Clutched tight, all that treasure, in the bud, now blooming as you open up and let go, and realise that all that gift is for giving, and none of it is worth a damn holed up, sepalled shut and lightless. The worth is in the shining, the reflection, the golden glow of a countenance brightly lit, prayer dripping from you as honeyed light
At first it seems that you will never be done with opening. Row upon row of eager sharkish teeth, pointing up delicate satin flintish arrows to indicate the way. Circles falling over one another to begin. Green transformed by the sun’s sacred alchemy into gold as it passes from the centre ever nearer the precipice of edge, fearlessly dancing further and further out. Living with such abandon, the brightness of your seamless mandala changes us too, as we gaze on glory ever changing to glory.
Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt Photograph by Kate Kennington Steer © used with permission.
Perhaps we should give up clothing glimpses of the Glory with our utterly insufficient speech. We stand in the cleft with Moses and the back of Glory passes us by, and we charge at it with butterfly nets like tiny toddlers, falling over our own feet as we try to catch sparks that escape through the holes. We only look foolish. As though we might pin down anything of such Wonder!
Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018
Light around a shape, whether (and weather) it is a cloud or a head, is described as a halo. We might think of it as an aura, or a kind of glow, that we often ascribe to coming from within, a measure of saintliness. When used in art to show holiness, it is often depicted around the whole person of Jesus as an “aureole” or “glory,” whilst lesser saints only have holy heads.
I would not like to know how much light I give off, I think that I would only start to measure it, as human beings tend to do, wondering if I have more Watts than the rest of the pew… as usual I would be thinking of things back to front, for however much our light shines, it is all the grace of God, given, not earned.
text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
As the landscape rolls out with red carpet welcome, so vast and so sublime, there is no one thing to draw my gaze but your face. Your face filled with nebulae, dotted with novae, dusted with constellations, formed from the angle of my seeing behind the clefted rock by galaxies, and the sight is dulled and unconsummated, my being too small, my eyes too tiny to take in even one squinted panorama. Such wonder, such enormity (for size is unimportant when it is immeasurable), such an indescribable beauty that nevertheless wrestles in my brain, in my heart for recognition, even after my inner retinae have given up.
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
I see a meadow, our meadow is coming. A place where the butterflies of grace flit to and fro by unearthly rhythms, and the grasses are clothed in splendour. Where cornflowers explode like blue star fireworks and the poppies sing in zinging red robes. Sky and blood and gold move in the Spirit’s breath; the dandelion roars God’s praise, and the humble daisy sways, eyes closed in pink-edged prayer.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt