In the wee hours,
the wind and the chimes make love
wildly, joyously.
~ Rebekah Choat
Tag Archives: poetry
The Storming of the Fortress
Words hard as stone bombard the castle walls,
hurled with precision to break my defense,
all heedless of the wintry rain that falls.
A breach is opened in the outer fence.
The gate shivers beneath unflinching blows,
and soon the dauntless warrior gains the keep.
I hide myself, but all too well he knows
the passages that lead into the deep
and lightless chamber where my soul would stay
in silent shadows rather than surrender.
His footsteps near, and now the door gives way.
His grip is strong — but, oh, his voice is tender!
I give myself up; finally I see:
he frees me from myself, in spite of me.
~ Rebekah Choat
Contentment
image by Rebekah Choat
This has been an extraordinary year for me, encompassing devastating lows and dizzying highs and various points between. Both the heights and the depths, I see in retrospect, have been vantage points which offered me views of aspects of myself and my path that I might not have recognized from any other perspective. But the intensity of neither the agonies, thank God, nor the ecstasies can be maintained for prolonged periods of time, and as the year winds down, the earth yielding its treasures and discarding its detritus before its season of rest, I find a sense of the rightness of it all, richer than I’ve felt before, enwrapping me in a deep and comfortable peace.
Contentment flickers in these home-hearth flames
of gentle warmth and softly-glowing light.
It whispers through the murmur of the names
we call each other as we say good night.
When we climb into bed it tucks us in
and sings to us as we drift off to sleep –
no fears for what may come or might have been,
just simple trust that Love our souls will keep.
It greets us, fresh and fragrant, in the dawn
and walks with us the path of this day’s grace,
finding its joy in common things, homespun –
a quilt, a chair, a dear familiar face;
underpinning the cadence of our living,
it draws us to the great dance of thanksgiving.
~ Rebekah Choat
Thanksgiving
image by Rebekah Choat
Is this one short November day all we can spare
to think of and give thanks for gifts beyond all count?
Too soon the coming season’s pressures start to mount –
just for today can we choose to set by our care?
To be all here, this moment, just to breathe this air,
to savor this day’s grace, to catch the murmured sound
of music in the voices of those who surround
this table, taste the joy in this meal that we share?
Let us be centered in the circle where we are,
with eyes to see the simple pleasures all around,
hearts whole and open to the blessings of this place;
keep kinship with friends gathered here and scattered far,
be mindful that we stand always on hallowed ground,
in gratefulness for solid underpinning grace.
~ Rebekah Choat
Another Sunday morning
image by Rebekah Choat
Another Sunday morning comes
And I resume the standing Sabbath
Of the woods, where the finest blooms
Of time return, and where no path
Is worn but wears its makers out
At last, and disappeares in leaves
Of fallen seasons. The tracked rut
Fills and levels; here nothing grieves
In the risen season. Past life
Lives in the living. Resurrection
Is in the way each maple leaf
Commemorates its kind, by connection
Outreaching understanding. What rises
Rises into comprehension
And beyond. Even falling raises
In praise of light. What is begun
Is unfinished. And so the mind
That comes to rest among the bluebells
Comes to rest in motion, refined
By alteration. The bud swells,
Opens, makes seed, falls, is well,
Being becoming what it is:
Miracle and parable
Exceeding thought, because it is
Immeasurable; the understander
Encloses understanding, thus
Darkens the light. We can stand under
No ray that is not dimmed by us.
The mind that comes to rest is tended
In ways that it cannot intend;
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.
Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by
Your will, not ours, And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it.
~ Wendell Berry
Early September
image by Rebekah Choat
Early September
morning, outdoors, listening
to quiet, feeling
for balance, for the center,
tending soul and garden.
~ Rebekah Choat
Word by Madeleine L’Engle
I, who live by words, am wordless when
I try my words in prayer. All language turns
to silence. Prayer will take my words and then
reveal their emptiness. The stilled voice learns
to hold its peace, to listen with the heart
to silence that is joy, is adoration.
The self is shattered, all words torn apart
in this strange patterned time of contemplation
that, in time, breaks time, breaks words, breaks me,
and then, in silence, leaves me healed and mended.
I leave, returned to language, for I see
through words, even when all words are ended.
I, who live by words, am wordless when
I turn me to the Word to pray. Amen.
Fog by Rebekah Choat
I wrote this some months ago, out of my own experience of a very difficult time. I post it today in limited understanding and great sadness for Robin Williams.
image by Chris Choat
The fog does not come pussy-footing
around a bend in the road.
It does not roll in ominously from the sea;
nor does it cascade in slow motion
down the mountain into my valley.
No.
The fog seeps up from the ground,
from this very earth greening beneath my feet.
It does not puddle about my knees,
nor swirl in terrifying eddies around me.
It simply rises to envelop me in a fine mist,
which I cannot help breathing,
cannot prevent my pores absorbing.
Climbing the tallest tree does not lift me above it.
Bathing in the river does not wash it away.
Walking doggedly on does not carry me beyond it.
Not yet.
Let Me Be
image by Rebekah Choat
Lord, let me be
a spiderling,
securely growing, thriving,
though hanging by
a thread.
~ Rebekah Choat
A Better Resurrection by Christina Rossetti
I have no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is in the falling leaf:
O Jesus, quicken me.
My life is like a faded leaf,
My harvest dwindled to a husk:
Truly my life is void and brief
And tedious in the barren dusk;
My life is like a frozen thing,
No bud or greenness can I see:
Yet rise it shall — the sap of spring;
O Jesus, rise in me.
My life is like a broken bowl,
A broken bowl that cannot hold
One drop of water for my soul
Or cordial in the searching cold;
Cast in the fire the perished thing;
Melt and remould it, till it be
A royal cup for Him, my King:
O Jesus, drink of me.
~ Christina Rossetti
Becka's Blog 