Tag Archives: God

Creating Encounter in Colour: Rainbow Trout

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Speckled rainbow breathing water and knowing better than we do how to let it flow, gills gently moving in and out. Skin that reminds me of the surface of puddles settled under cars, driven off and leaving swathes of oily colour. Did God paint you to remind us of his promises, made to all life, no exceptions? Or have you just absorbed so much of the spectrum in your swim, bathing in pools kissed by sunlight, that it cannot help but ooze out?

Gliding in places we cannot find, secret eddies and glittering ponds fringed with the long tears of the willow that tinge and tickle your spotted hide with olive green, you spend your days gilded by mystery. You flick your fronded tail at disgruntled anglers, speeding past them with your raspberry stripes, making me glad we are now fishers of people, and can let you wend your rivery way onwards, supple and gleaming.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt  Photo from Pixabay

Creating Encounter in Colour: Gold

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I keep on digging, paddling my way into the wet demerara, this sea-soaked sand, hurriedly flinging it away with my flippers. Must dig, must dig, must lay eggs, must lay eggs. This is the only time I feel like a human, with their never ending desperation to get things done so that the next task on the list can hove into view, each one humming away, bee-like on a never-ending Caucus route, crossing things off in hopes of one day finding the finish line, unaware it is immovable and inevitably the casting off of this life.

It is a rare thing that is truly time-constrained. Birthing is one of them. And so I work hard to bury myself in this deep golden grain, the soft and yet abrasive descendants of Abraham remaining defiantly countless, but so many fewer than they ought, by rights, to be. I am sure God, who no longer counts sins, counts these little ones and knows each mustard seed by name.

Having hollowed this hallowed place, I would like to lie down here and die, I am beyond every resource. There is nothing left, but the work only half done. A few shallow groanings, and I divest myself of what has been waiting, all this time, to become treasure. Gelatinous albumen the casket, calcium crust the mantling lock, and inside the gold that will feed each tiny cold-blooded life.

Exhaustion is burning every cell now, and still the work must be completed, the children buried, the brown caramel topping covered and smoothed down. There must be no x marking the spot, that enemies can find them, and no way for this mother to return to the nursery. Here I must leave my heart, and these small beginnings, and hope with everything that is good and holy to encounter familiar seeming tiny turtles when I am traversing the ocean, seeing and recognising the glint in my own eyes before me. Somehow, I lift myself, and turn.

Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt  Photo from Pixabay

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 23

Petticoat Sea from PFA Linda Bolser Gilmore KDW small

Hearing the sea can happen at any moment. It is always crashing onto the beach of life, onto those tidal places where the edge-dwellers and turtles comb the shore. If you listen to your own breath, and the name it speaks, you will hear it, rising and falling, the waves passing in and then out, the ebb and flow of holy water.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018 Artwork inspired by a reference photo by Linda Bolser Gilmore with kind permission.

Lent 21

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The brass trumpet calls like an alpine horn, long and low across the meadow. The flowers would answer if they could but only the goats lift their heads and shake them, as if blaming their fanciful imaginations for the sound. They have no idea they are being summoned by love to a real feast, as they eat anything and everything they can find, thinking hats are lunch, and washing lines, vines with delicious hanging fruit. “How foolish!” We cry, and then realise we too may be missing the true banquet.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

reference photo for quick pastel sketch courtesy of Therese Wontorek

Lent 20

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The trembling gives you away, so that we know you are cold and frightened, full of dread and longing for the warmth of an open fire, or open arms. Let the tender heart of God then enfold you and still those shakes. Let grace wrap around you like a home woven blanket, and sit you on her lap with a warm cup of cocoa, telling you the story of how you began as a seed of starlight, and were lullabied across a universe of love to become yourself.

Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 12

Bluebells from Craig Nobbs small

There are treasures hidden throughout the earth. The treasure hunters find the pearl and think that is it. But each pearl is part of a string of glories and everything is connected, a mycelium of jewels and precious stones all clamouring to be discovered, their songs rising up through loam and clay longing to reach your hearing and tell you the secrets of a whole universe of love and the glory of God’s name. This is what lies beneath the mulch, and why humankind were made to be tillers of soil and caretakers of the earth.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 10

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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