Nothing is happening and everything is happening. There is no change day to day, month to month, yet in a year all will be different. Let the earth rest then, and recover itself, overtaken by toil, sucked dry like a weary teat hanging, flesh needing to nestle into itself. No infant grain this year to shoot up hurriedly as though reaching the sky were their aim, NASA watching closely. No seedlings shrinking the ever-depleting store of nutrients. Time to lay low, see the clouds float by on the inside of reddened eyelids. Waiting, learning the hard art of Sabbath, remembering how to breathe.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com
Sinking deep, stretching wide, belly fulsome with water, here lies a strange and fertile peace. More comings and goings than ever, a release and a welcome of tides, trading salt for fresh, Living Water meeting Dead Sea; and yet, here a stillness in the expansive mud flats born at the edges and a freedom in the largeness to be anything and everything, as the oyster catchers burst upwards in a frantic flourish, spooked by movement, a spill of white paint on the canvas of a low horizon. Rainclouds crowding in to gaze at their own reflections in the vast bay, before migrating across the ocean on streams unseen.
A yawning place, opening out for exchange, greeting the foreign, pushing out the excess, learning the difference between empty and full and regretting neither. In and out, to and fro, back and forth, the unforced rhythms of grace are louder and softer here than in any place that was merely river.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015