An Advent Meditation

Beginning with Thanksgiving and then through this weekend I've been coming around the bend, and now here it is: Advent. Each year I relish it richer, experience it deeper – the coming of the Light. Preparing for the mystery – the mystery of God in a body (now, too, in the Body), of God dwelling among us, and all which surrounds that. This year I have felt the earth shaking beneath me in new ways than in years past, and heard a million voices shouting over me, but I'm listening to the voice of my Good Shepherd who leads me beside still waters, who leads me to the firm ground, to the solid rock, to the stable in the stable.

When I live the Advent season, I'm not waiting so much as preparing... for the silent night broken open by a crying baby and thundering wondering angels' song pronouncing Hope, announcing Peace himself on Earth. On the surface, on the outside, the Peace can be hard to see, because he came to the world in a young virgin's womb and it's from the inside out that he's making all things new. So in the middle of the busy, and in the mornings and evenings that surround it, I'll be still in my inmost place, and I'll ponder and treasure the mystery, and I will see the Peace.

Morning

See a sphere of fire ascend,
     push back the world's dark blanket -
Souls rise and thaw -
Liquid diamonds receiving unshod feet
     across the holy green.

Terra Sancta

My feet, bare, feel
        the holy ground.
Winter earth thawed by burning bush
        receives
                my knees,
                        then hands,
                                then face.
The real, the sacred weight -
        the gravity of grace.

Were you not Father, I would not
        dare request.
But you accepted gentle
        all I have confessed,
So I ask bold
        for taste, for sound, for sight.
Giver, grant
        my daily bread
                of grief and light.

The Book Room

In this heavy room
the titles burn me, stab me;
Phrases dragging me down -
rows and rows of weights.
They stand there, sharp-toothed, just waiting
for my eyes to touch their spines.
This room draws in the seeking
hurting grieving lonely with
Dangled relief always a little out of reach.
What ruthless heartless gaping
appetite this space has!
Amplifier of ache;
What cruel, cold gravity!

The Father

Father, Father of flowering fields and
hungering human hearts -
You are fire, you are flame, you are freedom;
You are searing scalpel shining.

I am ash and ache, all
Bent and bruised, and Breaking
God's good and very good;
Tromping, treading, tearing, shredding
Leaves and petals pure, leaving
Battle-scars in brothers' arms, and
gracious givers grieving.

You, You wreck the rebel raging raw, with
Love, living light, a bright
Blazing furnace burning flaws and fatal bonds.

Me you see as complete and pleasing,
A sight radiant
with the Son's rays rising.

Father, Father of faithful fumbling followers -
You joy in each breath of this, my jagged journey.

Mountain Music

Mountains the glory of the ground,
Re-callers of sound, multiplying even
The voice of the wind,
Receive and re-send in echoes of
Whispers and bird-songs and calls,
The rivers and falls all magnified by
The magnificent halls between
Giants of ice and stone.

Wave

Swells unfurl, shattering their glass rims -
Crystal explosion off curving aqua wings,
Adorning vaults with the treasure of the light.
The power of the deep is displayed on its heights.
Living diamonds in the air for one holy moment hang,
Then moved by the breeze they transform into rain.

Holy Ghost

Along ridge and roll of every wave

    and shore the most,

I feel and hear the breath -

    the voice of the Holy Ghost.

Thus no wonder my heart and soul

    should pine and pull to be present by the sea -

To walk, to sit and soak in

    His presence here with me.

Over the deep I catch the rays

    of his delight and bright caress,

And listen true to his song and sound -

    that which words cannot express.

Constant as the breakers beat

    the sand upon the coast,

Breaks and beats his heart for us -

    Here I hear the love of the Holy Ghost.

No Productive Fire

This is no productive fire.

Heat and smoke like a hundred hands pushing,

Pressing head and shoulders down,

Throat-clutching squeezing grip

    Of rage

        Of disappointment

Attempting to dis-appoint.

Living livid is like dying drowning.