Monday, 18 July 2011

Rich Mullins - Calling Out Your Name



Thunder rumbles me out of my bed
To stand at the windowpane, watching
Feeling the absence of the wind that signals the coming tempest,
The atmosphere’s vacuum, drawing me out of my skin and into the grey gathering clouds

Thunder rumbles and Arden looks to the window, wondering
Not afraid, just curious, looking to me to explain, to make safe
How do I wrap the words around thunder?
How do I tell her it is deep calling to deep,
All the ancient longings galloping over the plains to throw themselves off the cliff,
The shaking of everything that can be shaken,
The roll of the drums vibrating with a resonance that awakens the taut skins within
Till hearts skip beats to join in the dance of the Sky King?

Thunder rumbles and I wrap my arms around her
And we stand together at the window, waiting
I can never make it safe
Only make it welcome


Monday, 11 July 2011

"The Real Work"

by Wendell Berry

"It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings."


Letters to Arden - July 11, 2011

Dear Arden,

Will I remember these moments?

The way our noses touch after your bath, you all but hidden in a towel, soft skin, downy hair, bright eyes, our terry cloth cuddles.

The way your head falls on my shoulder, turning in toward the hollow of my neck on our way up the stairs, sharing our lullaby, your little smile and wave as you pull the blanket close.

The pure glee that escapes your lips as you step outside on Daddy’s shoulders, delighted by wind and trees and sea, arms outstretched to welcome it all.

A thousand little moments that take my breath away and replace it with something better – love.

~ mama

Friday, 8 July 2011

Hawk Tag

And then I see a little bird, sparrow or swallow I cannot tell, chasing a hawk through the great blue sky. My eyes are drawn up in amusement as the little one flits and darts, circling the powerful strokes of the bird of prey. Is it a game? Is it an argument? The little one dives straight for the hawk’s head and gets away with a playful peck, and the hawk gives her the eye – annoyance? bemusement? – and shifts his flight path. Still she follows, short wing bursts in contrast to the steady soaring, disappearing now behind the trees. I am laughing at nature’s joke, thankful to be lifted out of my valley into the mirth of the heavens.

I know I am but small, not used to thin air, but oh how I want to follow! Will you let me tag along? Will I ever grow wings big and strong? You turn your eye and laugh, tilt your head and turn into the breeze . . . but you take me into your current and the joke’s on me, for now I am rising on your wings.

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