Tag Archives: road

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

150: Tarmac

tarmac 150

In the bleakness of almost December I think back, I remember, as my skin cracks in the cold, those long summer days of melting heat, when I stretched too far for my own surface and ran liquid across the road. I think of the bicycle stands sinking slowly into the depths of tar, like maybe trapped dinosaurs once did, and of tyre tracks that span conglomerate up into the air, spitting back down like hot hail.

For the cold is here now causing me to huddle my black beauty around centres of strength, and the weak places split like an old man’s smile. Lined I am now by more than white apartheid borders, yellow forbidden zones and cats’ eyes down my spine. Are you on the left or right? Or do you travel a middle way? Whichever you are can you see that those on the other side are as right or left as you are? For the other is not always different, and the seasons pass, and the sun will warm my epidermis again, till I simmer with stickiness like a ready rice pudding, and sparkle in the sun.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

131: Wayside

131 roadside

Ragworted roadside, where the vagabonds and the roadkill can lay unnoticed for days, what should we do without your margins? For these borderlands are precious buffer zones, where the lost, straggling and dead-tired keep edge-dweller faith and imagine different routes. Here the mindless zooming is observed by eyes with time to ponder, and great thoughts raise their unsure heads to wave unseen like weeds in the mist.
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015