Sandy soil

Holding

Tiny roots

Grasping

Revealing

Tenacious strength

To spread

Obnoxiously

Till the meadow

Is overcome.

 

“Wild strawberries!”

the squeal of delight,

the diligent delving,

the hunt

quickly

satisfied

with sweet,

small gems.

“They’re everywhere!”

the golf game

abandoned

for the joy

of discovery.

They pile in our hot palms,

perfect babies,

and we push them

on others

and our fingers

stain pink.

Sand in toes,

Tofino.

 

That windy drive,

Endless hairpins,

Rolling me

Back and forth

Like the waves

Pulling me in

Closer.

Closer.

To the very edge

Of a country,

a continent,

Where all that’s left

Is a horizon

Of ocean

Wild, blue

Forever.

Like the edge

Of a planet

Seeing beyond

The universe

The mystery

The stars.

 

Salt-smell

Fills my nose,

Rushing water sounds

Fill my ears,

A constant reminder

Of

Waves.

 

I lick my lips

When it crashes cold

Over me.

I watch those waves

A long time

Feeling the pull,

The release,

The sway,

But not sensing

A rhythm,

Instead,

It’s random,

Consistently

Inconsistent,

Crashing,

Rolling,

Bringing in

The long distance

Water

Close.

 

It’s the power

That gets me.

The power of nature

All free.

Unrestrained.

And the surfers

Freckling the white caps,

All black,

All brave,

Playing in danger,

Enveloped in the power,

Not giving up.

 

When they return to shore

And pad down

The hard sand soaked beach

It’s like a resurrection

Each time.

They lay on their boards

And just breathe

Or sleep,

Restore power

To return

And play.

Play with a giant

They can’t predict,

A giant that draws them

Here

Beyond control,

Here

On the edge.

Then the gold and blue

Dims

And the beach

Empties

But the surfers stay.

I run

Up and down

Over the wet-sand

Dimpled pink and silver

Reflecting all

That riot of colour

Splashed above,

A celebration

Like waves

From the sun

flushing the sky,

who is holding all the gold,

lapping up the violet,

silhouetting all the forests

and springing out of me

all the praise.

Chesterman Beach, Tofino ~  June 27, 17

 

I’m standing on a mirror

Everything

Above

Reflected

Below,

All

Around.

 

If only this

Is where I stood

All the time

Walking

On Heaven’s perspective

Each step

Further up

And further in.

Above and below

One unified whole.

No incongruity

No dichotomy

No division.

No diversion

From this

One-on-one

Relationship

Above

And below.

Us

One with the One

We reflect.

This earth

Here, now

One with the One

She reflects.

Heaven

All around,

Closer than we know.

 

Heaven

reflected

here, now

Above

and below.

 

 

 

 

Not my will,

But Yours be done.

So here I wait.

Wait.

Knowing the good

Is growing,

Getting better

Because

I’m choosing

The best.

 

The best.

Subjective,

Maybe,

But values

Drive us,

Make us

Who we are.

Fully alive

Beings,

Free-willed.

What is the best?

It’s this.

This laying down.

This letting go,

This less of me

And more of You,

This releasing of

An independent spirit.

It’s this.

Breathing.

 

We’re not meant to go it alone.

Taking thought to only us,

Here, now.

Blind to the path ahead,

Cause it all leads somewhere.

That independent path.

Can you see it?

Where are you going?

You are alone.

Calling the shots.

Making educated guesses,

Or,

Foolishly following

Fluctuating feelings.

I need a steady guide.

I am not meant to go alone.

I can’t trust myself.

I need a Strider.

Who knows all the paths

Cause he’s been there.

One whose walked in my shoes

Who understands this,

“Not my will, but Yours be done.”

 

The best usually involves pain.

Usually involves self-denial,

Most definitely involves

Me asking for help.

Hard isn’t easy.

You don’t walk through hard alone.

You ask for help.

 

And He gives it.

Without conditions.

Help doused,

Soaked,

Flooded

With Love

Which lets out fear

And lets in trust.

His will,

His way,

Is worth it.

And the best is coming

And I’m sure it’s here

And He can see it

And I can see Him

And He can see farther,

Cause I am so small,

But I can read hope

In His eyes.

Written  April 30, 17

 

I drink in the green

The silver backed willows

The calming stream

Spring makes me poetic

When I’m still enough to catch it

The apple crisp call

Of robin red breast

The summer friendly buzz

Of bee

All the blossoms are brief

And sweeter because

Permanence gets old

I want to move slow

Like the river

Like the muskrat 

I want to take my time

Like spring

Treasure moments so brief

I don’t want to miss

The brief

I don’t want to miss 

The blossoms

Cause childhood is quick

And sweet

So the hugs are there holding

me in

slowing me

down.

Their stories meander

Like the river

Like the muskrat

They take time to really see

Before they are gone.

“Patience, child, patience

and sit awhile with me.

Let go of all those yet-to-do’s

and just sweetly

be.“

I was hit with inspiration

while staring at the lilac buds.

I only paused a moment

in all my busy

to lean on the garden gate

and drink in the present

and really see.

 

Buds are promises.

 

We wait for a sign

sometimes for forever.

Then suddenly

they are there

if we pause long enough

to see.
They become slowly,

but steadily.

Something imagined,

recalled,

hoped for

becoming something

I can touch,

smell, see

right in front of me.

And I know if I watch

slow enough

I’ll see the purple blush

deepen

and the tight curls

loosen

and the beauty promised

unfurl

reaching eager fingertips

to sun,

and rain,

eagerly drinking in

spring,

and faithfully pouring out,

unashamedly,

for all to see.

Dad used to do it.

He never left a streak.

He knew how to do it right.

He once had a summer job

As a janitor

In a hospital

When he was a teenager.

Mom says he should have been a doctor

Because he is so clean

All the time.

 

Spring is a good time

Cause first of all

The light,

It substantially

Increases

So we can see

All the streaks

And dust

And fingerprints

And that splotch

Where an unfortunate bird

Thought he could

make it.

 

Winter dark hides all dirt.

Even if you know it’s dirty,

What you can’t see

You can ignore.

 

But the world

Eventually turns

Toward the light

And you face

Your dirty windows.

 

Ignoring is still an option.

Depending on your personality

It may bother you a little or a lot,

You may be well-practiced in the art of “unseeing”

And you don’t like the view

From your windows anyways

So no bother.

Just shut the blinds.

 

Or it might irk you,

make you

Itch to lay hold

Of the closest squeegee

And then…

Clarity.

You breathe easier.

You cleaned your windows.

And you did it well.

No streaks

Like Dad taught you.

 

It surprised you

How dirty the insides were

Just like the outsides

And how you had to do both

Cause a one-sided job

Was pointless

Really.

 

When it’s done

And you sit

To enjoy

You realize it.

It’s not so much the view

You need to consider.

It’s more the light.

Unadulterated,

Pure,

Coming in

Filling your kitchen

Till you’re swimming

In gold.

I wait

intentionally

on my knees,

silent,

still,

listening,

remembering,

reflecting,

meditating,

looking ahead

with

anticipation

though I know

the end of the story,

like a child knows

gifts will come,

and cake will be eaten,

and friends will sing

and they will be celebrated.

 

I know

the betrayal will occur,

friend against friend,

the denial,

the trial,

the crown of thorns.

I know the walk,

the weight

the lifting from a bloody back

the stained wood

of another man’s cross.

I know the tears,

the arms

round Mary

broken,

I know the eyes,

forgiving,

accepting.

I know the

gasping,

the last words,

the darkness,

the shaking,

the bleeding heart

pierced one more time.

 

I know

the mocking,

the belief,

the shining in the centurion’s eyes

 

I know the desperation

of a noose,

the disillusionment

of the left behind.

 

I know

the dead weight,

coming down,

the wrapping,

the tomb of a rich man,

and I know the stone.

 

 

I know it all,

but this waiting,

intentional waiting,

remembering,

reflecting,

it increases

the joy.

 

Because I know

the waiting

on the Sabbath,

the mourning,

the heavy disappointment,

the early morning,

the fragrant spices,

carefully prepared,

the heart stopping sight

and the terror of angels.

 

I know the empty tomb,

the swirl of questions,

the Gardener’s voice

calling my name,

the ascending,

the returning,

the entering,

despite locked doors,

the eating,

the revealing,

the scars,

and Thomas’ fingers therein,

the breathing

the Holiness,

the exchange,

the promises,

the vision,

the purpose,

the call,

the assurance,

“I will be with you always,

even to the end of the age.”

The returning,

the rejoicing,

the waiting…

beginning again.

I know it all,

like a child knows,

but I wait,

intentionally

like a child,

and the joy increases

exponentially.

Yellow won’t last.

It is often unwelcome, though.

Under appreciated

Except by the birds

And the children.

 

To despise a season

For it’s lack

Never crosses

Their minds.

 

What is?

That’s what they see.

What is

And how can I

Become one with it?

It’s the ice that does it.

Draws them

Irresistibly.

All those puddles,

Lakes really,

Of sitting water,

Compelling them.

How far can I go

Before I fall through?

When will it crack?

How deep will it be?

It’s that tempting

Unknown,

Inching

Out

Into

Mystery,

Uncertainty

And then

That satisfying crack

And the cold pressure

Of rubber meeting bare skin

As the water swirls

And the boots contract.

 

Some become positively nautical.

We did.

We attempted to re-enact

The Titanic

Repeatedly.

I lamented greatly

When my growing body

No longer allowed my access

To our grand ship,

That old yellow sled

And I envied my little brother

His lightness.

We continued on though.

Me pulling him along

With that frayed rope,

His proud prow

Thundering through the icy waters.

We casted off into deeper and deeper waters.

Some class 5 rapids even,

Heedless of danger.

A policeman stopped us that day.

Apparently when I told him our mother was watching us

And pointed 4 acres away

He didn’t think

That distance

Quite within arms reach.

We would come home wet,

And cold

And rosy

And happy

And anxious to do it again

Cause in the night the magic happened.

All that ice we broke was reformed

And called us to rise

With the sun

And crack it all

Again.

I can smell spring coming.

It smells like

pussywillows

and all the wet

drying.

 

It looks like ice

Cobwebbed

Awaiting

A firm step.

It looks like morning mist

All round the edges

Making mysterious

What once was plain.

 

I hear spring coming

On the winged V’s overhead,

In the cheery

Wake up calls

Of the nesters

Gathering again.

I feel spring

In the crunch

Of dead grass underfoot,

In the itching need

To peel off the familiar layers

And slow in the sun

Like a cat

Off it’s guard.

This season is subtle here,

No flashy show,

No extravagant exuberance.

It’s shy.

You need to slow

To welcome it well.

 

To see the poplars

Blushing red to their fingertips

In anticipation

Of what is to come.