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.