As we do our prayer tonight,
the baby stands up in my arms
quivering with curiosity
as he stares at his elephant blankie.
His little sweet self—
neath those pudgy cheeks and bright eyes—
filled with the radiance of eternity…
How is it that we are not blinded
by its brightness?
Merciful covering of cuteness!
Of course as I pray and write this poem,
baby works very hard to fill his diaper
and sends a mustard streak up his back.
Oh, the comedy of being children of God
and also, oh, so very human!
We are ashes, yes,
but underneath the dusky soot
that covers us like skin—
embers of glowing fire!
When the Holy Spirit blows,
like that first breath upon the waters,
we are enkindled
and hearts of heavy clay
become inflamed with Love.
If it’s true that we are dust
and that from the moment of birth
we are heading towards death,
then are not all our words
like a dying breath—
an exhalation of hope
that our voices will be heard
after we’re gone?
Like the light of stars
shining for years,
sending light across the universe
long after the star has burnt out.
Are we perhaps,
though weak and frail,
yet destined for eternity,
little flurries of stardust?
Tonight,after another long day of unpacking
and sorting the mismatched socks which mysteriously followed us
to the new house (how? how?),
we walk the two blocks to church—so close!—
and attend the Mass of the Sacred Heart.
Jesus awaits us.
And amidst the glow of candles
and the flowing melody of chant
my spirit begins to breathe again,
having been slightly suffocated
by walls of cardboard boxes.
In this open space, my heart expands.
The silence is pregnant with poetry—
the words which have been bottled up inside,
which my hands have longed to release,
begin to emerge and the urge to write grows stronger.
My little ones are sleepy
the baby dream chuckles and snores somnolently in the snugly
cosy and safe as in God’s pocket.
My toddler clutches his toy car,
which is always magically in his hands
no matter where we go,
until sleep releases it from his grip
with a small clatter.
My five year old slides over
with her stuffy peaking out of her coat,
her eyes wide open and insistent,
as she asks me a pressing question
“Do bunnies eat petals?”
“Yes!”
“I know,” whispers my four year old,
Let’s pretend we’re in a movie theatre.”
I grin and breathe in deeply to let the incense fill my lungs
as the shimmer of golden vestments brightens my eyes.
Under the everyday human humdrum,
runs the divine,
like blood under skin—
hidden, life giving, essential.
The heart of God
pierced with the sorrow of love for us
stoops down to touch us gently…
an embrace filled with yearning.
Rain drums on the roof
and we are cradled inside the cosy wooden church
as if in the ark,
riding the waves of our life
to the shore beyond…
seekers listening for the gentle sound of a dove
as the Holy Spirit leads us forward.
Recently my friend and former highschool writing mentor Caroline Woodward invited me to submit a poem to her friend’s online advent calendar, where a poem a day awaits us, instead of a little chocolate.
I did send a poem in, and I’m honoured to have it included in author Joanna Streetly’s Poetic Advent Calendar. Joanna is the author of several books and is the west coast rep for the Federation of BC Writers and a long-standing member of the Clayoquot Writers’ Group.
The poems and photographs by Joanna and various guest poets are poignant and personal…and touch on various themes from the satisfaction of burying ones hands in dough to make a traditional recipe, to the mystery of human suffering and the need for solidarity at all times, and not just Christmas.
Here is a peek at mine…if you visit her site you can enjoy the other poems, too, such as “Wingless Angels,” “outer isles haiku,” “Stone Flight Requiem,” and “the gladness of stars.”
See more at this link: Poetry Advent Calendar.
And many blessings a you prepare for Christmas!
at almost seven weeks
you have just the faint feathery beginnings
of eyelashes beginning to show
extravagent delicacy
decorating your face with tiny blond wisps
as if your wide open baby blue eyes
weren’t wondrous enough
Just when lights go out
you open your eyes
and decide it’s time
for a midnight stroll.
We saunter about the kitchen
as you stare out from the blanket bundle
with your little wise old elf face.
You wrinkle your tiny forehead
and furrow your almost invisible eyebrows,
looking about quizzically as you ponder some deep truth
until the rapid flutter of your tongue
through pursed lips reveals your babyness
phantom nursing…
You were just spacing out
and daydreaming of milk after all.
Sweet mother
pray for me
in this time
when more than ever
I need hope.
You know what it is
to lose a child
without letting your hope be whipped away
by winds of despair.
You know what it is
to love again
to love still
to be courageous enough
to be vulnerable.
We are all
in a way
your rainbow babies.
Born of the sorrow of your heart
on losing Jesus.
Born of the intense burst of love
that broke out of your heart
that day at the foot of the cross
when beauty shone through your tears
like sunbeams pouring from a steely sky
making rainbows flicker
in the maternal tenderness
of your eyes.
Help me hope again!
Help me trust again!
May I be a courageous mother like you
brave enough to believe
I will soon hold my little boy
breathing this time
Alive!
in my arms.
If you want to know true joy,
look to the one who has experienced deep sadness.
If you want to find strength,
look to the one who has been broken.
If you want to know peace,
look to the one who has wrestled with despair.
If you want to know laughter,
look to the one who has wept.
If you want to know loyalty,
look to the one who has been abandoned.
If you want to be truly human,
look to God.
Today my old university friend told me
of his travels
to Greece
a day he spent stranded
on a tiny island inhabited by 25 people
and about 40 cats
After missing his stop on the ferry
he wandered about the island
and stumbled upon a little white church
perched like a sun-bleached shell upon
this little rocky island
It was surrounded by a low stone wall
and as there was no one around
except perhaps a stray cat
he clambered over it
to take a closer look
After a few pictures
he reached up the rocky wall
to leave but lost his grip
falling backwards on the hard stone churchyard
Stuck on his back
with his face to the sky
he told me
laughing now
he figured maybe God
was punishing him for breaking in
I smiled
thinking how instead this was a divine romance
Providence whisking him away to the little island
drawing him to the church
for a quiet moment alone
wanting to speak to his heart
But…fear of trespassing on holy ground
stifled the still small voice
and kept my friend in darkness
thinking the One whose love for him exceeds
that of any other
was only out to punish him
Just East Of Crazy Land 