My Book of Uncommon Prayers: Words Fall Flat

When I feel the need to defend myself to the universe,

words fall flat.

There are never enough words to balance out the weight of weakness, the sting of sarcasm,

so why not be content to let criticisms fall where they will,

knowing that Maker picks them up and carries them in His own woundedness.

But

somehow I feel like my limping justifications and explications carry more weight in the bigger scheme of things.

But

they only fuel the contempt railed against me. So

I will rest—help me rest in You.

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A billion reasons to limit campaign spending . . .

Clinton has 2 billion dollars for funding her national election, and folks are saying Trump is trying to raise 1 1/2 billion. That is billion with a b, folks.

And this is just so we can have more of the circus we have already had.

How far would 3 1/2 billion dollars go toward upgrading infrastructure or providing shelter and food for the homeless or upgrading VA hospitals or giving college scholarships–or just about anything more profitable and worthwhile than the mudslinging we have to look forward to?

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Running to Catch Up

Cycles of life, ups, downs, the twirling and twisting threads that interlace a life from time and biology and divine design, and

it speeds up and slows down till I am dizzy.

The simplicity of youth protests into the complexity of aging, and I keep reaching back to finger and figure it all out—what was solid, what ephemeral—to bring forward raw materials for the life I’m living now.

The fears of ago that never happened are the lessons for my future, yet the new has fears of its own—and the lesson to trust is obviously not as well learned as I had hoped.

If I could just slow down this moment to fully analyze and so perhaps be wiser than before—but my now keeps slipping into tomorrows, and I am running to catch up.

 

(new blog: http://www.apronheadlilly.wordpress.com)

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Of the Desperate

Brushing the robe, halting hesitant,

two fingers barely touched the hem—

desperation

bleeding pain and disappointment for years and tears.

It was a desperate touch, a face-to-ground, weighted-down touch.

And in the moment He knew, and I knew.

In the jostle of swarming feet, flying dust and flailing pleas,

insignificant me,

me on the fringe,

gripped the fringe of his garment; and in one moment, the tiny thread that held me tethered to life and hope became sacred bonds of the everlasting,

and I was healed.

5-1-2016

 

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Love from Afar

When the prickles and pain of a love held close

hurt too much,

harm too much, then

love from afar with a prayer and a hope

for change,

for time

to heal.

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Contemplation Is Preparation

What people see are externals; physical attributes, profiles and position, passions and power—

or lack thereof.

People see actions and assume motivation;

people see doubt and assume weakness. What people see is not me.

I am more than my package, more than my history, more than my gifts, and

I need to be listened to.

I shouldn’t need validation, but how do I know I really exist if I don’t hear back from the universe I walk in?

Reading alone in a window seat, viewing nature from my perch, writing poetry and capturing all I see in drawings and photos, words that rhyme—I used to think that would be enough. It would be like playing cello on a deck in a wild, ethereal Alaskan wood—no one listening except the trees and sky and creatures hidden from view. Mystic communion with the world.

Romantic nonsense.

Contemplation is preparation—not enough just as is.

If it does not prepare me to worship or serve or commune with others, meditation and creation are empty romantic drivel. And if there is no one to hear, then

the ribbon of music drifts on the air and is just as lost to the cosmos as if it had never been played.

So I need to create, but I also need you.

Are you listening to me?

 

https://apronheadlilly.wordpress.com/2016/04/19/contemplation-is-preparation/

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After the Grey

Between the ragged jag of mountain and the weight of a helmet grey sky,

there are slivers of light,

yellow and aquamarine,

wisps, vapors, light and air,

a promise of morning after all the grey is done.

 

(www.wordpress.apronheadlilly.com)

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Letting Go

It’s like déjà-done this kind of thing—walked this path before, spouted this script before, destined to repeat over again

attachments and letting go,

hoping and hurting,

again and again,

pushing my rock to the crest only for it to slide back.

Is this punishment for choices made or just the way of things in this place?

Perhaps it’s just part of the deal, so we keep going,

keep trying,

trying to find our way out.

 

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Shadows Fall

When dark shadows lengthen and pathways clash, we fight our way through,

each on his own,

but not,

bumping others, helping others, avoiding some; and

the destination is beyond this black—beyond these mere pinpricks of comprehension, beyond corrupted flesh, this plaguing weakness, this battle of Hyde and seek.

Shadows fall.

And we press on because there is no going back.

We press in to companions who are sure, until they

are not.

We press out, palms lifted to the One,

begging for a way through.

 

***********

Psalm 31:1: In You, O Lord, I put my trust;
Let me never be ashamed;
Deliver me in Your righteousness.

 

3: For You are my rock and my fortress;
Therefore, for Your name’s sake,
Lead me and guide me.

 

14-15a: But as for me, I trust in You, O Lord;
I say, “You are my God.”
15 My times are in Your hand;

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The Whirring

Pathways of the mind, wandering thoughts, detoured by suffering as much as certainty, and

attention to intention wanes with the onslaught of feelings—

vulnerable, sideswiped—

almost certainly erring, at least in part—and

the thoroughfare of mind-numbing thinking races unobserved behind this placid face and these guarded eyes.

And I would be lying if I told you it was all an exercise in mental agility.

And I would be lying if I said I didn’t care how things turned out or whether or not I solved my own difficulties, as well as the world’s.

And I could be trying to muffle the noise of all these crisscrossing thoughts and intertwined emotions, but this racetrack keeps running, lap after lap,

always seeming to drive nowhere—

nothing resolved, no destination,

but the whirring never stops.

—————–

(www.apronheadlilly.wordpress.com = photography too! Filled up here.)

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