a found poem from Frederick Buechner’s Brendan
a druid way of saying God –
the rustling of oak leaves,
the sound of shallow waves against the rocks,
the feel of mist drifting knee deep
over the blue folds and hollows of the hills.
~ Rebekah Choat
I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.
Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.
Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.
After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.
~ Wendell Berry
a found haiku from John O’Donohue’s Anam Cara
The depth of friendship:
the shelter of the silence
between two people.
~ Rebekah Choat
The world turns softly
not to spill its lakes and rivers.
The water is held in its arms
and the sky is held in the water.
What is water,
that pours silver,
and can hold the sky?
~ Hilda Conkling
There are times when my young daughter is unspeakably angry with me because I have done something inconceivably unfair in her mind. She screams and kicks and rages against me – all the while clinging to me desperately for comfort.
That’s a lot like how I feel today. When death and destruction are dealt out by means of bombs or guns, at least we can say, “This is the work of some evil, deranged man.” But what are we to think, what are we to say, when the wrath of nature, surely and solely under God’s control, devastates towns and kills defenseless people? How can we reconcile a loving creator who knows when a single sparrow falls with one who unleashes winds that fling horses into the sky and drop brick walls on babies? But where are we to look for help and healing but to the one who has borne all our sorrows?
I have to believe that just as my daughter, in her inexperience and ignorance and limited perspective, cannot always understand my actions, I, in the limitations of being human, cannot always comprehend the workings of God. Just as she instinctively hurls her raging self into the safety of my embrace, I can do nothing but throw my raging self into his arms.
It occurs to me that I haven’t mentioned here that I write another blog over at Books by Becka, my business website. I post book reviews there, and musings about stories, language, and so on. Here’s the link to a poem I shared there this morning: http://www.booksbybecka.com/blog.html.
image by Rebekah Choat
You make the music
speak and the words dance with the
breath of Your Spirit.
~ Rebekah Choat
May is playing games this year –
started sunny, warm and clear,
overnight turned cool and gray,
flirted with the clouds all day,
then called up a roaring wind,
made the temperature descend
further yet and further still,
woke this morning bright, but chill,
setting all the chimes to ringing,
buffeting a sparrow singing,
now a moment still and mild,
now a playful gust, and wild,
sending shivers through new leaves,
driving finches under eaves,
teasing, breezing in the day –
who can know the mind of May?
~ Rebekah Choat
This becoming a real live girl isn’t easy; it’s not a straight and clearly marked path. A lot of my experience has been a process of trial and error; a small victory here, a familiar pitfall there…I’ve worked through a lot of long-pent-up emotional damage, yet sometimes still slip back into the well-worn pattern of repressing my feelings so as not to make others uncomfortable.
I’ve taken medications for anxiety and depression, quit taking them when they didn’t work well – or when they had worked well enough that I didn’t think I needed them anymore – tried different ones, adjusted dosage levels, and finally gotten onto a pretty even keel. I’ve gone to counselors, some of whom were helpful, some not so much. I’ve been blessed with incredibly patient and insightful friends who have done more for me than I will ever be able to tell them.
I’m learning, at last, who this elusive real girl Rebekah is: to discern what is truly important to her and to stand up for what she believes, to recognize what is harmful to her and to dare to protect her, to trust her instincts, to be comfortable with her. By the measureless grace of God, I think I’m growing up to be me.
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