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
Stepping forth from the thawed crest of a frozen wave, I stand gazing, immobilized by the strangeness of the sand, and the space so alien before me. Born from the belly of the whale, my cell now turned and gone with a splash and a dive; I know myself, but not what to do or how to tread, nor even yet how to breathe this fresh air, free from the smell of stale shrimp.
And the grin that breaks forth, as I have, when I see your face, your smile, and how you throw your head back joyously and reach out for my hands! And so I am pulled into the dance and the spinning, whirling colours are intoxicating, I cannot breathe for the air rushing into my resurrected lungs. So we turn, pirouetting, and we catch each other’s laughter, like a bouquet constantly thrown back and forth. And the waiting welcome committee in their terribly straight line, stand and fume, as we play and delight in this New Thing.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
NB Photo is a placeholder whilst my copyright free reference library seems to be down! Will amend asap.
Rivulets running like ancient roots along the veins of my dabbling feet. Not seeking to dig down but only to flow onwards. Unconcerned by anything but living the dance, how it takes you in the current that moment: sparkling in the sun; washing over a minnow; swirling slow in a shadowed eddy. Never set in stone but eroding it, channelling your way playfully into the rocks of ages, pirouetting on a pebble, jeteeing from a salmon’s mouth, on pointe gazing up to the noonday sun.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015