Walk into the Warm

Walk into the Warm

(“For I am sure of this very thing, that the one who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.” Philippians 1:6)

I saw the ways that sleep overtook you and
the moments you woke fresh-faced from your dreams.
I could remember the days that left you begging
like an unconscious tambourine. You tried every
escape you knew and yet
the discontent
only grew. You were sure there was a way
to scribble a new portrait that appeared more like
the appearance of the divine you had imagined.
You were so afraid of failing that you
masked your innocence with a succession of
prostrate prayers with your face to the carpet.
You learned to preserve the emotions that
collided against the walls of your heart.

Take a breath. Ease yourself into the day.
Lay aside the effigies you erected to present
yourself to the world. Even though it feels like
slow-motion
there is a trajectory within that moves you
to the wholeness you crave.

You can come into the light, you can exit the
cavernous unrest into the un-echoes of transformation.
You are far away from the starting line; overland
your journey is nearer than you imagined, sooner than
you knew. You can walk into the warm and feel your
icy nervous system melt like a baby being born.

You do not need to hide; you do not need to subscribe
to every anxious thought. You will finish this marathon
with life left over to smile as you survey the distance
you have come.

When the Sparks Began

 

When the Sparks Began

(“Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you should answer each person.” Colossians 4:6)

 

They had been transparent days until then,
skies full of space, dewy grass with the fallen
petals of camelias carpeting the places beneath
the trees.

They had been joyful evenings until then,
rounds full of laughter, guitars with the chosen
chords of folk songs measuring the pace of memorized
ditties and reels.

A careless cigarette dropped from the traveler’s mouth
into a ditch on a day when all burning was banned.
He noticed, he looked
and exhaled again as he hurried to his destination.

A thoughtless epithet dropped from the minstrel’s mouth
into the circle of fifths on a night when choral odes were planned.
She heard it, she laughed
as if that would soften the blow of a word misplaced and unrationed.

The day became opaque for hours to weeks,
the sun was burnt orange, the sky soot black and weeping,
ancient tree roots and newly budded roses were burned
at the stake
along with farms and meadows and houses.

The night became static, claustrophobic and silent,
the guitar cases clicked as instruments were laid down to sleep.
Songs sung for generations, songs sung for solidarity were mute
at the way
unsavory words sucked the joy from picking and strumming
and singing and humming.

Wildfire and iced hearts. All we needed was seasoning to grace
the moment when the sparks began.