Tag Archives: mystical me

a new blue

The beach was windy, a bit cool most of the week. But, Sunday, after walking in the morning, we decided to take a evening turn toward the pier. As soon as we hit the beach, it assailed us. The sea was blue, shining blue…a blue we had never seen at that beach in the 35 years she had been coming or the times I had been there, or at any of the beaches on the Gulf, Georgia coast,  South Carolina coast, North Carolina coast, Cape Cod, Maine, California, Hawaii, Mexico, Costa Rica, the Bahamas, Puerto Rico, etc. It shone from under the now calm waves. The blue seemed to be illuminated. It was ethereal and breath-taking. It pulled my head and body around toward it. I walked staring into that blue and not ahead of me for miles. It made me feel something at once old and new. The color caused me to taste a season of life so long ago I could barely bring the detail of it to mind. But, I was young and the place it brought before me was sheltered and mine to explore.

For hours we tried to name the color, make associations. An artist and  a writer could not call it anything but Other, entirely other.

It seemed a Presence. A compelling, Know I am here.  With you in your own attempt to be other than you are. 

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taken to the trail

I’ve taken to the trail again. The season is perfect for woodland walks.

I  leave out about 4pm, the sun shining slightly yellow and filtering through the fading green leaves still clinging tight.

I say I am back training for greater journeys. I say it is about the exercise and stretching my body…but I come more for this kinship, and the resurrection of my nine-year old soul.

My path begins on zoysia and dives down into a draw. There the beauty of waist-high grasses, still supporting blue and crimson blooms, slows, but does not hinder me. I press through them and climbe upon a small ledge anchored and carpeted by pines whose scent sends me back to wood romps and straw sweep-ups in our yard. I run/slide down a little worn away trail and into a deep vale – where wet and sanded soil is blanketed by violets. They mush under my feet and buoy me along. An arch of green welcomes and I duck under sweet shrub, at once I am toddling  in my Nana’s yard…then chasing around corners and beneath hedges.  The ground grows hard where it has been driven over, parked upon and ornamentals rise before me, long too large for their once appointed station. Now the ground is graying, and my steps feel Georgian, middle, centipede grass grows scarcely and pine straw is strewn within its fingers. The scent of Camelia falls from the now great tree, I am eight and walking up from the lake.

The trail disappears back into the woods where once supple summer plants stand spidery and crisp. They reach out at me, the hands which one held their flowers, stand stark and grab gently. The temperature falls as does the elevation…the creek is not far beyond. As I near, I can see reflection. Summer’s shoals are sunken. The water is dark, deep and still, full of all the colors above: blue and golds and greens. I end my sojourn, turn my eyes and see sky  through the arms stretching to touch and connect with all brothers. I spin ’round under the canopy that covers and behold breathtaking beauty in every direction. How could I ever improve what surrounds me?

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like a stone

“And I came home. Like a stone…”

Stone – strong walls and soaring halls and sounding footfalls.

Stone – hewn and broken, fitted and  bonded. raised to protect and shelter.

Stone – sliding under my feet and spreading my fist.

Stone – gathered and hurled.

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“Come.”

A simple plea flashed, “Come with me.”

The sky broke and I began to.

I drove in on roads that ran the backside of what I know, deeply know. All the same landforms seen from another side,  I was home and at once abroad.

Gathering clouds whispered, “I will cover you.”

Goldenrod,  Now’s scepter, roared with their liony heads, “Relent.”

Spiced straw, rust red and leggy, carpeted my entrance.

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soundtrack

And I came home
Like a stone
And I fell heavy into your arms
These days of dust
Which we’ve known
Will blow away with this new sun

And I’ll kneel down
Wait for now
And I’ll kneel down
Know my ground

And I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you

So break my step
And relent
You forgave and I won’t forget
Know what we’ve seen
And him with less
Now in some way
Shake the excess

But I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you

So I’ll be bold
As well as strong
And use my head alongside my heart
So take my flesh
And fix my eyes
That tethered mind free from the lies

But I’ll kneel down
Wait for now
I’ll kneel down
Know my ground

Raise my hands
Paint my spirit gold
And bow my head
Keep my heart slow

Cause I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you

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A day home

Today was a day off to do what I do best. I changed to roaming clothes and walked barely any distance, just up the little unsubdivided, wooden knoll behind my house. The week’s rain had ceased and the now dry leaves well shielded the still damp ground. A February sun’s warmth began to bear down on my dark blue running pants, welcoming me to sit and stay. I lay back and let my hood  frame the nearly still lifes above. Young white oaks stretched their arms in unison, their southern sides iced by the early afternoon light. Alabama February sometimes snows, but usually teases of Spring’s soon coming.

The sky was nearly Carolina Blue and cloudless, I tried to take in the subtle shiftings of the naked and slightly blushing arms and torsos. My ears cleared and heard anew the background of my life when I was little: a distant woodpecker’s buzz, dogs barking behind the hill, a train on around its intersection with our nearby roads. Birds chirped and darted and the winds stirred the leaves lazily, the way I do a simmering pot of stock.

The sun bore on into me. It seemed warmer still, when I let myself feel deeply only such. As I warmed, I made myself feel the earth beneath my back, cool, and I was again, made comfortable, the way a foot stretched out from under the covers seems to solve the problem.

And as I relaxed and lay quiet, heard the faint sounds of soon coming spring, and I was home. Not a door frame nor desk, not a property line nor place at the table, home for me is a sense of stillness and subtle sounds. Home is the whisper of a wood, the patter of a pond, the taste of a tender field. I cannot often journey to those places where home and I have tabernacled before, but it is joy to know that  home is also…just up the little wooded hill, on a blanket of long layered leaves.

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Bahia del Espíritu Santo

For the last few summers, I have been traveling south, as in, of the border, with some of my kiddos and dearest friends. The water has been beautiful, the creatures wild and wonderful, the landforms breathtaking. I have been comforted and nurtured in those places where the names of holy things seemed as beautiful on Latin lips as did the entities themselves. This summer, I am staying stateside. My heart is pulling me to a place I have visited once before. We, Americans, call it Mobile Bay. Such a title seems a taunt to my summer groundedness.

But, I discovered an interesting fact that had long escaped me, today. Karen Zacharias, my writer hero, informed me that the Spanish had once named the Bay of Mobile, the Bay of The Holy Spirit. Well, as I have had some of my best moments on and near to that stretch of water, I have to believe the Spanish explorers were on to something.

In 2003, a few very brave ladies and I loaded up all of our children and a few dear, 18-20 year olds and took them all to stare into and over those waters of the Spirit. Imagine the seashore sans snow-cones and Skeeball, much less roller-coasters and redneck air- brush. God did deep healing in me that week as I watched children corral crabs and seine shrimp and flick fish from the waves. The quiet, interrupted only by delight, cured.

We took nets and lines and buckets. We had nearly no phone nor radio reception. We cooked our own food, well, my world-class cook/chef friends cooked our own food, be jealous. We rested on beaches where no one’s shadow ever fell across us. We caught our breath and a clue as to how much beauty resides all about us.

That’s the way I love to do vacation: with dear friends who can stand the quiet and children who are as curious about creation and the other creatures which share the earth as I am.

I am officially planning another trip this summer…Karen’s re-introduction confirmed a dream which I was holding in my heart to return.

“Bahia del Espíritu Santo,” indeed.

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