Here on the paper, making marks of meaning, searching for the apposite line, the brushed path of an errant hair. A painted bridge that inks or powders its way across the blank canyon. Eyes closed, seeing open, gearing up for the leap to the other side, letting the gap stand. No attempt at joining, no plastering here, only the struggle to express the two unmeeting tides as we walk unnerved across a fraying tightrope. The moment soon beyond, blood and sweat dripping into other paradoxes. A second sheet unfolds and the rock rolls back to the tabla rasa valley floor.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com
The light of love streams in from the left and the living water bubbles through on the right, and the twain meet over my bare earthed toes. And here I am Lord, listening for your voice, waiting for your tap on the shoulder, the peace in my heart, to tell me which is the best direction. And all I hear is a third way. Why choose a path? Why not stand here and grow? The world says hurry, the world says pick one, the world says keep moving, the world says go.
Why not stay? Why not stand? Why not look about you? Why not grow deep down roots and tall swaying branches and reach for more sunlight and brooks of lapping light? Where is it you have to rush off to? Where are you journeying, except towards death, who will find you sure enough here on the forest floor when the time comes? Why not meet her here on your own territory, on your own terms and turf? When she sidles up, you will feel her footsteps in the soil, and the weariness in your sap, and you will be ready, after a life wisely lived, not spent searching out the inevitable.
Stand in my love-light-life and be a tree. Grow and spread, dive and delve. Be the marker of meeting, the embodiment of encounter, the tree of my trysting. All is here.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016