Dormant

At the start of 2019 a friend mentioned to me how she always selects a word at the beginning of each year that captures a sense of the year ahead, and she asked me what my word would be.

After some thought I felt that there were two words for me for the year ahead: Waiting and Change.

I commented at the time that they aren't words that I normally put together - change, for me, tends to be a more driven thing; I like to have a plan and know where things are going. But there was a sense that 2019 wasn't going to be about planning, it was going to be about waiting and seeing changes emerge around me, and from within me.

This weekend as I revisited my words, I was drawn to the image of seeds. Lying dormant, alive but not yet active. Waiting for a change that cannot be forced. We can plant seeds, and provide the correct growing conditions, but other than that we just have to wait and trust that eventually, once the seed has broken open, something beautiful will bloom.

Buried beneath the layers
laid down
through time and choice
we wait
for these seeds of hope
to bloom

Now is not the time for toil
nor striving
within this protective shell
we wait
alive with possibilities
yet dormant.

Time passes in silent moments
breaking open
the fragile dreams we hold
waiting
until with unforced change
we begin to flourish.

Barren Land

Last week I took a little trip to visit my parents. My route takes me over the edge of the Breacon Beacons - the small mountain range in South Wales. The scenery can be stunning - if the weather allows you to see it. However, low cloud is not unusual, especially in autumn, and on this trip the area was shrouded in a thick grey mist which only parted occassionally to reveal the empty brown hillside. It got me thinking about how mixed our reactions to autumn can be (especially in the UK). On a clear, crisp day the fall colours can be uplifting. But at other times the dark nights and cold, wet days can dampen our spirits.

Seasons are important. If we didn't have to weather the winter, would we fully experience the joy of spring? There is a passage in Ecclesiastes (chapter 3) that talks about there being a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the sun. As I pondered this current season, I wrote the following:

Now is the season of dying,
of fallen leaves
and barren landscapes.
Now is the season of uprooting,
of final harvest
and discarding dross.
Now is the season of giving up,
of tearing down
and throwing away.
The season of wandering through the wilderness
silently searching...
and finally recognising
that this is not a season of fruitlessness
but of fallow land
in quiet recovery
Patiently waiting for the new season
of sowing
and growing.

Reflections

It's been almost two months since I have posted anything. This silence hasn't exactly been deliberate, more the result of a busy few months that has included getting a new puppy and going on two road trips (one with a friend and one with family), but is strangely apt as I have been thinking about silence and stillness during this time.

My road trip with my friend took us to the West coast of Scotland. Our first stop was the Isle of Seil. Travelling the narrow roads on the way there we passed several lochs and, despite the fact that many were tidal and it was September (usually wet and windy), the water was as still as glass. Rarely have I seen such a clear reflection in such a large body of water. The photos I took failed to adequately capture the spectacle, but I was left with the impression on my heart, and a feeling that there was a message in it all.

I found myself pondering on how the reflected image was only possible because of the stillness. I am a very active person, often found busy doing things that I consider to be of worth, desiring to be of service to others and my God. But sometimes busyness is not what is needed. Sometimes what is needed is stillness.

Journeying through
ever changing landscapes,
you catch my eye,
stop me in my tracks
and
you still me.
Here beneath the infinite skies,
you lead me by the tranquil waters,
where lofty mountain heights
bow in silent reflection
of the depths
of your love,
Majesty
laid low in sacrifice.
Here I kneel
in quiet awe
for
you still me.
And I pause,
just long enough
to see,
with clarity,
reflected in the grandeur,
your face smiling at me,
for I, too, mirror you
as
you still me.

Breathe

Continuing with the theme of perception and perspectives, I thought that this weekend I would share a poem that I wrote a couple of years ago.

I wrote it during a road trip to North Wales with a friend. Driving through the beautiful scenery and breathing deeply of the fresh air, we had plently of time to talk and reflect. In one conversation my friend, who has a disability that means she can't now walk far without assistance, mentioned how initially she had been reluctant to start using a wheelchair. Some small part of her thought that using a wheelchair was restrictive, whereas the reality is that it has given her much more freedom. It started me thinking about the things (objects or circumstances) that we may initially perceive as restrictive and limiting but, when we choose to embrace them and view them from a different angle, can actually be the very things that free us.


I dare you to pause
Contemplate the rhythm of the rise and fall
as air,
held within the confines of a structure designed to sustain,
expands and is released.
You fear the vessel will restrain and restrict
Shackled to the repetitive in and out
But this is freedom
Drinking deep
Allowing this breath to enter every part
Choosing to expel the weighty remnant
Until weightless you soar on wings like eagles
Alive and free.

I dare you to dream
Look up and see through renewed eyes
how smoke,
rising from the confines of a structure designed to direct,
expands and is released.
You fear the loss of focus
But in expansion not a single molecule is lost
Invisible it touches all
Expanding horizons
Choosing to imagine more than the mundane
Allowing the impossible to become a possibility
As fearless you fly carried by the wind
Alive and free.

Dawn

Perspective can drastically alter our perceptions, as I reflected on in my last post.

Over the summer I helped take a group of young people away on a big youth camp. It was fun and rewarding hanging out with the teenagers, but I didn't get a lot of sleep! One morning I found myself awake at 3am and, despite my body still feeling exhausted from the previous busy day and gone-midnight bedtime, I was unable to go back to sleep. Initially I felt frustrated, but then I began to hear the birds starting to sing and recognised the precious joy of being able to greet the new dawn.

You wake me in the morning
dawning
realisation
that a multitude of voices are singing
bringing
glory to their maker.
Rising from slumber
embracing wonder
as emerging light
dispels the night
you invite me to join the chorus
of this creative day.

Look up

Yesterday Sue's Quiet Disruptor's blog encouraged us to look up, and today's longer weekend post focused on recovering our inner navigation - not ony by looking internally, but also connecting with other like-minded people, to find the true north of our personal compass.

I have been musing along similar lines for the past week or so. Thinking about how much our perceptions can change just by standing in a different place and looking in a different direction.

I love the Message version of Romans 5 v 2: [through faith] We throw open our doors to God and discover at the same moment that he has already thrown open his door to us. We find ourselves standing where we always hoped we might stand - out in the wide open spaces of God's grace and glory, standing tall and shouting our praise.

It takes faith, and courage, to thrown open our doors. Courage to be real - to say that sometimes we don't feel like shouting our praise, to say that sometimes we feel bogged down with the chaos around us and within us. Courage to look up - to change our perspective and recognise the greater truth.

Led into the wide open fields
She stands, head bowed, starring down
Below the expansive skies
She wallows in the dirt and mud
Sees beneath her feet only crushed grass, crushed dreams
Doubts the promises of grace and freedom
Weeps with loss of hope
While the wind patiently whispers
Look up
Glimpse the unlimited horizon
Dare to believe
You are already free

Stepping out

In my last blog I mentioned setting out on a walk with my little dog despite the very wet weather, and how the emerging sun then provided inspiration. I finished writing my poemy-piece the following day, but never posted it.

Turns out that was to be one of my last walks with Pippa. She died yesterday. So today I post in her memory.



 
Stepping out I face the storm
From the other side
I have heard the whisper:
Who will go for us?
And despite the rain,
the pain,
the risk,
My answer can be nothing but this:
Here I am, send me.

Stepping out I press on through
Taking steps of faith
for I know the way
is not to circumvent
But face the haze,
the maze,
the truth,
Trusting that I do not walk alone
Here you are, with me.

Stepping out I greet the light
Beyond the gloom
the bright sun’s rays
reach with cleansing fingers
And I emerge restored,
refreshed,
and free,
Breathing deeply the purified air
Here you live, in me.

Seasons

One of my favourite activities is taking my dog for a walk on the beach. It doesn't matter what the weather is like, I find the wide open space, vast expanse of sky, and changing moods of the sea inspiring. The best walks are often when it's raining. And I am alone. And the wind seems to whisper to me, words and phrases that weave themselves together poetically.

This morning was one of those walks. There had been a very heavy downpour but I set out in full waterproofs to exercise my little Terrier. Unsurprisingly, I was the only person on the beach. But the rain stopped and the sun came out, and I found myself reflecting on how quickly things change.

Yesterday, I friend asked the challenging question, "What 3 pieces of advice would you give your younger self?". I found it hard to narrow it down to 3... but one of the 3 I chose was this:
            Write down all your ideas, the journey is important.

There have been times when I was younger that I have felt ashamed to say "I wrote this" not so much because of how good I felt my writing was, but because of what I felt my words might reveal about me and where I was. But as I get older, I am less afraid to own the journey; to see that where I was, or am now, does not limit or define where I am going, and that there is value in the ups and downs. And I am slowly beginning to see that within every scribbled jumble of words there is some degree of merit. So I am writing down more; phrases and ideas that may one day be woven into a poem, or whole pieces that are waiting to be refined and shared.

This morning, as I gathered poetic fragments in my head and thought about how I was going to pull them together into something, I found myself thinking back to a piece that I started writing from the wind-whispered phrases on a similarly wet morning walk on the beach about 9 months ago. Before I write something new, I decided to re-visit, and finish, this piece. It says nothing about how I feel now, nor even how I felt then as it was written with someone else in mind. But that someone might now be you.

Because you said there would be seasons
I will wait in the rain,
knowing that the sun will eventually come
and these tears of mourning
will glisten with joy,
for after each day's ending
comes the new dawn.

In this season of searching and shouting
I will not loose my grip,
trusting that you will continue to hold me
until I silently find you
and open my eyes to see,
from my broken fragments
you've melded a whole.

Brother

Families can be complex. And siblings sometimes don’t get on. My children certainly aren’t best friends all the time, but there are many moments when they are and I observe them working and laughing together – like this evening when they amusingly decided to help each other cheat during a family game of cards so I couldn’t win.
And I recall the joy of playing with my little brother when we were growing up, and getting into good-natured mischief together. I still enjoy his company. And I know that I am lucky.

Many people are not so lucky. Thinking about “family” doesn’t bring them joy. And the terms “brother” and “father” bring them pain. So using those terms for Jesus/ God can be less than helpful.
But the fact remains that Jesus did walk on earth and participate in this sometimes wonderful, sometimes painful, thing we call family. A while back I was asked to write a poem about Jesus’ humanity and I found myself wondering what it would have been like to have been his actual brother, or sister. And how that fraternal closeness extended to his disciples. And extends to us now.


He stands with me
together in our father’s workshop
catches my eye
his own eyes bright with amusement
words unspoken
just an explosion of laugher
sharing life.

Here, united in our labours
his carpenter’s hands mould the wood
artfully crafting
skills honed by repeated attempts
and failures
not unfamiliar with frustration
and disappointments.

Friendships forged
bonded like family in understanding
sweet outpouring
of love now unafraid to seek assistance
trusting still
as painful tears fall unrestrained
‘til hope is resurrected.

We walk together
he laughs and works and weeps
travelling light
mindful of greater needs to be met
upturning tables
outbursts of anger misunderstood
wholly holy.

Dawn turns to dusk
I see him strain with unceasing effort
wrestling temptation
suggestions of an easier option
a way out
exhausted but not overcome
he chooses goodness.

He stands alone
surrounded by the crowds
catches my eye
his own eyes filled with understanding
heart breaking
he calls out my name
he calls me brother.

The mountain

There are weeks when everything seems overwhelming. When just getting out of bed requires a huge amount of effort, like climbing a mountain.


But these are the weeks when I also wish I was actually climbing mountains. Maybe it is the desire to get away from it all. Or maybe it is more about the view and getting a new perspective on things.


This week is one of those weeks. And I have found myself thinking a lot about Elijah when he fled up the mountain (1 Kings 19). On a roller coaster of emotion, Elijah seems both hopelessly depressed and self-righteously angry at God. And missing the point.


Sometimes mountains aren't for climbing. They are for moving.




When the weight of what is
overwhelms the vision of what could be,
you will find me up the mountain.
Fearful and exhausted
here I lie curled fetal-like waiting to die.
Angry and rejected
here I cower in the cracks waiting for a sign.
Invisible and alone
here I weep,
and wait.
Until the whisper of what is
overcomes the roar of what should not be,
and I find you moving the mountain
with the mustard seed I grasp.

I am

A recent change in our house is that I am now trying to make my own bread. I don't find this easy; I like my baking to be quick and I am not very good at waiting for dough to rise.

Yesterday found myself reflecting of the idea of Jesus being our bread. Not just the obvious picture of Jesus breaking the bread, a symbol of his body, to share with his friends before facing death. But the whole process of bringing together different elements and then patiently waiting for the yeast to work and the dough to rise before it is exposed to the heat: In Jesus we find aspects of God and mankind blended together as a whole. And his work on earth wasn't simply a stepping down to earth for a few days to fix things, he experienced the whole slow growing process from a baby to adulthood, and then waited again as he taught his disciples and they slowly got the drift of what he was about. Ony after this process did Jesus face the intense challenge of the cross, completing his work in earth, and bringing us life.

Last year a few of the Presence Project Creatives gathered together to make a Chapter in a Day. Together we reflected on the "I am" saying of Jesus. I am the bread of life (John ch 6 vs 35) was one of aspects I chose to weave into the poem I wrote on that day.


I am
  sufficient to nourish and sustain
  satisfying the aching hunger in your soul
  the fundamental element in your daily diet,
your first meal of the day
  and your last bite at night.
I am the bread.

I am
  the narrow path cut clearly through the undergrowth
  providing a faithful compass when you are lost
  here walking the winding road with you,
holding your hand from first tentative steps
  until you’ve run the final race.
I am the way.

I am
  the revelation of indisputable fact
  defining black and white in a misty sea of grey
  turning faith into its rainbow kaleidoscope of authenticity
the first word spoken
  and final note left hanging in the air.
I am the truth.

I am
  vital to your very being
  the blood rushing through your veins
  energising breath of pure air as you emerge from the oppressive smog,
from the first unfurling shoot of spring
  to final leaf fall.
I am the life.

I am
  outside of time yet present now
  before anything was and into the unforeseen forever
  the crucial cord woven through the narrative of all that is,
alpha and omega
  beginning and end.
I am who I am.
And I am with you always, to the very end of the age.

How Long?

I love the Old Testament, the stories of men and women of God who mess up time and time again, but God never gives up on them, or us.
God waits for us.

And we wait for Him too.
The Presence chapter entitled I Wait is based on Psalm 130:
Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption. He himself will redeem Israel from all their sins.
In the piece I wrote for it, I wanted the trace the idea of both us and God waiting through the old testament stories. And echo the fact that irrespective of how many times we mess up, there is always an opportunity to start over again.

How long? How long?
The cry echoes through the centuries.

Looking up at the countless stars,
waiting for the promised child,
a father waits for the birth of a nation.
He listens, misunderstands, makes mistakes, starts over again.

Impatience maps a trail
of wrong turns and redemptions
Deception repeatedly dividing brothers
as jealousy and fear sells family into slavery
Summoned to sit with kings
and growing as memories fade
Until the nation wins its freedom from oppression
only to wander the endless desert
and enter a promised land
where so rarely there is peace.

Looking up at a distant star,
waiting for the promised child,
whose death and resurrection whisper rebirth.
We listen, misunderstand, make mistakes, can start over again.

In the boat

I have been thinking a lot about boats these past few days.

I work in what was once a little fishing village and across the road from the office sail boats sit on the promanade ready for fair weather sailing. At the other end of the bay is a port where cargo ships come and go, when the tides are right.

I have never been on a sailing boat, nor a cargo ship. My own boating takes a rather different form - my parents, siblings and I have a canal narrow boat, 56ft long and about 7ft wide, which we take cruising around the English & Welsh canal network each summer. My children learnt to steer the boat when they were still quite young; because they were a little too small to properly see over the top of the boat to see where they were going (even when standing on a step-stool), they always had a grown-up stand with them. My parents named the boat "Shammah", from the name given to the city at the end of Ezekial: Jehovah-shammah, The Lord is there. Whenever I am on the boat, I am reminded that God is there. Standing with us.

And God is there in the various boat images scattered throughout the bible. Jesus may have been a carpenter, but he certainly had a lot to teach the fishermen who were his friends about boats.

From my musings, I wrote this boat-themed poem today. Especially for two of my friends.


We left the harbour long ago
path mapped out with calmness
from security, into the vast unknown.
But in open seas we are tossed
by relentless storms with pounding waves
and exhausted, we long for stillness.

We dream of dropping anchor
but inertia could tip the balance
drag us, drowning, under
So we keep on moving
patch the sails and plough on through
alone in the endless fog.

In the eye of the storm,
silence dares us to pause
and take note, we are surrounded.
Here we stand and face the storm
supported by a mesh of rigging
formed from a host of interlinking hands.

We stand together in the boat
holding tight to woven cords of truth
strong enough to take the strain.
Hope echoing through history;
above the earthquake, thunder, rushing wind,
comes the gentle whisper.

He stands here with us,
commanding the wind and waves,
beckoning us on;
Be still.
Step out in faith.
The Lord is here.

Woven

You have searched me, Lord, and you know me... 
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
(Psalm 139)


I know there to be truth in these words, and yet it would be wrong to pretend that it is always easy to believe that I am wonderfully made. I have a tendancy to be a bit of a perfectionist, and can be very critical of myself; I find it easy to focus on my failing and flaws. Amongst the wonderfulness, there are dark places and pain and tears. But, as I have grown, I am slowly starting to recognise that the things I once saw as weaknesses in me are often vital threads in the essence of my being. The fact that these things are woven into my life was not a mistake; they help to make the emerging pattern that is me.

Creator God

Creating.

In the unseen places

Flesh and bone, muscle and nerve

Knitted perfectly

To your unique pattern.

In the secret places

Joy and sorrow, hope and peace

Woven carefully

Through our unfolding days.

In the dark places

Pain and tears, laugher and love

Sewn deliberately

Life's tapestry develops.

In the waiting

Still Creating

God in us.

Heartbeat

Last week I mentioned Andy Hunter's Presence Project - a creative app that weaves together music, film, poetry and photography to deepen people’s connection to God. Over the years I have been involved in the project and written a number of poetic reflections that you can read, and listen to, on the app. This week, I thought I would share them here too.

Heatbeat was my response when I first heard Andy's music for the Over the Water chapter, based on Psalm 29 v3: "The voice of the Lord is over the waters...".  I was struck by the background beat in the piece that amplifies and changes, and yet somehow remains constant. It made me reflect on how I hear God's voice and my own faith journey - faith, for me, has always been a contant but within the certainty there have been questions and challenges and dreams and changes. Faith changes, flows and grows. Faith is like a dance.

I recently came across an article by a Canadian rector, Alastair McCollum, who put it beautifully like this:
I personally like the image of faith as a dance – it involves movement, it’s dynamic, energetic, constantly changing. Yes, there are certain steps which are named and have a certain form – but there is also room for improvisation, exploration, leaping, falling, quietness, joy, exuberance, discovery.
And like any dance it doesn’t have to be explained, in fact to reduce it only to words would strip it of the power, and the beauty, challenge, and wonder that it possesses. 
And in the dance, I learn to trust in the music, the movement, my partners, as I allow myself to fully join in with the attempt to add shape and purpose to the steps of my life, and to invite others to join in order that we might be transformed and transform the world with God’s life.

I heard his heartbeat.
A child held tight in Father's loving arms,
Knowing safety,
Shielded from the storms.
In the closeness the beat was unmistakable.
Dependable.

I heard his heartbeat.
Stepping out in faith and hope,
Dreams soaring,
Growing in the rhythm I knew so well.
In the walking the beat was steady.
Strong.

I thought I heard his heartbeat.
I knew my Father,
Walked with him,
Re-telling the stories from my youth.
In my remembering the beat was unchanging.
Predictable.
Fading.
Dull?

Did I hear his heartbeat?
Was that the beat I knew?
It skipped a beat.
Pulsating patterns,
Unpredictable.
Untamed.
I cannot assume routine within this rhythm.
I can only stop and listen,
Breath held,
Heart pounding.

I have heard his heartbeat.
And it now dares me to dance.

He
Dares me
To dance to his heartbeat.

So together we will dance.
Ballerina-like with powerful precision
Each step guided with easy grace.
Until I dance with freedom.
Movements flowing like ribbons caught by the wind.
Ripping across the calm waters.
Cartwheeling,
Like a gymnast moving corner to corner across the mat,
But I will not stop there,
God is not confined by the boundaries set by man.
I will dance my dreams again.
Spread my wings,
and fly,
moved by the wind,
carried over the waves.

This is his heartbeat.
This our dance.
Ever constant.
Ever changing.

Be Still

It's been a busy week. With lots going on both physically and in my head. This morning at church we were challenged to think about the voices that we listen to.

It's something that I was thinking about earlier this week too, and thinking back to a poem I wrote when Andy Hunter was just starting the Presence Project. One of the early chapters was based on Psalm 46 v10, "Be still and know that I am God".  And I wrote my own poetic reflection in response to his music and this verse.

I have always loved lighthouses - the image of the light flashing in the dark to show us the way and stop us running into danger. But lighthouses are a little more complex than a just a flashing light. Every individual lighthouse emits a distinctive series of flashes known as its characteristic. Ships at sea can time the intervals between flashes in order to identify which lighthouse they're looking at. It's not just a warning message, it's a location message, and with this location information any lost ships can then determine where they are too.

I think that it's sometimes the same with us and God. Knowing where he is helps us to determine where we are... but we have to stop for long enough to look at him and decipher his message, the characteristic he's showing us.

The lighhouse near where I live, Mumbles' lighthouse, has a characteristic of 4 white flashes and a pause every 20 seconds. This poem ends with the message I hear every time I look at that lighthouse flashing in the darkness.



So many voices crowding in
   So many voices
voices crowding in
           crowding voices
   so many...

When the chaotic voices crowding in
drown out the silent whisper
I need to hear,
I grab my bike and head to the shore.
There the untamed waves come crashing.
Head down,
and pedalling hard,
I can feel the power of the storm -
Within.

Until I pause.
Stop.
Look up,
look out
at the vastness stretching to the sky.
Insignificance makes me feel safe
There is something greater than I.

And piercing through the darkness
I see the unmoving beacon
Flashing out its own unique sequence.
Its message to the lost
and seeking.
Calling “look this way...
Know – I – am – God. Stop.
Know – I – am – God. Stop.
Know – I – am – God.”

The leek

There is a common theory that an individual's personality is like an onion, with layers of public image overlaying one's true self. I don't really like this theory. It seems to suggest that the external layer is not truly us. And it leaves little room for variation within each layer, space to be true to ourselves while at the same time acknowledging that what is seen may vary according to social context.

Maybe it's because I am Welsh, or maybe it's because I was cutting up leeks for tea, I concluded today that a leek-theory would be better...


From fragile first shoots
Cowering underfoot
Fighting for the light
Steadily we grow
'Til tough angular stems
Stand exposed
Veined with purpose
And vibrant strength
But beneath this bold show
Something subtle grows
From authentic roots
Hesitantly uncovered
Peeling back the layers
We acknowledge
The complex variance
Within each tier
And every shade
Remains as true.

Noah

Occasionally something catches my eye and ideas start forming in my mind and I think to myself, I shall draw my thoughts together into something poetic.

Last week, during what was quite a tough day, I saw a rainbow. I love rainbows. They always whisper hope to me. This one, especially so, reflected as it was in the dark clouds around it, and on the murky sea, and in the puddles on the empty beach. I mused for a while on the image, and thought I could write a poem about hope shining through the darkness, about covenant promises made long ago, about being carried safe though the storm and seeing rainbow reflections where we least expect them.

But that poem refused to be written. Instead what started to form, as I put pen to paper, were a few rhyming lines about a man who kept building, in the face of much mockery, something that initially didn’t seem to make any logical sense because, despite doubts and storms and long periods of waiting, he knew he wasn’t building this on his own.


Noah

Noah built a boat.
No chance, they said, that it would float
You need to be closer to the shore,
Build less, they said, not more.
But Noah didn’t listen to any of them
for the plans he followed weren’t from men,
And when the doubts crept in, he called to mind
the divine promises he’d heard outlined.
So, determined he hammered every nail
while multitudes laughed, He’s going to fail.
But when the rains fell
Noah could tell
He’d be safe from the storm
And the dark clouds that formed.
And though the days stretched on,
And all solid ground was gone,
Noah patiently waited,
Until the waters abated,
Trusting, as he had from the start,
that eventually the clouds would part,
And the rainbow shine through,
Forever promising, I will be with you.

Truth Floats

This week I have been reflecting on stories, particularly my story and the way my poems reflect the path that I am travelling on. Sue at Quiet Disruptors has also been thinking about how we find our story - well worth a read if you've time to ponder.

This morning, also in reference to telling our story, someone else mentioned rivers and how we can stand in the flow and not know quite where it is going.

I like that. Rivers convey the idea of movement, of starting somewhere defined (the spring) and heading somewhere (the sea) but in between there can be all manner of seemingly pointless meanders and turbulent waterfalls and lazy lakes. Sometimes we are afraid to acknowledge where our journey started, sometimes we are afraid of where we might end up (a friend once mentioned that fear of success can often hold us back as much as the fear of failure), but often our biggest fear is of the in between. Of the unknowns we might encounter in our travelling.

Our challenge is to keep on walking. Or swimming.

There is a beautiful image right at the end of the Bible, in the book of Revelation, of the River of Life which echos a passage in one of the Old Testament the prophets, in Ezekial 47. Ezekiel has a vision where he is led step by step deeper and deeper into the water. It's a risky business, Ezekiel finds himself in a river too deep to cross, but having gone this deep he is then shown the truth - wherever the river flows it brings life.

Back in October last year I went through a difficult time. And I found myself thinking about Ezekial in the river, and the processes we go through as truth is revealed. And I wrote this poem:

Truth Floats

When the well of tears
overflowing from the depth of pain
has risen to the surface
carrying with it previously unspoken burdens
You will find that truth floats.

When you immerse yourself
in healing pools of clarity
letting go of the many layers that mask
that which was hidden will be seen
And you will find that truth floats.

If you risk stepping into this river
apprehensively
or expectantly
Allow yourself to be carried in the flow
wherever it goes
fast and smooth
or tossed in the rapids
trusting in the unseen buoyant force
You will find that truth still floats.

Door of Hope

(A reflection on Hosea chapter 2 verses 14 & 15)

Dry lands,
Barren sands.
In the silence,
an echo's heard.
In the desert
is a door of hope.
Suddenly
a sweeping tide
embraces all,
Brings refreshment,
joy,
love.
Love never ceasing
flows from above.
Love so fragile
offered below.
Dry lands,
Barren sands,
Burst forth with life.
Creator and created
walk together
through the door of hope.

Beyond

Moments of joy
slowly breaking through,
I start to fly again,
start to dream,
and lift my eyes up-
to the horizon
and beyond.

Beyond me is a whole world,
unexplored,
unfelt.
And despite the pain,
despair,
rejection,
fear,
despite all I associate with feeling,
I desire to feel-
feel the world,
feel God in the world,
travel beyond me
and live again.

Today the sea shines,
bright sun's rays
dancing on the crests.
I start to dance too,
dance with God
in the wide open spaces
he created.
I feel the freedom of the cliff tops,
start to live again,
dare to travel
beyond myself,
beyond the fear that tells me
to hold back,
not to touch
nor allow myself to be touched,
not to feel.

And as fear
gradually gives way,
I start to fly again,
start to dream,
and lift my eyes up-
to the horizon
and beyond.

Encircling Me Spiraling Down

Encircling me spiraling down.
I am - spiraling down,
falling down,
confused
and twisting around,
so uncertain,
alone,
trapped within.
I have tried so hard,
risen up only to slip again.
Oh God, why am I still spiraling down?
You are - encircling me,
surrrounding,
reaching out,
holding me,
through the pain
and confusion,
there-
seeing all I hide,
run from,
fear.
Yet you are there still encircling me.

Storm in Me

God of the gentle sea,
do you see me?
God of the raging storm,
do you hear when I call?
Do you recognise the turbulence
within this calm exterior,
can you calm the waters once again?
Reach out,
speak out,
speak into me.
“Be still”.
Will you wake when I cry,
when I am afraid,
drowning in my own fear and confusion?
Will you question my faith,
frowning down on me?
Or will you gently ask me to trust again?
No condemnation,
just concern,
and love.
The power to change -
Ranging storm to gentle sea,
turbulence to peace in me.
With a word you created,
looked,
saw,
said that it was good.
Your life brought life,
taught me to be.
And now I ask you to speak again.
One word,
to heal and restore,
to calm and change.
To reach out,
speak out,
speak into me,
the storm in me.

Hope

My poetry often arises in response to where I feel I am spiritually and mentally (and ocassionally physically). Revisiting poems that I wrote years ago is always interesting; I am rarely in the same place, but sometimes aspects of what I wrote still resonate with me, and perhaps they may resonate with other people too. Either way, the poems stand as a reminder of the journey I am on and where I have come from.

This week I thought I would share a few of the poems that I wrote just over 20 years ago. At the time I was struggling with my mental health. These poems are part of my story.

The sun broke through the clouds today.
Cycling by an empty, muddy beach,
tide withdrawn, way out of reach,
a huge grey void,
echoed by the clouds above,
echoed by my heart.
And yet the sun broke through.
The sun itself was not visible,
but the light whispered its existence,
dared me to believe and breathe and be.
I looked and saw fragile rays falling,
shafts of light reaching down,
and maybe I, reaching out, could grab them
if they were not so far away.
I have seen hope come like that before,
a fragile ray that whispers the truth I cannot fully see.
I have danced in shafts of light,
childhood memories of beech woods in the autumn,
or spring.
Hopeful spring.
Shafts of light falling through the trees,
all quiet, just me and the dancing light.
I cannot dance right now,
I cannot touch the light,
but I can look and hope and dream.
And wait until the sun breaks through my clouds.

Haiku #7

Barely visible
Feeding amongst the weeds
Daily change hidden

Haiku #6

Passive yet active
Gentle waiting creating
Hope brings forth new life

Haiku #5

Silent unfurling
Rising from the tangled thorns
Determined we live

Haiku #4

Holly and oak grow
With fragile strength and defence
Protecting each other

Haiku #3

From such great heights
Discarded but not crushed
Breaking free we fly

Haiku #2

Narrow paths lead on
With joy and fear, end unclear
Still we choose to walk

Haiku #1

Last week I spent a day at The Waterside, Felindre. There I went for a wander, took a few photos and challenged myself to write a haiku for each. This is the first in a series of seven:

So entwined we grow
Together reaching upwards
Thriving in the light

Welcome

Hello.
And welcome to my new blog.

Twenty years ago I was working as an engineer and had an amusing little blog about life and work.
That time passed. I moved on. I changed career and stopped blogging.

But recently, inspired by a friend's comment, I found myself reading Walt Whitman's poem "A passage to India" and pondering the lines:

Ah who shall...
   justify these restless explorations?
Who speak the secret of impassive earth?
...
Yet soul be sure the first intent remains, and shall be carried out,
Perhaps even now the time has arrived.

After the seas are all cross’d, (as they seem already cross’d,)
After the great captains and engineers have accomplish’d their work,
...
Finally shall come the poet...

And so I find myself here. Thinking that perhaps the time has arrived where I acknowledge that I am now a poet. And blogging might be the best way to put what I am writing out there.