30 October 2005, 1:44 PM
My Name is in the Wind
Rustling Sycamore leaves and
Still-green grass upon the Lea
Rippling the waters as the Sparrow’s
Flight waxes in the morning Sun.
My Name is in the Wind
Beneath a Butterfly’s new-found wings
Stirring cirrus Clouds upon an
Azure Sky now deep’ning to Cerulean
Beyond the mirrored Universe
I’ve gazed upon so long
I’d forgotten all else
But my Name is in the Wind
Blowing endlessly
Returning to the One
Who placed the tree upon the Lea
Who gave the Sun and gilded leaves
Who loves the Bird and Butterfly
Who made the grass and blessed the same
Who is the Wind and knows my Name
Monday, October 31, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Awakening
Is it possible to wake
Thirty years into the game and somehow
Come out ahead
Perhaps even thankful for the wounds
For wisdom gained through years of
Living with both eyes shut
Stubbing
Breaking toes
Bloodying my nose as I bash my head
Against brick wall after brick wall
Eyes open to find
Azure fleece draped over my bed
The Moon so long has cushioned
My head
Faint and fuzzy from this
Sleep I brush from eyes which
Wept throughout a dream-filled
Cursing night
It's over now
It's over now
The cursed night is over now
I feel a bit hung over in the
Light of suns now rising
But I am finally awake
I shall not sleep again
© 2005 Maria Stuart
On Suffering
It seems almost that we were born to die, so that we could rise again to Life that is fuller, freer, more alive than ever we have known- so alive, in fact, that the life we lived before seems death, in the shadow of Resurrection.
I don't know why it should strike so foreign in my heart. The seed was born to be buried in the ground, that the Sycamore might live. The acorn's life seems brief- yet it bears within its finitude the potential to live on in the Oak for centuries.
So in all these struggles, purpose can be found. That's not necessarily to say they were set in motion by God- who knows His mind? I am persuaded that He never desired we should suffer so. Yet there's a strange, unknowable paradox in the Fall; that its redemption so far outshines the original as to make their respective beauties incomparable.
Thoughts spurred by a letter to a friend.
I don't know why it should strike so foreign in my heart. The seed was born to be buried in the ground, that the Sycamore might live. The acorn's life seems brief- yet it bears within its finitude the potential to live on in the Oak for centuries.
So in all these struggles, purpose can be found. That's not necessarily to say they were set in motion by God- who knows His mind? I am persuaded that He never desired we should suffer so. Yet there's a strange, unknowable paradox in the Fall; that its redemption so far outshines the original as to make their respective beauties incomparable.
Thoughts spurred by a letter to a friend.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Eternity on My Hands
Reflections on "The Whole"
6 October 2005, 7:16 PM
"The Whole" is not published on this site. If you are interested in reading it, leave me a note, and I will post it or send you a link where you can read it.
Byzantium permeates my senses;
Trinity, the core of who I am.
I’m suddenly aware of Eternity
on my hands; I can smell it’s fragrance,
not quite fresh, but intoxicating nonetheless,
even as I stand in my kitchen
over a sink full of dishes.
Spikenard; too majestic a scent
for mundanity; the everyday…
Yet the everyday is holy as
I learn to seek the sacred in each breath of
perfumed oil, inundating my senses
even as I stand in my kitchen
over a sink full of dishes.
6 October 2005, 7:16 PM
"The Whole" is not published on this site. If you are interested in reading it, leave me a note, and I will post it or send you a link where you can read it.
Byzantium permeates my senses;
Trinity, the core of who I am.
I’m suddenly aware of Eternity
on my hands; I can smell it’s fragrance,
not quite fresh, but intoxicating nonetheless,
even as I stand in my kitchen
over a sink full of dishes.
Spikenard; too majestic a scent
for mundanity; the everyday…
Yet the everyday is holy as
I learn to seek the sacred in each breath of
perfumed oil, inundating my senses
even as I stand in my kitchen
over a sink full of dishes.
Monday, October 24, 2005
From George MacDonald's "Phantastes."
Seldom does a book strike so directly and so intimately upon the most poignant moments and thoughts of my inner world. A most intriguing book, and an exquisite practice in fantasy; grief; beauty; losing (and finding) self. A few excerpts which I found particularly meaningful are below.
From chapter X:
"As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."
From chapter XVIII:
"In dreams of unspeakable joy-- of restored friendships; of revived embraces; of love which said it had never died; of faces that had vanished long ago, yet said with smiling lips that they knew nothing of the grave; of pardons implored, and granted with such bursting floods of love, that I was almost glad I had sinned-- thus I passed through this wondrous twilight."
From chapter XXIII:
"Then first I knew the delight of being lowly; of saying to myself, "I am what I am, nothing more." "I have failed," I said; "I have lost myself-- would it had been my shadow." I look round: the shadow was nowhere to be seen. Ere long, I learned that it was not myself, but only my shadow, that I had lost. I learned that it is better, a thousand-fold, for a proud man to fall and be humbled, than to hold up his head in his pride and fancied innocence. I learned that he that will be a hero, will barely be a man; that he that will be nothing but a doer of his work, is sure of his manhood. In nothing was my ideal lowered, or dimmed, or grown less precious; I only saw it too plainly, to set myself for a moment beside it. Indeed, my ideal soon became my life; whereas, formerly, my life had consisted in a vain attempt to behold, if not my ideal in myself, at least myself in my ideal. Now, however, I took, at first, what perhaps was a mistaken pleasure, in despising and degrading myself. Another self seemed to arise, like a white spirit from a dead man, from the dumb and trampled self of the past. Doubtless, this self must again die and be buried, and again, from its tomb, spring a winged child; but of this my history as yet bears not the record. Self will come to life even in the slaying of self; but there is ever something deeper and stronger than it, which will emerge at last from the unknown abysses of the soul: will it be as a solemn gloom, burning with eyes? or a clear morning after the rain? or a smiling child, that finds itself nowhere, and everywhere?"
From chapter X:
"As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."
From chapter XVIII:
"In dreams of unspeakable joy-- of restored friendships; of revived embraces; of love which said it had never died; of faces that had vanished long ago, yet said with smiling lips that they knew nothing of the grave; of pardons implored, and granted with such bursting floods of love, that I was almost glad I had sinned-- thus I passed through this wondrous twilight."
From chapter XXIII:
"Then first I knew the delight of being lowly; of saying to myself, "I am what I am, nothing more." "I have failed," I said; "I have lost myself-- would it had been my shadow." I look round: the shadow was nowhere to be seen. Ere long, I learned that it was not myself, but only my shadow, that I had lost. I learned that it is better, a thousand-fold, for a proud man to fall and be humbled, than to hold up his head in his pride and fancied innocence. I learned that he that will be a hero, will barely be a man; that he that will be nothing but a doer of his work, is sure of his manhood. In nothing was my ideal lowered, or dimmed, or grown less precious; I only saw it too plainly, to set myself for a moment beside it. Indeed, my ideal soon became my life; whereas, formerly, my life had consisted in a vain attempt to behold, if not my ideal in myself, at least myself in my ideal. Now, however, I took, at first, what perhaps was a mistaken pleasure, in despising and degrading myself. Another self seemed to arise, like a white spirit from a dead man, from the dumb and trampled self of the past. Doubtless, this self must again die and be buried, and again, from its tomb, spring a winged child; but of this my history as yet bears not the record. Self will come to life even in the slaying of self; but there is ever something deeper and stronger than it, which will emerge at last from the unknown abysses of the soul: will it be as a solemn gloom, burning with eyes? or a clear morning after the rain? or a smiling child, that finds itself nowhere, and everywhere?"
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Attachment & Anger
23 October 2005, 5:47 PM
Tools of the trade of healing
There is an
Attachment that frees
From youth can be
Internalized
Become a part of self
Actually enable self to move away
From the womb
Take flight
Can get horribly wrecked
Sick
Mangled and distorted until
It is nothing but a deep
Dark Hole
Yet
Found late in life
Remains most necessary to
Development of self
Realization that
Something outside the Hole
Exists
There is an
Anger that frees
As necessary as Attachment
For though it proffers the tool
By which one might
Dig the Hole deeper
One might with less bitter toil
Hew the steps that
Deliver the misused
From solitude
Though too often
Time erodes and
Believing only the Hole
Self sits beside the shovel
And denies
It exists
Tools of the trade of healing
There is an
Attachment that frees
From youth can be
Internalized
Become a part of self
Actually enable self to move away
From the womb
Take flight
Can get horribly wrecked
Sick
Mangled and distorted until
It is nothing but a deep
Dark Hole
Yet
Found late in life
Remains most necessary to
Development of self
Realization that
Something outside the Hole
Exists
There is an
Anger that frees
As necessary as Attachment
For though it proffers the tool
By which one might
Dig the Hole deeper
One might with less bitter toil
Hew the steps that
Deliver the misused
From solitude
Though too often
Time erodes and
Believing only the Hole
Self sits beside the shovel
And denies
It exists
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Letting You Go
19 October 2005
For my son
You’re at your daddy’s house
But I’m thinking of you
And someday
I think you might like to know that
The place you hold in my heart
Does not vanish when you leave
The house or my sight
Today you are
A relatively carefree little boy
Who loves his mommy and daddy
Even though
They don’t love each other
At least not the way
They used to
Someday
You will be a much bigger boy
Someday a man
In order that you may
Grow into every last inch of
Who you can be
I will make damn certain
You know everyday that
I love you
I am amazed by you
I am delighted with you
I will not depend on you
Nor will I live through you
I want to see you grow and thrive and
Pull away from me
When the time comes
I will let you go
For my son
You’re at your daddy’s house
But I’m thinking of you
And someday
I think you might like to know that
The place you hold in my heart
Does not vanish when you leave
The house or my sight
Today you are
A relatively carefree little boy
Who loves his mommy and daddy
Even though
They don’t love each other
At least not the way
They used to
Someday
You will be a much bigger boy
Someday a man
In order that you may
Grow into every last inch of
Who you can be
I will make damn certain
You know everyday that
I love you
I am amazed by you
I am delighted with you
I will not depend on you
Nor will I live through you
I want to see you grow and thrive and
Pull away from me
When the time comes
I will let you go
Antibacterial Soap
19 October 2005
For my son
It was antibacterial soap
That led me back to those days
When you first graced my world
With your presence
My job is anything but sentimental
Stocking cold steel
Abrasives and harsh
Tools men use to cut things off
Weld this to that
Make broken things work again
I wash my hands of course
Before I leave that wretched place
And as I drive toward home again
My face often rests upon hand
Or fingers trace lips
As I drift in thought
Wherever she takes me
Today the scent of soap on my hands
found its way to my senses
And I found myself
Quite suddenly five years back
In the hospital
Washing my hands vigorously
Under scalding hot water before entering
The sterile room which housed
Your incubator
Watching your tiny chest rise and
Fall with your labored breaths
Pumping and freezing food
For my sweet baby boy
Born three months early
Before the baby shower that never happened
Before the stretchmarks that never formed
Before your lungs were ready
I had prayed
Dear God let him stay inside
Just one more day
Just one more day
By His providence
And your stubborn insistence
My request did not find fulfillment
I remember visiting
Watching and waiting
Hoping for a week's stability
Such was required
If you were to go
Home before Christmas
~~~
You are now
Nearly five years old
Healthy
Happy
Whole
And I am driving home with you
Lodged firmly in my heart
Trickling down my face as I remember
For my son
It was antibacterial soap
That led me back to those days
When you first graced my world
With your presence
My job is anything but sentimental
Stocking cold steel
Abrasives and harsh
Tools men use to cut things off
Weld this to that
Make broken things work again
I wash my hands of course
Before I leave that wretched place
And as I drive toward home again
My face often rests upon hand
Or fingers trace lips
As I drift in thought
Wherever she takes me
Today the scent of soap on my hands
found its way to my senses
And I found myself
Quite suddenly five years back
In the hospital
Washing my hands vigorously
Under scalding hot water before entering
The sterile room which housed
Your incubator
Watching your tiny chest rise and
Fall with your labored breaths
Pumping and freezing food
For my sweet baby boy
Born three months early
Before the baby shower that never happened
Before the stretchmarks that never formed
Before your lungs were ready
I had prayed
Dear God let him stay inside
Just one more day
Just one more day
By His providence
And your stubborn insistence
My request did not find fulfillment
I remember visiting
Watching and waiting
Hoping for a week's stability
Such was required
If you were to go
Home before Christmas
~~~
You are now
Nearly five years old
Healthy
Happy
Whole
And I am driving home with you
Lodged firmly in my heart
Trickling down my face as I remember
Suddenly
The simplest things are sacred
Even the scent of soap on my hands
The simplest things are sacred
Even the scent of soap on my hands
Friday, October 14, 2005
Dew Drops at Morning Prayers
14 October 2005
At the land on Chrisman Mill Road
Clouds hung like heather upon
Golden misty-morning breezes
The Faithful gathered amidst the
Trees and vineyards of Kentucky
We stood among the Dead
Sang with them
Praises of Eternity
And through Eternity
Light met its mark
A dew drop upon the iron fence
Shot through with a ray which
Travelled the distance
From the sun to that finite point
So much depends
upon
The black iron
fence
Glazed with early morning
dew
Beside the white stone
pillar*
That gate keeps vigil
Stands to proclaim to all
The Faithful are becoming
Collects the early morning dew
Whence light has bent upon my eye
Reminds me of Eternity
This moment is the blink of an eye
The twinkle of a ray
Within a dew drop
Which no longer exists
*Reference made to William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheel Barrow."
At the land on Chrisman Mill Road
Clouds hung like heather upon
Golden misty-morning breezes
The Faithful gathered amidst the
Trees and vineyards of Kentucky
We stood among the Dead
Sang with them
Praises of Eternity
And through Eternity
Light met its mark
A dew drop upon the iron fence
Shot through with a ray which
Travelled the distance
From the sun to that finite point
So much depends
upon
The black iron
fence
Glazed with early morning
dew
Beside the white stone
pillar*
That gate keeps vigil
Stands to proclaim to all
The Faithful are becoming
Collects the early morning dew
Whence light has bent upon my eye
Reminds me of Eternity
This moment is the blink of an eye
The twinkle of a ray
Within a dew drop
Which no longer exists
*Reference made to William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheel Barrow."
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
The Parlor
12 October 2005
I beg your pardon
I’ve never
Worked so hard to live
Hurt so much to heal
Railed so defiantly against the Machine to find
Something better
Something greater
Something bigger than the daily
Hack and
Grinding of my axe against
The fantasies I had allowed to overtake me
All the things I once held true
In the midst of white-washed
Walls bearing crosses
Baptisteries intended to save
My soul from the devil if
I only stepped in and got wet
The god you rage against
I disbelieve as passionately as
Maybe more so
Than you
He is not the crucified God I now know
To be True
Beaten
Broken
Beautiful
The only Reality
In the midst of white-washed
Self-made something-less-than-persons
Bearing crosses around our necks
Nooses
For we could be condemned by our
Actions speaking louder than the
Wood
Metal
Resin hanging from chains which only
Bind our hearts in darkness
If the only cross we bear
Is a coordinating accessory
Dangling light and free upon the chest
Behind a very fashionable shirt
Sitting obediently in the pew
For Sunday morning’s massage
He is waiting outside
Do not seek Him in the Parlor
I beg your pardon
I’ve never
Worked so hard to live
Hurt so much to heal
Railed so defiantly against the Machine to find
Something better
Something greater
Something bigger than the daily
Hack and
Grinding of my axe against
The fantasies I had allowed to overtake me
All the things I once held true
In the midst of white-washed
Walls bearing crosses
Baptisteries intended to save
My soul from the devil if
I only stepped in and got wet
The god you rage against
I disbelieve as passionately as
Maybe more so
Than you
He is not the crucified God I now know
To be True
Beaten
Broken
Beautiful
The only Reality
In the midst of white-washed
Self-made something-less-than-persons
Bearing crosses around our necks
Nooses
For we could be condemned by our
Actions speaking louder than the
Wood
Metal
Resin hanging from chains which only
Bind our hearts in darkness
If the only cross we bear
Is a coordinating accessory
Dangling light and free upon the chest
Behind a very fashionable shirt
Sitting obediently in the pew
For Sunday morning’s massage
He is waiting outside
Do not seek Him in the Parlor
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Blue
9 October 2005, 5:01 PM
There's got to be an answer
Close by
It is just outside
My vision
Blurred by the constant motion
Of this blender-beaten
Reality
Is such a relative term
You might not think it
Can be so difficult to discern without
Some sort of reference point
Some concept of a norm
Outside my experience
Reality
Is far from objective
Far from set in stone
At least from what I have known
Live your life knowing
The sky is purple
Only to realize it is in fact
Blue
You might begin to question
Sanity in light of such
A perplexing assertion
Seemingly
Ludicrous denial
Of all you've ever known
Reality
Is that when everyone around you
Independent of other says
This is so
You do begin to question
The unquestioned
I have begun to ask
The unthinkable
Has begun to undo me in the midst of
Reality
Broken
Mending
I have nothing to grasp
Which will firm up my footing
Allow me to continue to stand
Quite impossible
To maintain decorum
Composure as I watch
The very flat world becoming round
And the very purple sky becoming
Blue
There's got to be an answer
Close by
It is just outside
My vision
Blurred by the constant motion
Of this blender-beaten
Reality
Is such a relative term
You might not think it
Can be so difficult to discern without
Some sort of reference point
Some concept of a norm
Outside my experience
Reality
Is far from objective
Far from set in stone
At least from what I have known
Live your life knowing
The sky is purple
Only to realize it is in fact
Blue
You might begin to question
Sanity in light of such
A perplexing assertion
Seemingly
Ludicrous denial
Of all you've ever known
Reality
Is that when everyone around you
Independent of other says
This is so
You do begin to question
The unquestioned
I have begun to ask
The unthinkable
Has begun to undo me in the midst of
Reality
Broken
Mending
I have nothing to grasp
Which will firm up my footing
Allow me to continue to stand
Quite impossible
To maintain decorum
Composure as I watch
The very flat world becoming round
And the very purple sky becoming
Blue
Saturday, October 08, 2005
What Drives Me
8 October 2005, 12:44 PM
Alone at the reservoir
It’s been a while.
Even so, I am tempted
to run away.
October has been kind,
but my southwestern blood
rears its head again, and
the chill in the air is
almost too much. Fantasies are
stripped away-
into reality I
plummet; from all I have
been accustomed to holding
true and good and tangible
I am removed.
All that is left is
cold.
I don’t know who I am
today; who holds the pen;
who longs for…
what?
I don’t even know
what she wants; I don’t know
how to ascertain her needs,
her desires,
her reality,
if it is, in fact, reality.
I am only cold;
both naked and far
from it; I take my leave
of this struggle- from which
I cannot take what it would
more willingly part withal,
except my life…
except my life-
accept my life
and its contentions; all
I cannot see or taste
or touch, but which drives
me nonetheless.
"You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal--except my life--except my life--except my life." From Shakespeare's "Hamlet", Act 2, Scene 2.
Alone at the reservoir
It’s been a while.
Even so, I am tempted
to run away.
October has been kind,
but my southwestern blood
rears its head again, and
the chill in the air is
almost too much. Fantasies are
stripped away-
into reality I
plummet; from all I have
been accustomed to holding
true and good and tangible
I am removed.
All that is left is
cold.
I don’t know who I am
today; who holds the pen;
who longs for…
what?
I don’t even know
what she wants; I don’t know
how to ascertain her needs,
her desires,
her reality,
if it is, in fact, reality.
I am only cold;
both naked and far
from it; I take my leave
of this struggle- from which
I cannot take what it would
more willingly part withal,
except my life…
except my life-
accept my life
and its contentions; all
I cannot see or taste
or touch, but which drives
me nonetheless.
"You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal--except my life--except my life--except my life." From Shakespeare's "Hamlet", Act 2, Scene 2.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Preclusions
4 October 2005
I lived so long
with a pain which precluded
any sort of normalcy;
an ache which ruled out
any opportunity for peace.
It seemed to come from nowhere;
had always been; would always be,
presumably; was inherent;
a part of who I am, making who
I am somehow unacceptable.
So I’ve learned to equate
grief with some sort of misstep,
most often on my part,
and when it comes
(the grief, that is) I fall into
familiar patterns of
self-flagellant deprecation,
for surely I have played the fool,
if chaos swirls about me so.
It is a subtle and
cruelest form of delusion,
to believe oneself wise
in avoiding any grief; any strife.
For in so shunning hardship
of the heart, one takes leave
of any opportunity to love;
give; receive.
Avoidance precludes naught
except humanity.
I lived so long
with a pain which precluded
any sort of normalcy;
an ache which ruled out
any opportunity for peace.
It seemed to come from nowhere;
had always been; would always be,
presumably; was inherent;
a part of who I am, making who
I am somehow unacceptable.
So I’ve learned to equate
grief with some sort of misstep,
most often on my part,
and when it comes
(the grief, that is) I fall into
familiar patterns of
self-flagellant deprecation,
for surely I have played the fool,
if chaos swirls about me so.
It is a subtle and
cruelest form of delusion,
to believe oneself wise
in avoiding any grief; any strife.
For in so shunning hardship
of the heart, one takes leave
of any opportunity to love;
give; receive.
Avoidance precludes naught
except humanity.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Far Too Long
3 October 2005
These tears
behind my eyes, welling; choking;
needing to spill down my
cheeks, dry for far too long.
I cannot close my eyes, or else
they'll run free, finally pressed
beyond capacity to reinforce
self-delusion; fantasies of
what is not, nor ever was.
I fear this acknowledgement
of grief; abandonment;
acceptance of reality as it stands
right now.
It's not that I desire insanity; rather,
these fantasies distract me
from infirmities which threaten to undo
my well-being. I seek to preserve
what I can of what is left of who I was;
who they were; what I once held
as Truth.
I'm afraid it comes to this, and naught else:
The practice of sanity demands a price...
I feel the tension in the strings
of my psychological purse... I take my leave
and long to see no more of these
selves which I have carried around
for years inside of me. They dwell
within the waters of my mind;
the tears
behind my eyes, welling; choking;
needing to spill down my
cheeks, dry for far too long.
These tears
behind my eyes, welling; choking;
needing to spill down my
cheeks, dry for far too long.
I cannot close my eyes, or else
they'll run free, finally pressed
beyond capacity to reinforce
self-delusion; fantasies of
what is not, nor ever was.
I fear this acknowledgement
of grief; abandonment;
acceptance of reality as it stands
right now.
It's not that I desire insanity; rather,
these fantasies distract me
from infirmities which threaten to undo
my well-being. I seek to preserve
what I can of what is left of who I was;
who they were; what I once held
as Truth.
I'm afraid it comes to this, and naught else:
The practice of sanity demands a price...
I feel the tension in the strings
of my psychological purse... I take my leave
and long to see no more of these
selves which I have carried around
for years inside of me. They dwell
within the waters of my mind;
the tears
behind my eyes, welling; choking;
needing to spill down my
cheeks, dry for far too long.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
