A Poet's Holy Muse

Spring alternately bristled and curtsied this week. 

Cutting, crisp winds with rain and intermittent low temps one moment, 

upstaged by bold rays of sun the next day, 

teasing our trees and budding bulbs to release their fragile blooms.

Amidst the indecisiveness of the outdoors I ventured into the library 

where fortune blessed me with an introduction to poet Jane Kenyon

by way of A Hundred White Daffodils, 

a collection of her essays, interviews, translations,  and poems.

Pleasantly, as rain flooded the back ponds, I discovered a new favored writer.

Jane Kenyon is a highly regarded contemporary poet whose work is greatly influenced by her Christian faith. 

She writes,

“It was my habit to speak to Him.

His goodness perfumed my life.

I loved the Lord,

he heard my cry,

and he loved me as His own.”

From “Woman, Why are You Weeping”, p.207

* * * 

And later in reading an interview with  Bill Moyers,

Jane claims: There are times when I feel I’m given poems.

Bill Moyers: How do we cultivate that in ourselves?

Jane Kenyon: We have to get quiet. We have to be still, and that’s harder and harder in this century.     ...

Moyers: How did you come to write “Let the Evening Come”? So many people say that is the favorite of your poems.

Kenyon: That poem was given to me.

Moyers: By?

Kenyon: The muse, the Holy Ghost... I felt I needed something redeeming. I went upstairs with the purpose of writing something redeeming...this just fell out.

* * * 

This happens, does it not? In just this way. 

In our creative experiences, as one writes, strums, or applies oils to canvas, sensing a hand in union with eye and the heart, 

the Creator present in our inner musing 

to guide our efforts to record His creation.

A Hundred White Daffodils illuminated these early brooding days of spring, 

these expectant and watchful days Lent.

“It’s not just more flowers I want, it’s more light,

more air for flowers, more sun for cheerfulness...

and a hundred white daffodils that grow after dusk 

against the unpainted boards  of an old barn.” 

From “The Phantom Pruner”, p.50

[Originally posted 2014]

Mary Speaks

A Mother's Day tribute to the young woman who carried our Lord, nurtured Him through childhood, and bore the full experience of His life and dying.

Mary Speaks: 

by Madeleine L’Engle

O you who bear the pain of the whole earth, I bore you.
O you whose tears gave human tears their worth, I laughed with you.
You, who when your hem is touched, give power, I nourished you.
Who turn the day to night in this dark hour, light comes from you.
O you who hold the world in your embrace, I carried you.
Whose arms encircled the world with your grace, I once held you.
O you who laughed and ate and walked the shore, I played with you.
And I, who with all others, you died for, now I hold you.
May I be faithful to this final test, in this last hour I hold my child, my son;

His body close enfolded to my breast:
The holder held, the bearer borne.
Mourning to joy, darkness to morn.
Open, my arms; your work is done.

Taken from The Ordering of Love ~ New & Collected Poems of Madeleine L'Engle

{Linking with other writer's sharing faith at Still Saturday, Sunday Community, and The Weekend Brew. Click on those buttons below to peruse more meditations on faith.}

April's Tender Spring

{Joining the online writers community at Chatting at the Sky in sharing the interesting, the joyful, the curious that flows through the course of daily life.}

April’s spring is a tender time of pale green feathering at the edges of every branch and spreading wide across warming lawns. Courageous color bursts from blooms of bulbs and tree limbs encouraging the winter weary hearts of we humans who long for the promise of more beauty to come. It's no surprise that April hosts Earth Day, or that it's the perfect season to celebrate Poetry Month. 

Do you marvel at the artistic displays seen at the Anthropologie stores? I do. Love them! Interestingly you can view a video of how one of the teams designed a display for April by visiting the Anthropologie blog post for their Earth Day window display. A creative tribute to the metamorphosis and migration of the Monarch Butterfly.Way fun for the artist in all of us!


Sabbath rest, so elusive, so essential. 
In my reading this month I learned that planning ahead to insure that the Sabbath day is a clean slate makes it more likely that it will be experienced  in ways that are restoring to you. I also learned to view the day as a celebration, as a day of activities that are out of the ordinary and therefore reviving and festive in nature. I was introduced to these key steps and others, for how to attain the restoring balm of a Sabbath retreat from writer Shelly Miller.

April is Poetry Month. 
Seth Haines writes poignantly about the power of poetry, about how it's unique elements speak to the soul of the human condition. And then there was this student's response to a writing test prompt. Clearly this young writer, a very reluctant poet, had poetry in his literate world, either through song, scripture, and oral story reading. He has internalized form, cadence, rhyme, and similes through the osmosis of being exposed to literature. Even if he hates it he has learned and retained its elements in long term memory. Which is the power of being read to and the expectation of well designed language arts education. He has no idea how his tastes may change in the decades ahead. Finally, among the favorite poems that I read this  month is the one below, written by Jane Kenyon:

Otherwise

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach. It might

have been otherwise.

I took the dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

At noon I lay down

with my mate. It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver

candlesticks. It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

it will be otherwise. 

-By Jane Kenyon

During this season's Sabbath Sundays I'm tenderly mindful of April's celebrations of Easter blessings, Earth's spring splendor, and the beautiful words woven by the human hearts.

                           

        

A Poet's Holy Muse

Spring alternately bristled and curtsied this week. 

Cutting, crisp winds with rain and intermittent low temps one moment, 

upstaged by bold rays of sun the next day, 

teasing our trees and budding bulbs to release their fragile blooms.

Amidst the indecisiveness of the outdoors I ventured into the library 

where fortune blessed me with an introduction to poet Jane Kenyon

by way of A Hundred White Daffodils, 

a collection of her essays, interviews, translations,  and poems.

Pleasantly, as rain flooded the back ponds, I discovered a new favored writer.

Jane Kenyon is a highly regarded contemporary poet whose work is greatly influenced by her Christian faith. 

She writes,

“It was my habit to speak to Him.

His goodness perfumed my life.

I loved the Lord,

he heard my cry,

and he loved me as His own.”

From “Woman, Why are You Weeping”, p.207

* * * 

And later in reading an interview with  Bill Moyers,

Jane claims: There are times when I feel I’m given poems.

Bill Moyers: How do we cultivate that in ourselves?

Jane Kenyon: We have to get quiet. We have to be still, and that’s harder and harder in this century.     ...

Moyers: How did you come to write “Let the Evening Come”? So many people say that is the favorite of your poems.

Kenyon: That poem was given to me.

Moyers: By?

Kenyon: The muse, the Holy Ghost... I felt I needed something redeeming. I went upstairs with the purpose of writing something redeeming...this just fell out.

* * * 

This happens, does it not? In just this way. 

In our creative experiences, as one writes, strums, or applies oils to canvas, sensing a hand in union with eye and the heart, 

the Creator present in our inner musing 

to guide our efforts to record His creation.

A Hundred White Daffodils illuminated these early brooding days of spring, 

these expectant and watchful days Lent.

“It’s not just more flowers I want, it’s more light,

more air for flowers, more sun for cheerfulness...

and a hundred white daffodils that grow after dusk 

against the unpainted boards  of an old barn.” 

From “The Phantom Pruner”, p.50

Paint Flows

"Gladiola in Profile", Oil on canvas, Lisa Moreland

Paint flows from brush to canvas. 

Delight springs 

from the glossy trail of color

as eye and hand collaborate to compose form. 

Deep in the brain 

synapse sing 

with the mysterious energy of being creative. 

Satisfaction rises from my soul. 

Dismissed aptitude,

neglected modes of expression 

swell, 

burst, 

and unfold 

like a saturated seed 

each time paint streams from the brush.

Lisa Moreland 

"Those things that mark our creativity - 

our sensual awareness, imaginative thinking, and manual skills - 

are God given tools in our task of cultivating the earth...and...simply for our delight."  

Art & Soul: Signposts for Christians in the Arts, 

Hilary Brand & Adrienne Chaplin, P. 46

What Lies Within Us...

I muse over it. What can be gained that is positive in a hospital waiting room? 

I have sat here many times in recent years. Cancer struck in my family. My loved one endures treatments, tests, procedures, scans, and surgeries to keep disease at bay.  Part of my roll in this journey is to wait. 

Initially I did not understand the demands of the roll for one who waits. Getting my loved one delivered on time with all required necessities absorbed my preparation tasks. Once the wait time began, initially I would sit in a haze of numbness induced by crisis. Gradually people-watching distracted me... then magazines that were left behind by others. Eventually I had read everything published that month and needed to scrounge more selectively for recent issues. Maintaining focus on a book often didn’t work; too much effort required for my emotionally drained mind. 

In time I raised my head above the fog of crisis and determined that this season of waiting must be made worthy. Surely there were angels of caring to appreciate. There were God moments to be recognized. There was character to be deepened. There was wisdom to be gained. 

My expertise in this endeavor improved.

I found that I’m fortunate. The hospitals and doctors’ offices in my community are new, beautiful, state of the art. Carpet muffles noise. Upholstery in coordinated subtle hues soothes the nerves of worry as well as the ones imposed by the sedentary wait. Large and varied art works distract ones gaze down long walls, along corridors to unknown places. I watch as surgeons arrive to give a simplified version of surgery-results-with-a-positive-spin to each waiting family. Coffee or hot tea is available to warm-over refrigerated skin and mellow-over anxious minds. 

And there are tools for this journey of waiting. There is a mind set of intention and discernment to be developed. There is an action plan to be designed with alternative measures to be fleshed out. There is a stretched out, slow motion, sense of time that must be embraced. There is a partnership of consistent presence with God that must be established. And there is a collection, kept packed in a bag that accompanies me on every wait filled journey. 

The bag holds tangible tools that allow me to be present with my heart. Tools that soothe over taxed emotions. Tools that are gentle with the haze that clouds clear thought. Tools such as a grown-ups version of a coloring book with prompts, so I don’t have to prompt myself. A journal for decorated word pictures, unpunctuated writing sprees, art copied from hospital walls, impressions that crowd and ramble across my thoughts . A laptop to electronically doodle in similar forms. Tea bags, ear plugs, a favored shawl ~ whatever, to create a haven in the midst of strangers and busyness. 

And a camera {or phone option} to catch snaps; not of the private moments of others, but of beauty, affirmation, or hope. Because, I have found that if I keep my eyes lifted up, my gaze attentive for a bit of spiritual light, I will be blessed. Blessed by such as this; passing by the open door of a hospital office, I read scripted wisdom on the wall.

"What lies behind us

and what lies before us

are tiny matters...

compared to what lies within us."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

This, a bit of spiritual light. In the midst of medical mayhem. I read the words as a reminder of God within us, within me, as confirming knowledge that the Lord is where I will find strength, compassion, and hope. To pursue that internal presence. To clothe myself with His compassion. To be watchful for the beauty in His creation. To center myself on His eternal promises. These are the gifts that can be available in the waiting.

I'm linking with these sites to join the beauty of each community. Click any button if you would like to visit.