Tag Archives: resurrection

Creating Encounter in Colour: Red and Black

I was not going to write a post this week. Honouring the dead with silence seemed more in keeping with the centenary of the end of WW1. Having recently completed a novel about that conflict, the horrors of it are all too fresh in my heart and mind. But, I felt moved to write this. Lest we forget.

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I stand on the battlefield, careworn and weary with my own soldiering, sheltering my palmful of treasure. I cannot know the horrors that drench this earth, but I will still stand here with you, shifting the weight of my ignorance from foot to foot, my hand curling around the black dots, waiting for the right moment to release them.

I will keep silence for just this little while, when you have kept it a hundred years. And when I am soaked in the greyness of the clouded sky, and the countless white crosses have floored my heart, I will close my eyes and feel the solidity of the sadness in this land. It rises up through my soles, it tugs childlike at my humanity, it wrenches my gut, it bayonets my heart.

And when that song of your untimely end has pained its way along my living sinews, and shuddered my synapses, and made me remember you, only then will I say, “Lord have mercy,” and throw my poppy seeds into the harsh November wind, that they might be carried like you by chilly winds of chance, and thrown into the mangled mud of no-man’s land, the possibility of red resurrection always there, bright flowers on unmarked graves and trampled terror.

Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt  Photo from Pixabay

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.

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

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

Three days later small

 

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

154. Rubbish and a Rose (Aesthetics 13)

rose and dustbin

Sometimes beauty catches us off-guard as we’ve already said, springing up in unexpected places. Here is our friend juxtaposition at work again, a rose blooming with a dustbin for background, reminding us of how the ordinary can be made sacred, as well as of the transitory nature of worldly beauty. Everything, however lovely, is one day going to end up on a compost heap, in a bin, in a tip, or reduced to ashes. Only then can resurrection begin to work its holy magic.

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

Landscape of Love 97: Churchyard

97 graveyard-1417871_1280 drippycat pixabay

Ancient of Days, yew circles the holy ground and stands sacred guard. Her hollowness disguises fullness, and even her dank rotten places are teeming with abundant life; jewelled scarabs and luminescent fungi adorn the lightning wounds and tend the darkness. Toothed fort of the dead, domino headstones re-etched by lichen look ready to fall after centuries of marking mounds of mourning. And life, undeterred, springs up in grasses and buttercups, golden grails full of dew, bluebells ringing out the hours, a carpet of prayer covering the crypt.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

Landscape of Love 95: Catacombs

95 catacombs pixabay

Cocooned in leaves, wrapped like fresh caught fish, woven into casings by the zig zag zipped silken spinnings of grace, here we curl up and die, and wait for new life. Here we lie and dream of spacious places where our feet will soon be set, whilst the world sees only a fresco of shallow caves, grave in their claustrophobic smallness. Inside, our wings form and we fly, my brothers, my sisters, we fly!

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

9: Disbelieved

9 disbelieved bluekdesign MF

But they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense.” Luke 24:11 NIV

Two thousand years on and women are still used to being classed as lesser witnesses. For much of history we have been branded hysterical, untrustworthy and illogical. There is something deeply painful about not being believed. Imagine how these female disciples must have felt, shamed and pained as the men dismissed them and their amazing story!  I know something of this kind of pain particularly within my chronic illness, and have had cruel and disdainful treatment from medics, health professionals and even friends.

I see the same attitude time and time again around those with so-called “invisible” illnesses that are hard to quantify or diagnose, and with those with mental illnesses or depression.   One of the kindest and best things you can ever do for someone suffering with such a problem is to believe them. Believe them when they say they can’t do something, or that it is difficult, or that they are in pain, even when it seems hard for you in a healthy mind and body to credit.

When our experience is very different from the one being related, we can be very quick to dismiss the witnesses. And if we are prejudiced and already disinclined to believe the person because of their gender, their race, their religion, if they are in some way, not like us, or not quite the ticket, our belief is likely to be still weaker.

Only Peter of the twelve, went to check out the women’s story. Don’t you think he was glad he did?  Since then, many people have dismissed the gospel message as nonsense, but God is fond of using things that seem on the surface to not make sense, things that seem upside down or back to front to teach us. He delights in turning things on their head and using the small and weak to topple the rich and the powerful. He would rather have his earthly ministry funded by a collective of women than top businessmen, and rather have fishermen and tax collectors as his pupils, than the elite of the Temple schools. He would rather announce his resurrection to a group who were unlikely to be heard, than to government officials. After rising victorious from defeating hell and death, he would rather have a barbeque on the beach with his friends than stand in the arena preaching about his triumph.

Listen. Consider. Believe.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

Photo from Morguefile.com

6: Wither goest thou?

6 wither Pippalou MF

“The earth dries up and withers, the world languishes and withers, the heavens languish with the earth.” Isaiah 24:4 NIV

More and more clearly it seems to me, life is about transformation from one kind of wholeness to another. And the road that lies between the two is brokenness. For life that begins at all, mostly comes through pain and chaos into a kind of perfection. New born babies, flowers as they first open, nestlings hatching, there is something about newness, youth, beginnings, that is flawless. No blemishes, no wounds, no lost petals to damage their symmetry. But this does not last long. My cat’s once perfect pink nose is now latticed with several scars hard won in garden skirmishes. My skin is not perfect and smooth any more (I recently tried to remove a loose eyelash with tweezers only to heartbreakingly discover it was a wrinkle), and the faultless pink gerbera in the vase that I gaze on now in wonder, will be wilting and decaying soon enough.

But the resurrection we witness also in nature and in the coming and going of the seasons tells us that there is something else afoot. And Jesus lived this out for us, to help even the densest among us begin to understand. Pain is temporary, even if it lasts an earthly lifetime. Death is not the end result. Suffering is a road, not a destination. People are fond of saying that about happiness, but we rarely see the other side of the coin, which is more encouraging for those of us already having a hard time. What we are going through means something, it is a path, a way, a becoming. The via dolorosa is part of the pilgrimage, not where we are headed. The Road to Emmaus is trudged by us all as we walk to a place of enlightenment and revelation, it is not the place we end up.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

Photo from Morguefile.com

194: Rolling Stone

194 hotblack MF rolling stone

Not by the gentle hand or tears of Mary, but by hands bronzed and timeless, the rock is rolled. This new wheeled invention is hard to grasp, the movement of heaven’s cogs purposeful and interlinked with plans hardwired into the very fabric of time. God’s well-oiled machinery releases the new wine, and out it flows, music of the spheres, trumpets muted by the world’s deafness nevertheless heralding the rebirth of the divine, with ten fingers and ten toes and the gaping wounds of having already, at so tender an age, made all well.

Mistaking the greater miracle for the gardener, we miss it, and stare, open-mouthed at heaviness made light, a strange emptiness, and notice only the absence of moss.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com