A Sacred Haven

Celebrations abound across the nation this July day. 

Born in a country prominent and powerful through out the planet, 
vast in splendor geographically, culturally, and materially; 
there is a great abundance to celebrate.

After the star spangled patriotic parades and the grilled feast picnics followed by blazingly spectacular fireworks...  

at the heart of this day
is a deep abiding love of home, 
the nation we claim, 
as well as the literal roof over our heads.

The freedom we have to strive to be graced with walls within which we live with people most dear to us. 
The freedom we have to design our families and create our homes in diverse ways and places. 
The freedom we have to pursue work to build a nest to feather for our comfort, survival, and security.
The constitutional rights and legal protections that make our home a sacred haven.

By the grace of God,
by the courageous might of our 
service men and women,
by the unique ingenuity and contributions
of our diverse people for 241 years,
the freedoms of home remain precious to us all.

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]

Honored to Pause

Morning light slipped onto the sill.
Rays arriving with the dawn rarely reach this niche of glass,
rarely attract notice.
Dispersed refractions glimmer among the prisms; 
brilliance within a microcosm, serendipitous and transient.
Honored to pause, 
witnessing the gift ...
acknowledging too,
the multitude of random wonders that flourish unseen.

May you witness the gifts,
Lisa