Tag Archives: M.E.

Creating Encounter in Colour: Blue Butterfly

Butterfly

Pain and exhaustion are consuming me today, and my head feels as though it is drowning in a blue mist, killing me softly.  I see a small blue butterfly, flitting in joyous abandon through the chalk meadow, as though a fragment of the summer sky had broken free and was dancing between the waters. I too, should like to be clothed in heaven and mantled in such azure delight.

Perhaps then, I might in turn see my fractured self break away on wings of lapis, the weight of suffering gradually becoming less and less, a blue ballast taking flight and allowing all to fall apart, as it finally should: my ashes softly scattering themselves amongst the bluebonnets and carrying me home.

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

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53. Waves and Breakers (potential)

53-waves-and-breakers

Today is a very rough day with my chronic illness. I barely know how to keep going, to be honest with you. It was preceded by a night of tears, and I did not feel much like praying this morning. But I’ve lived long enough to know that it is precisely at times like this that prayer is even more important than usual. Even if it is asking other people to do it for me.

It’s days like this where even an innocent blanket can look like a raging sea, where the exhaustion wraps itself around me like miles of kelp and pulls me under. These kind of depths are full of potential. They can become sea monsters, full of fear and doubt, worse, self-pity, or a powerless, tiring rant; or they can be given over to God and become a lament, a sobbing prayer, a silent, dull, duvet-coddled sort of day. A day when I ask friends to pray for me and tell God I don’t understand but I love him and know he is good, a strange, grey, unusual blogging sort of a day, where my words might reach someone else drifting in the same sort of painful, difficult, world-weary boat, and we might both receive some kind of solace from knowing we are not the only ones on this quietly terrifying ocean.

 

Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

Some News, and a Spider in a Bucket.

Dear friends, my health is not good, my energy very limited. Blogging every day is too much for me, especially when I feel called to write so many books! So I am going to change the habit of a lifetime and be sensible. I shall still write here, but not so often, and with much more spontaneity than discipline.  There will still be some Veil of Tears or Landscape of Love pieces, but also other types of sharing. I hope you will find the variety refreshing and stick with me as I work on all the outpourings the Lord is so gracious as to give me.

My readers will be the first to hear about everything!

Blessings, Keren

Read on to encounter a spider in a bucket….

 

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In my back garden there is a spider in a bucket. She has been in there some weeks now, and she does not move, save for a few steps back and forth now and again to avoid rain, or to move round to a more sheltered side of her slippery home. I don’t know how she is staying stuck there living in the perpendicular, how she doesn’t fall down, or how she is still alive, since she does not appear to eat or drink.

She is staying still because she is wrapped tightly around a precious bundle. She holds under her thorax, a white parcel papoose, at least as big as her own body. It is an egg sac, where her young are swaddled, and are making ready to hatch and come forth into life, even as she, presumably, is waiting to die. I wonder if the young will eat her, as happens with some spidery beginnings. I could Google it, but I’d rather not know for sure. I wonder if she knows what will happen next. I wonder where her self-preservation went, and how a spider can lend itself so completely to the ways of its own nature that she doesn’t run from her responsibilities, but just sits.

And I wonder how like that spider I am, sitting here in bed, waiting for something, for anything good, to come forth from me. I am sat here with my belly full of wonder, of ideas and imaginings, of stories and theories and the love of God, and I ponder his word here and hold it all precious in my heart.

Will my words pour forth and turn on me and eat me up? Or will they thank me and run to spin their own webs, live their own lives, tell their own tales?

I do not know. But like my immobile arachnid friend, I will wait and see. Too tired now to run away, and in any case, how could I leave my bundle of beautiful word weavings unborn and never known? I must protect them, and they must be released. We sit and we wait.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

 

134: Bed

134 bed

Sickness prevents all effort, so this bearing body must sink with summoned gratitude into the sheets and let the light fall where it will. An imagined Heidi hayloft with eyes closed, I could be anywhere. A skylight shows me stars in the daytime and Grandfather lays out bread with cheese and apples, a rustling feast down below. But eating comes later, and now it is a quickening softness, a garnering of cellular energy that is needed. I gather grain into the storehouse and let the outlines of my shape melt away.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015