak through my fingers to others dying around me.
We are, after all, terminal patients, some of us more prepared than others to move on, as if our readiness has anything to do with the timing. Once, when our small church lost one of its most senior members to metastatic cancer, he announced his readiness once the doctor gave him the dire news (he liked to say he never bought green bananas as he wasn’t sure he’d be around to use them), but God had different plans and kept him among us for several years beyond his diagnosis.
Each day I too get a little closer to the end, but I write in order to feel a little more ready. Each day I detach just a little bit, leaving a trace of my voice behind. Eventually, through unmerited grace, so much of me will be left on the page there won’t be anything or anyone left to do the typing. I will be far out of the park, far beyond here.
Not a moment, not a sunrise, not a sunset, and not a word to waste.
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I like the slants of light; I’m a collector. That’s a good one, I say… ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
How valuable it is in these short days, threading through empty maple branches, the lacy-needled sugar pines.
Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.
We can make do with so little, just the hint of warmth, the slanted light... ~Molly Fisk, “Winter Sun” from The More Difficult Beauty
There’s a certain Slant of light On winter afternoons — That oppresses, like the Heft of cathedral tunes. When it comes, the Landscape listens — Shadows hold their breath — When it goes, ’tis like the Distance On the look of Death. ~Emily Dickinson
During our northwest winters, there is usually so little sunlight on gray cloudy days that I routinely turn on the two light bulbs in the big hay barn any time I need to fetch hay bales for the horses. This is so I avoid falling into the holes that inevitably develop in the hay stack between bales. Winter murky lighting tends to hide the dark shadows of the leg-swallowing pits among the bales, something that is particularly hazardous when attempting to move a 60 pound hay bale.
Yesterday when I went to grab hay bales for the horses at sunset, before I flipped the light switch, I could see light already blazing in the big barn. The last of the day’s sun rays were at a precise winter slant, streaming through the barn slat openings, ricocheting off the roof timbers onto the bales, casting an almost fiery glow onto the hay. The barn was ignited and ablaze without fire and smoke — the last things one would ever want in a hay barn.
Thanks to late afternoon winter light, I could scramble among the bales without worry.
It seems as I age I have been running into more dark holes. Even when I know where they lie and how deep they are, some days I will manage to step right in anyway. Each time it knocks the breath out of me, makes me cry out, makes me want to quit trying to lift the loads which need carrying. It leaves me fearful to venture where the footing is uncertain.
Then, on the darkest of days, light comes from the most unexpected of places, blazing a trail to help me see where to step, what to avoid, how to navigate the hazards to avoid collapsing on my face. I’m redirected, inspired anew, granted grace, gratefully calmed and comforted amid my fears. Even though the light fades, and the darkness descends again, it is only until tomorrow. Then it reignites again.
Yet another slant of light for my collection…
The Light always returns so I can climb out of any dark holes that want to swallow me whole.
Tell all the truth but tell it slant — Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind — ~Emily Dickinson
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…if I respond to hate with a reciprocal hate I do nothing but intensify the cleavage in broken community. I can only close the gap in broken community by meeting hate with love. If I meet hate with hate, I become depersonalized, because creation is so designed that my personality can only be fulfilled in the context of community. Booker T. Washington was right: “Let no man pull you so low as to make you hate him.” ~Martin Luther King, Jr.
As nightfall does not come at once, neither does oppression. In both instances, there is a twilight when everything remains seemingly unchanged. And it is in such twilight that we all must be most aware of change in the air – however slight – lest we become unwitting victims of the darkness. ~William O. Douglas from The Douglas Letters
Be careful whom you choose to hate. The small and the vulnerable own a protection great enough, if you could but see it, to melt you into jelly. ~Leif Enger from Peace Like a River
We have a new definition of greatness: it means that everybody can be great, because everybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and your verb agree to serve. You don’t have to know about Plato and Aristotle to serve. You don’t have to know Einstein’s theory of relativity to serve. You don’t have to know the second theory of thermodynamics in physics to serve. You only need a heart full of grace, a soul generated by love. And you can be that servant. ~Martin Luther King, Jr. in a February 1968 sermon: “The Drum Major Instinct” from A Knock At Midnight: Inspiration from the Great Sermons of Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.
Dr. King’s words and wisdom in his sermons spoken over sixty years ago continue to inform us of our shortcomings as we flounder in flaws and brokenness. To often we resist considering others before ourselves, to serve one another out of humility, grace and love.
Today we unite in shared tears: shed for continued strife and disagreements, shed for the injustice that results in senseless emotional and physical violence, shed for our inability to hold up one another as a holy in God’s eyes.
We weep together as the light dawns today, knowing, as Dr. King knew, a new day will come when the Lord God wipes the tears away from the remarkable and beautiful faces of all people — as all are created in His image.
I’m the child of rainy Sundays. I watched time crawl Like an injured fly Over the wet windowpane. Or waited for a branch On a tree to stop shaking, While Grandmother knitted Making a ball of yarn Roll over like a kitten at her feet. I knew every clock in the house Had stopped ticking And that this day will last forever. ~Charles Simic “To Boredom”
Charles Simic died last week at the age of 84.
It has been an eternity since I’ve been bored.
My list of to-do’s and want-to-do’s and hope-to-do’s and someday-maybe-if-I’m-lucky-to-do’s is much longer than the years still left to me.
But I remember those days long ago when the clock would stop, time would suspend itself above me, ~dangling~ and the day would last forever until it finally collapsed with a gasp.
No more.
Time races and skitters and skips by, each heartbeat a grateful reminder of my continued existence as forever moves closer than ever.
Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick, And think of you Caught up in circles confusion – Is nothing new Flashback – warm nights – Almost left behind Suitcases of memories, Time after – Sometimes you picture me – I’m walking too far ahead You’re calling to me, I can’t hear What you’ve said – Then you say – go slow – I fall behind – The second hand unwinds If you’re lost you can look – and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you – I’ll be waiting Time after time After my picture fades and darkness has Turned to gray Watching through windows – you’re wondering If I’m OK Secrets stolen from deep inside The drum beats out of time – ~Cyndi Lauper
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time Any fool can do it There ain’t nothing to it Nobody knows how we got to The top of the hill But since we’re on our way down We might as well enjoy the ride. The secret of love is in opening up your heart It’s okay to feel afraid But don’t let that stand in your way ’cause anyone knows that love is the only road And since we’re only here for a while Might as well show some style Give us a smile. Isn’t it a lovely ride Sliding down Gliding down Try not to try too hard It’s just a lovely ride. Now the thing about time is that time Isn’t really real It’s just your point of view How does it feel for you Einstein said he could never understand it all Planets spinning through space The smile upon your face Welcome to the human race. Some kind of lovely ride I’ll be sliding down I’ll be gliding down Try not to try too hard It’s just a lovely ride. Isn’t it a lovely ride Sliding down Gliding down Try not to try too hard It’s just a lovely ride. ~James Taylor
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Instead of depression, try calling it hibernation. Imagine the darkness is a cave in which you will be nurtured by doing absolutely nothing. Hibernating animals don’t even dream. It’s okay if you can’t imagine Spring. Sleep through the alarm of the world. Name your hopelessness a quiet hollow, a place you go to heal, a den you dug, Sweetheart, instead of a grave. ~Andrea Gibson “Instead of Depression” from You Better Be Lightning
We didn’t say fireflies but lightning bugs. We didn’t say carousel but merry-go-round. Not seesaw, teeter-totter not lollipop, sucker. We didn’t say pasta, but spaghetti, macaroni, noodles: the three kinds. We didn’t get angry: we got mad. And we never felt depressed dismayed, disappointed disheartened, discouraged disillusioned or anything, even unhappy: just sad. ~Sally Fisher “Where I Come From” from Good Question.
…if you could distinguish finer meanings within “Awesome” (happy, content, thrilled, relaxed, joyful, hopeful, inspired, prideful, adoring, grateful, blissful.. .), and fifty shades of “Crappy” (angry, aggravated, alarmed, spiteful, grumpy, remorseful, gloomy, mortified, uneasy, dread-ridden, resentful, afraid, envious, woeful, melancholy.. .), your brain would have many more options for predicting, categorizing, and perceiving emotion, providing you with the tools for more flexible and functional responses. ~Lisa Feldman Barrett from How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain
Our own experience with loneliness, depression, and fear can become a gift for others, especially when we have received good care. As long as our wounds are open and bleeding, we scare others away. But after someone has carefully tended to our wounds, they no longer frighten us or others…. We have to trust that our own bandaged wounds will allow us to listen to others with our whole being. That is healing. — Henri Nouwen from Bread for the Journey
If there is anything I came to understand over the decades I served as a primary care physician, it is that every person experiences painful emotions that make them miserable, making it even more difficult to share with others. Sometimes those feelings build up such pressure that they leak out of our cells as physical symptoms: headaches, muscle tightness, stomach upset, hypertension. Other times they are so overwhelming we can no longer function in a day to day way – described clinically as rage, panic, mood disorder, depression, self-destructive, suicidal.
Somehow we’ve lost permission to be sad. Just sad. Sometimes unbearably, hopelessly sad.
Sadness happens to us all, some longer than others, some worse than others, some deeper than others. What makes sadness more real and more manageable is if we can say it out loud — whatever ‘sad’ means to us on a given day and if we describe our feelings in detail, explaining to others who can understand because they’ve been there too, then they can listen and help.
Painful emotions don’t always need a “fix” in the short term, particularly chemical, but that is why I was usually consulted. Alcohol, marijuana and other self-administered drugs tend to be the temporary anesthesia that people seek to stop feeling anything at all but it can erupt even stronger later.
Sometimes an overwhelming feeling just needs an outlet so it no longer is locked up, unspoken and silent, threatening to leak out in ways that tear us up and pull us apart.
Sometimes we need a healing respite/hibernation, with permission to sleep through the world’s alarms for a time. At times, medical management with antidepressants can be incredibly helpful along with talk therapy.
It helps to find words to express how things felt before this sadness, where you are now in the midst of it and where you wish you could be rather than being swallowed by sorrow. Healing takes time and like anything else that is broken, it hurts as it repairs. Armed with that self-knowledge and some gentle compassion, tomorrow and the next day and the next might feel a little less hopeless and overwhelming.
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I go by a field where once I cultivated a few poor crops. It is now covered with young trees, for the forest that belongs here has come back and reclaimed its own. And I think of all the effort I have wasted and all the time, and of how much joy I took in that failed work and how much it taught me. For in so failing I learned something of my place, something of myself, and now I welcome back the trees. ~Wendell Berry, “IX” from Leavings.
As we both grow older, we watch our some of our farm’s fields slowly fill in with young trees, despite our efforts over the years to keep pulling out saplings to preserve pasture. Yet the trees are more determined to fill in the gaps than we are to remove them. The cottonwoods, alders and maples are returning to what once was their soil.
After all, this land was forested over a century ago and yielded to determined loggers and farmers as the old growth firs and cedars fell to the axe and the deciduous trees became firewood and furniture. We now find ourselves yielding back what we can, acknowledging what this land and these patient trees have to teach us about our transience. A few decades are a short stay to those who send roots and branches deep and wide in their effort to stay put.
Welcome back, trees. You have kindly waited for your turn to own the ground again.
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Sometimes I just sit like this at the window and watch the darkness come. If I’m smart, I’ll put on Bach.
I’m thinking now of how far it always seems there is to go. Maybe it is too easy that I speak so often
of late last light on a December day, of that stubborn grass that somehow still remains green
behind the broken chain link fence on the corner. But the need is so great for the way light looks
as it takes its leave of us. We say what we can to each other of these things,
we who are such thieves, stealing first one breath and then the next. Bach, keep going
just this slowly, show me the way to believe that what matters in this world has already happened
and will go on happening forever. The way light falls on the last
of the stricken leaves of the copper beech at the end of the block is something to behold. ~Jim Moore “The Need Is So Great”
No matter No matter what happens between the sunrise and the sunset No matter what happens between the sunset and the sunrise It is something to behold.
To witness the return of light: the rise and the set the set and the rise
it keeps coming and going through troubles and sickness joy and heartbreak birth and death loss and gain it keeps coming and going something to behold
the earth continues to turn to grant a new start a new day something to behold
then settles serenely a quiet night a respite from light
which matters so much more than anything in between so much more to behold so much so
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My hand, my arm, make sweeping circles. Dust climbs the ladder of light. For this infernal, endless chore, for these eternal seeds of rain: Thank you. For dust. ~Marilyn Nelson from “Dusting” from Magnificat
It comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes. The ashes of an oak in the chimney are no epitaph of that oak, to tell me how high or how large that was; it tells me not what flocks it sheltered while it stood, nor what men it hurt when it fell and when a whirlwind hath blown the dust of the churchyard into the church, and the man sweeps out the dust of the church into the churchyard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again… ~John Donne from “The Equality of Death”
Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better To paint a picture, or write a letter, Bake a cake, or plant a seed; Ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there’s not much time, With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb; Music to hear, and books to read; Friends to cherish, and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the world’s out there With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair; A flutter of snow, a shower of rain, This day will not come around again.
Dust if you must, but bear in mind, Old age will come and it’s not kind. And when you go (and go you must) You, yourself, will make more dust. ~Rose Milligan “Dust If You Must”
…we all look the same in our beginning and again when the end comes… we are sifted through His hands, blown on with His breath, bled on in His sacrifice–
As varied as we are now in life, our bodies in death melt to a dustiness made manifest in His image: dust motes sprung to life forever.
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