Then we shall be where we would be, Then we shall be what we should be, Things that are not now, nor could be, Soon shall be our own. ~Thomas Kelly from his hymn “Praise the Savior, Ye Who Know Him”
Because I was not marked. Because I had neither fame nor beauty nor inquisitiveness. Because I did not ask. Because I used my hands. Because I finished my term on earth and had no knowledge of either fear nor care, no morning knowledge, no knowledge of evening, and those who came before and those following after had no more knowledge of me than I had of them. ~Mary Ruefle from “Marked”
Whether we are coming or going, beginning or ending, leading or following, rising or setting, north or south, east or west ~ one day we shall be where or what we should be, without fear nor care nor knowledge.
We’ll journey the continuum of grace and comfort, part of our Creator’s purpose and design.
So even if not now in our comings and goings, we will never be lost nor adrift.
We are forever found.
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No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam. ~Charles Lamb, 1897
Every morn is the world made new. You who are weary of sorrow and sinning, Here is a beautiful hope for you,— A hope for me and a hope for you.
All the past things are past and over; The tasks are done and the tears are shed. Yesterday’s errors let yesterday cover; Yesterday’s wounds, which smarted and bled, Are healed with the healing which night has shed.
Yesterday now is a part of forever, Bound up in a sheaf, which God holds tight, With glad days, and sad days, and bad days, which never Shall visit us more with their bloom and their blight, Their fulness of sunshine or sorrowful night.
Let them go, since we cannot re-live them, Cannot undo and cannot atone; God in his mercy receive, forgive them! Only the new days are our own; To-day is ours, and to-day alone.
Here are the skies all burnished brightly, Here is the spent earth all re-born, Here are the tired limbs springing lightly To face the sun and to share with the morn In the chrism of dew and the cool of dawn.
Every day is a fresh beginning; Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain, And, spite of old sorrow and older sinning, And puzzles forecasted and possible pain, Take heart with the day, and begin again. ~Susan Coolidge “New Every Morning”
Each morn is New Year’s morn come true, Morn of a festival to keep. All nights are sacred nights to make Confession and resolve and prayer; All days are sacred days to wake New gladness in the sunny air. Only a night from old to new; Only a sleep from night to morn. The new is but the old come true; Each sunrise sees a new year born. ~Helen Hunt Jackson from “New Year’s Morning”
The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his Heaven— All’s right with the world! ~Robert Browning “The Year’s at the Spring”
We each celebrate a birthday on New Year’s Day, a bright beginning after so much darkness, a still life nativity born in a winter garden – He who was and is and is to come: He who gives us another chance to make it right.
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…the golden hour of the clock of the year. Everything that can run to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells, the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat. Flowers that were once bright as a box of crayons are now seed heads and thistle down. All the feathery grasses shine in the slanted light. It’s time to bring in the lawn chairs and wind chimes, time to draw the drapes against the wind, time to hunker down. Summer’s fruits are preserved in syrup, but nothing can stopper time. No way to seal it in wax or amber; it slides though our hands like a rope of silk. At night, the moon’s restless searchlight sweeps across the sky. ~Barbara Crooker “And Now it’s October” from Small Rain.
I do try to stopper time.
I try every day on this page, not to suspend time or render it frozen, but like flowers and fruit that wither, I want to preserve these moments – a few harvested words and pictures to sample some chilly day.
I offer it up to you now, a bit of fragrance, to sip of its sweetness as it glows, luminous in the bottle.
Let’s share. Leave it unstoppered. The passage of time is meant to be preserved this way.
Perhaps as a child you had the chicken pox and your mother, to soothe you in your fever or to help you fall asleep, came into your room and read to you from some favorite book, Charlotte’s Web or Little House on the Prairie, a long story that she quietly took you through until your eyes became magnets for your shuttering lids and she saw your breathing go slow. And then she read on, this time silently and to herself, not because she didn’t know the story, it seemed to her that there had never been a time when she didn’t know this story—the young girl and her benevolence, the young girl in her sod house— but because she did not yet want to leave your side though she knew there was nothing more she could do for you. And you, not asleep but simply weak, listened to her turn the pages, still feeling the lamp warm against one cheek, knowing the shape of the rocking chair’s shadow as it slid across your chest. So that now, these many years later, when you are clenched in the damp fist of a hospital bed, or signing the papers that say you won’t love him anymore, when you are bent at your son’s gravesite or haunted by a war that makes you wake with the gun cocked in your hand, you would like to believe that such generosity comes from God, too, who now, when you have the strength to ask, might begin the story again, just as your mother would, from the place where you have both left off. ~Keetje Kuipers “Prayer” from Rattle #28, Winter 2007
These autumn days will shorten and grow cold. The leaves will shake loose from the trees and fall. Christmas will come, then the snows of winter. You will live to enjoy the beauty of the frozen world, for you mean a great deal to Zuckerman and he will not harm you, ever. Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy,Wilbur — this lovely world, these precious days … ~E.B. White (Charlotte talking to Wilbur) from Charlotte’s Web
Each passing moment is precious, as time flows relentlessly.
We, on a linear trajectory from birth to death, bear witness to the cycling of the seasons while earth spins and orbits through space.
The story of me, and the story of you, is not yet finished. While our heads nod, our eyelids become heavy, the Author is turning the pages, reading resonant Words that define our days.
We pick up where we left off, wanting to hear the next unknowable chapter. We try to stay awake, eager to see what comes next.
We aren’t quite ready to fall asleep, not yet. Not yet…
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And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver. See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair Is, hair of the head, numbered. ~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “The Golden Echo”
…writing was one way to let something of lasting value emerge from the pains and fears of my little, quickly passing life. Each time life required me to take a new step into unknown spiritual territory, I felt a deep, inner urge to tell my story to others– Perhaps as a need for companionship but maybe, too, out of an awareness that my deepest vocation is to be a witness to the glimpses of God I have been allowed to catch. ~Henri Nouwenfrom Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Life
“Last forever!” Who hasn’t prayed that prayer? You were lucky to get it in the first place. The present is a freely given canvas. That it is constantly being ripped apart and washed downstream goes without saying. ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
For too much of my life I have focused on my foreshortening future, bypassing the present in my headlong rush to what lies ahead. There is always a goal to achieve, a conclusion becoming commencement of the next phase, a sunset turning right around in a few hours to become sunrise.
Yet the most precious times occur when the present is so over-whelming, so riveting, so tenderly full of beauty that I believe I can see a brief glimpse of God. I must grab hold with all my strength to try and secret it away and keep it forever. Of course the present still slips away from me, elusive and evasive, torn to bits by the unrelenting movement of time.
Even when I’m able to take a photo to lock it to a page or screen, it is not enough. No matter how I choose to preserve the essence of this moment, it is already passed, ebbing away, never to return.
So I write to harvest those times to make them last a little bit longer although they will inevitably be lost downstream into the ether of unread words.
Where have all the words, all the flowers, all those moments gone?
Even if unread, I am learning that words, which had power in the Beginning to create life itself, still can bring tenderness and meaning back to my life. How blessed to live the gift twice: not just in the moment itself but in recording in words that preserve and treasure it all up, if only for that ephemeral blooming moment.
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When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic, Time takes on the strain until it breaks; Then all the unattended stress falls in On the mind like an endless, increasing weight.
The light in the mind becomes dim. Things you could take in your stride before Now become laborsome events of will.
Weariness invades your spirit. Gravity begins falling inside you, Dragging down every bone.
The tide you never valued has gone out. And you are marooned on unsure ground. Something within you has closed down; And you cannot push yourself back to life.
You have been forced to enter empty time. The desire that drove you has relinquished. There is nothing else to do now but rest And patiently learn to receive the self You have forsaken in the race of days.
At first your thinking will darken And sadness take over like listless weather. The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.
You have traveled too fast over false ground; Now your soul has come to take you back.
Take refuge in your senses, open up To all the small miracles you rushed through.
Become inclined to watch the way of rain When it falls slow and free.
Imitate the habit of twilight, Taking time to open the well of color That fostered the brightness of day.
Draw alongside the silence of stone Until its calmness can claim you. Be excessively gentle with yourself.
Stay clear of those vexed in spirit. Learn to linger around someone of ease Who feels they have all the time in the world.
Gradually, you will return to yourself, Having learned a new respect for your heart And the joy that dwells far within slow time. ~John O’Donahue “For One Who Is Exhausted, a Blessing”
I know from experience that when I allow busy little doings to fill the precious time of early morning, when contemplation might flourish, I open the doors to the demon of acedia. Noon becomes a blur – no time, no time – the wolfing down of a sandwich as I listen to the morning’s phone messages and plan the afternoon’s errands.
When evening comes, I am so exhausted that vespers has become impossible. It is as if I have taken the world’s weight on my shoulders and am too greedy, and too foolish, to surrender it to God. ~Kathleen Norris from The Quotidian Mysteries
These are days with no breathing room, no time to stop and appreciate that each moment is a swelling bud about to burst into bloom.
And it is my fault that I’m not breathing deeply enough~ simply skimming the surface in my race to the end of the day.
Time’s petals, so open, so brilliant, so eternal, are closing up, unseen and unknown, just emptied, without my even noticing.
Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Isaiah 40:28-29
This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”
Sing, Be, Live, See. This dark stormy hour, The wind, it stirs. The scorched earth cries out in vain: O war and power, You blind and blur, The torn heart cries out in pain. But music and singing Have been my refuge, And music and singing Shall be my light. A light of song, Shining Strong: Alleluia! Through darkness, pain, and strife, I’ll Sing, Be, Live, See… Peace.
Oh, good shepherd, would you teach me how to rest I’m rushing on, will you make me to lie down Will you build a fold by the waters that refresh Will you call my name and lead me safely out
From my anxious drive to labor on and on From the restless grind that has put my mind to sleep Will you call me back and gently slow me down Will you show me now what to lose and what to keep
Oh, good shepherd, oh, good friend Slow me down, slow me down Oh, good shepherd, oh, good friend Slow me down, slow me down
When my table’s bent with only greed and gold And my grasping hands are afraid you won’t provide Will you pour the wine that loosens up my hold Set your table here with what truly satisfies
Oh, good shepherd, oh, good friend Slow me down, slow me down Oh, good shepherd, oh, good friend Slow me down, slow me down
On the busy streets trying to make myself a name If the work is yours, there is nothing I can claim Will you lead me home to the pastures of your peace And the house is yours, I’m sitting at your feet
Oh, good shepherd, oh, good friend Slow me down, slow me down Oh, good shepherd, oh, good friend Slow me down, slow me down
Slow me down, slow me down
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I’m on my knees among the crisp brown crunch then stand in time to see two boys slim teens in shorts white t-shirts faces glowing talking quietly bounce of a tennis ball fading as they pass and I’m filled again with a crush of old sweetness at how giving a moment can be as it vanishes the roughened grey branches of the pear small knobby fingers flung out at every tip fresh clutch of weeds at my chest ~Rosie King “Again” from Time and Peonies
Sometimes this feeling hits me – like a blow to the chest taking away my breath – how time passes so swiftly. The flow of days takes bare knobby pear branches in March to April’s fragrant buds and blossoms, to May’s swelling fruit to harvest in late summer, then prepared for storage of its sweetness to be consumed in the dark of winter. Another year and crop of pears gone – just like that.
In a flash of recognition, I try to grasp and clutch this realization to my heart and in one heartbeat it vanishes, leaving a residue of “what was” in the midst of “what is” while on the horizon is “what will be.”
Each year, I place our pears in a bottle (so to speak) – actually jars and dehydrator – it is so much easier than preserving the vanishing hours, days and years.
I breathe in deeply and think: How much this moment gives and takes. How crushed I am by its sweetness.
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Am I as old as I am? Maybe not. Time is a mystery that can tip us upside down. Yesterday I was seven in the woods, a bandage covering my blind eye, in a bedroll Mother made me so I could sleep out in the woods far from people. A garter snake glided by without noticing me. A chickadee landed on my bare toe, so light she wasn’t believable. The night had been long and the treetops thick with a trillion stars. Who was I, half-blind on the forest floor who was I at age seven? Sixty-eight years later I can still inhabit that boy’s body without thinking of the time between. It is the burden of life to be many ages without seeing the end of time. ~Jim Harrison, “Seven in the Woods” from The Essential Poems.
… just within the gate I saw a child,— A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear,— Who held his hands to me, and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: “Come in,” he said, “and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be.” ~Henry van Dyke, from The Poems of Henry van Dyke
When we drive the country roads where I grew up, though the trees are taller, it looks just as I remembered. The scattered houses on farms still stand, a bit more worn, the fields open and flowing as always, the turns and bends, the ups and downs of the asphalt lanes unchanged where once I sped with bicycle tires and sneakered feet.
My own childhood home is now a different color but so familiar as we drive slowly by, filling me with memories of laughter and games, long winter days and longer summer evenings with its share of angry words and weeping and eventual forgiveness.
Back then my child’s heart tried to imagine itself decades hence, what fears and joys would pass through like pumping blood, what wounds would I bear and bleed, what love and tears might trace my face?
I have not forgotten that girl I was. No, I have never forgotten – I am still that girl and will be until the end.
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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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Sometimes you don’t get a chance To pause and rest Even to just take it all in Sometimes life just goes too fast And if you halt, even for a moment You could get rolled over By the momentum of existence So, push yourself and keep going Because once you stop You may not get started again And if you need a breather Do it after the big stuff is done – I guarantee you the view Will be a whole lot better ~Eric Nixon “The Momentum of Existence” from Equidistant
The weather app on my phone tells me precisely when sunrise and sunset will happen every day, but I’m often too distracted to be present to witness them. I miss some great shows because I don’t get up early enough or don’t return home in time or simply don’t bother to look out the window or pay attention.
These are brilliant light and shadow shows that are free for the having if only I pause, take a breather, and watch.
The view from our hill keeps getting better the older I get. The momentum of daily life slows enough to allow me, breathless, to take in the best art show around.
No charge for admission and the Artist’s exhibit rotates daily.
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