Tag Archives: fresh mercies

Creating Encounter in Colour: Soft Gold

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The cool gold creeps its way across the grass and stone. The dew sparkles, the shadows recede, for they too, must obey the rules of death and resurrection, now fading and passing out to let in the sun. The light seems weak at first, but this is only the sweet gentleness that kisses the world awake and nudges at the edges of the shore, so that everything remembers how to glisten in new mercies before the whole tide comes rolling in.

Soft light breaks into an outpouring of bright light that cannot help but give the best and whole of itself: the sky by noon blindingly adazzle; the ground seared by the seal of golden approval, that having caressed every blade of grass awake, now deluges its heart of gold upon the entire garden. No wonder Mary, who knew him so well, seeing him coronaed in brightness, thought him first a gardener.

Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt  Photo from Pixabay

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Creating Encounter in Colour: Red Shoes

1 red shoes

The red shoes hang on a nail by their trailing ribbons, looking innocent for all the world, though no-one is looking at them today but this tired old ballerina. She knows them only too well and will not be fooled again. New, they were the colour of nascent shell, or the inside of a kitten’s ear, all velvet oyster pinkly grey. Nude as Eve’s Edenic soles, and probably as old. Once worn and worn once, they ripped en pointe feet to shreds and quickly filled with scarlet offerings.

The world will not cease its vampiric feasting, once it has begun to make you dance to its manic tunes. Our only hope is to rip the ribbons that seemed so delightful from our calves, and tear the suckering soles from our souls. In one wrench, band-aid like tossed aside, or hung here on the wall like trophy antlers, the hooks that barbed us.  Only the free can see them for what they are, and the rest gawp at the bloodied rags, astonished that we no longer wear them.

We refuse to dance ourselves to death, and now walk healing paths in streams and forests, barefoot. If we must wear red shoes, they will be ruby slippers that have sequins missing, and when tapped together, take us home.

 

Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt  Composite art by R R Wyatt  © used with permission.

 

Happy Easter!

I hope you have enjoyed this Lenten journey through my reflections, photos and art. Here we are on the day of Resurrection, and I wish you a very Happy Easter!

God bless you,

Keren x

 

Three Days Later

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Blood curdles into the grain

Mixes fresh with old

Responding, the sap sings

Though long dead and now discarded

Roughly hewn and unplaned

Yours the only carpenter’s hands

It has ever known

 

Sings then, and rises

Green shoots writhing

With untameable life

Curling, encircling the rusting nails

Budding in split beams

Filling the cracks with flowers

Rising from wooden wounds.

 

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

Lent 40: Easter Saturday

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Here you are again then, Lord, between the worlds. As from conception to birth, womb and tomb, you are sandwiched twixt life and death, neither one thing nor the other, and yet both at the same time. As yesterday, you span both east and west, height and depth, making the sign of the cross with your Spirit. Today with you in Paradise and at the same time hearing your voice and the rattle of your keys in the dungeon doors of hell, all encompassing, omnipresent, everywhere Love, you are. Thank God nowhere is safe from your unleashed, unstoppable Grace.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 39: Good Friday

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Blackness of sky, redness of agony, bloodied sun, cracking clouds.  There is no doubt to anyone who has ever stood at the foot of this dark shape, looking on this tortured man in perfect obedience, that this is the centre of the universe. Here is the fulcrum of history and the turning point in all relationships. This is where the questions are asked and you are never found wanting, unlike those who have fled but will return. The women, and the man who loves you, becoming a new family at your nailed feet, churched by the anguish of love.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 38

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And on this day of all days you choose to waste your time washing our tired, pungent, dusty feet. Should a king stoop so low, and have his back bow down with all our ills? It does not seem right. And when we are sat, later, breaking your body further as bread, and drinking your blood down along with all those bitter herbs, the symbolism lost on us for now, shall we kick off our sandals under the table for a brief moment, and savour the rarity of soft, cleansed and sweet-smelling skin?

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 37

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You always forfeit your right to be regal, and tinge everything with humour and sweet humility, as though to show us how wrong we are about everything. No Arabian stallion for you, but a small, stocky donkey, one such as your mother rode that fateful night. No gold and lilies, but palm branches, green and thrown down, life ready to be trampled. Every thorn bush you pass reminds you of the crown you will soon wear for us.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 36

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You are soft as velvet one moment, and all teeth and talons the next. I cannot tell when we shall see the dove or the eagle, or what will cause the lion to bare his teeth and snarl. Hypocrites seem to do it, or those calling themselves pure and righteous in your sight, when you said that not even you are good, but only the Father. Changeable face, unchanging heart, giving each exactly what is needed.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 35

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All is twisted in your kingdom and in your words. Everything you say challenges what I thought I knew. Certainties not just turned on their heads, but held upside down and shaken until every last coin falls out of their pockets.  Your mysterious ways make me dizzy, and your new ways of weaving things together creates patterns unfamiliar to my incredulous eyes.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 32

 

Springing Forth from Jess Fletcher small

Time then, to take stock of the value of things. What means more to your aching heart? The rough touch of tree bark, cracked and ancient, carved by the trample of a million ant feet and the sporadic chewing of glisten-eyed deer? Or the place on the ladder you have worked so hard and so long to reach? Which foothold is more solid? Isn’t it better to be near the ground, feet on God’s good earth, than with your head in man-made clouds that blind you to the true nature of things? I love you so much, I will let you decide.

 

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018