Thursday, February 28, 2013
Last night at coffee, Paul Dewayne said it was the ritual he was addicted to not the activity of puffing smoke. Jack walked by and we visited a moment. I remembered how we are not alone. I remembered the Fall and my deciduous choices.
When you speak out loud you offer the opportunity for correction and reproving, refining and redefining. The world does not conform itself to the flats of solitude. It pours itself thru that glass very darkly and only in the globe of warmth and rebuke can that mirrored reflection finally stand beside you and hold light.
I walked to my car and thought about design and what holds true about God's reasons to daily rescue me. Still why would he? And how? I drove home. And then, I looked on the sofa table and heard the sound of my own voice. A ritual. He can use a ritual.
Before bed, buddy and I walk out the front door most evenings and do a quick business in the yard. The rain and sleet were especially cold two nights ago while Nashville continued to make up its weather never-you-mind. I noticed the flowers blooming in the yard. They were goners. My heart loved them went out to them and i wanted them with me in the spring of my own house. There was no time to put on my coat. And now, they will live a week in this window, God's very heart for me is realized and revered in my own compassion for the mere, and today we are blooming, rescued and alive.
Friday, February 22, 2013
building the fleet with my nephew, i thought: if you wanna build something, anything, first go back and start with a paper airplane. go slow, fold on purpose and thumb the corners like you mean them; like you love them; like you lose time touching a face or sitting in an open field. ease the creases as they line up, and gently marry the seems. breathe and breathe life into your work and everything worth building after that should carry the self-same similitude.
hold the weight of this in earnest and nothing will finally become nothing; the thing of value will find fervor; and salt will never again be wasted on fruitless endeavors.
(photo by jP 14.20.o13)
Sunday, February 10, 2013
There is the sun; back there somewhere,
in rain today and a world of refracted-grey light
and Nashville is covered in filters.
Martins are as black as Memphis
and everything is an illusion and a silhouette.
What is it about quiet that looks so much like still pictures?
What is it that draws me out of my stone and puts me forward in,
being to the middle of it just as black?
My perception of myself is only my own.
The tree falls and no one hears.