Monthly Archives: January 2016

163: Pothole

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Collapsed under the sheer weight of traffic, implosion caused by heavy loads that were never yours to bear, not for you to carry, even for that one moment in which they passed over, rumbling in thundering juggernauts. Now you stand, cracked and broken, dug out to the composite core, fissures filling with rainwater, and see no way out. There is no budget for repairs, no end to the emptiness, and you sink down and spread out in your misery, and even your edges are lost to you.

Road pock now avoided by all, leper of the lane, I pray might you now find a calm in the centre of the highway that you grace. Might you now relax into your frayed borders, new crow’s feet cracks forming as you take the time to laugh in the rain. Might you now, perhaps, sometimes sing of what lies beneath the smoothness and teach all of us how to make ponds and gardens out of the sinkholes in our lives.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

162: Crossroads

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The light of love streams in from the left and the living water bubbles through on the right, and the twain meet over my bare earthed toes. And here I am Lord, listening for your voice, waiting for your tap on the shoulder, the peace in my heart, to tell me which is the best direction. And all I hear is a third way. Why choose a path? Why not stand here and grow? The world says hurry, the world says pick one, the world says keep moving, the world says go.

Why not stay? Why not stand? Why not look about you? Why not grow deep down roots and tall swaying branches and reach for more sunlight and brooks of lapping light? Where is it you have to rush off to? Where are you journeying, except towards death, who will find you sure enough here on the forest floor when the time comes? Why not meet her here on your own territory, on your own terms and turf? When she sidles up, you will feel her footsteps in the soil, and the weariness in your sap, and you will be ready, after a life wisely lived, not spent searching out the inevitable.

Stand in my love-light-life and be a tree. Grow and spread, dive and delve. Be the marker of meeting, the embodiment of encounter, the tree of my trysting. All is here.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

 

161: Wasteland

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Dull and dun, dusty and drab, somewhere for the forgotten to linger and know they belong, hands in worn pockets, facing the bracing wind. Rusting girders and cracked concrete foundations poke up through the soil here and there, skeletal reminders that this corner too was once conquered by borders and framework, but now lost to civilization.

A place for cast-off words mumbled sotto voce, crunched and thrown by the poet, missing the mark, discarded and forgotten, blown by the wind, tumbleweed verses skipping across brown and worn-down earth. A new dance of contemporary chaos, watched only by a mangy vixen sheltering under a billowing tarpaulin, both greyed by time, waiting for the inevitably unexpected new thing that will rise.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

 

160: Walled Garden

 

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Despite being closed off from the world, this garden is a site of the deepest sharing, soul to soul in silence. A place for the holy holding of hands, of mutual smiles and locked gazes. Romance and contemplation find a home here, senses drifting through the spears of lavender and lost in the hypnotic trickle of the fountain, a lion’s mouth dribbling into a stone basin.

It may be sheltered from the worst winds, but if you sit on this bench, shift your haunches back into the wood and close your eyes, you can still smell the ozone as it breezes in from the ocean a half mile away. Sea spray finds its way here, up a long and sandy track edged by waving grasses, settling on the face of any still stranger like the softest sting of snowflakes or an unexpected barrage of kisses.

A haven then, a sanctuary, a cloistered place out of the world’s way, where you are held firmly by oaken hands and your feet touch ground made sacred by the removal of sandals, beach grains shaken in a pile to one side, soles communing with cool earth.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

159: Footprints

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Not neatly in a line, singly spaced on a clean beach, waiting for the clichéd response. Not theologically twee and comforting, suffering castrated of its messy, birthing dance steps, but instead, dog’s feet, running through mud, splattering sods everywhere and all about. Paws at full pelt, eyes on the ball, not caring about dirt or the inevitability of B. A. T. H. s to come later but completely alive, here in the now, mastering mucky mindfulness. Sinking only for a moment, splayed across the surface, connected to the earth, but skating across it. Leaving our marks and knowing that when God walks alongside us, his dusty, bleeding feet make tracks beside, before, behind, above and below ours. Not one set of footprints, but seven holy treads, Emmanuel on the way to Emmaus.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

158: Still Water

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Your deep peace is found in still waters, where rolling waves and whirling pools have ceased, paused momentarily, and the roar of your waterfalls is staying its breath, just for a short while. For this centre cannot hold for long, and is only part of the dance of flowing water, which is Spirit. So we stop, at the height of a pirouette, a slow-mo jeté jetty on the river of life, and see you, and smile. That loving gaze returned and all is set to rights, the wave unfrozen, the breakers roll on.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

157: Ballroom

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The diamond of grace hangs from the softest gossamer thread heaven can spin, twirling like a spider’s larder. The delicate lights land, kissing the rough ground, each facet sending out the palest tint of each colour, till the floor is covered in a patchwork of pastel hues.

How softly, how sweetly, the feathering of mercy falls, reflected from another kingdom, another way of being. It is all light, all waves and particles dancing and beaming, a glowing flowing spectacle for those with eyes to see. And so we are blanketed by illumination, Immanuel, the incarnate love of God brought shining upon us, enlightened by the radiance sent from a sacred chandelier: the Light of the World softening our gaze and brightening our eyes. And then the dancing begins.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016