Weary feet sinking into dark demerara sand, and the sweetness pushes up between my toes. Waves crashing and rolling unstoppably to kiss where my legs and ankles meet, soaking the joining places. Wind whispers stored in abundance in the emptiness of scattered hells, softly saying, “the sea, the sea,” remembering all the forgotten words of Iris and all the writers who have stood here before and listened. And you, dearest you, cross legged a little way back, cooking breakfast on the brazier, looking over to where I am. The smile that breaks into dawning across your face, lights up the sky, and catches the dull ache of my heart in your net, lifting it, like the seagull suddenly caught above us in a thermal of grace.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from Pixabay
Stepping forth from the thawed crest of a frozen wave, I stand gazing, immobilized by the strangeness of the sand, and the space so alien before me. Born from the belly of the whale, my cell now turned and gone with a splash and a dive; I know myself, but not what to do or how to tread, nor even yet how to breathe this fresh air, free from the smell of stale shrimp.
And the grin that breaks forth, as I have, when I see your face, your smile, and how you throw your head back joyously and reach out for my hands! And so I am pulled into the dance and the spinning, whirling colours are intoxicating, I cannot breathe for the air rushing into my resurrected lungs. So we turn, pirouetting, and we catch each other’s laughter, like a bouquet constantly thrown back and forth. And the waiting welcome committee in their terribly straight line, stand and fume, as we play and delight in this New Thing.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
NB Photo is a placeholder whilst my copyright free reference library seems to be down! Will amend asap.
Sit here and shore up, lotus-like, suspended on the cusp of reality, on the tide-line, the meeting place. Open your eyes to the hand full of rasping grains, how many are there? A beach full of Abraham’s descendants, a palm crossed in gold. Hold and desist from your counting, your measuring, your feeble attempts to understand. Simply let go and settle as the sand flows through your fingers, knowing everything that floats here to you on the waves is gifted. Everything is welcome, for a lifetime or a moment, each piece of jetsam has its place and purpose. Sit with open hands, lifted, open mind, waiting, open heart, ready to receive.
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
Here on the sinking soft sand, place the pebbles of your problems, the stones that mark your failures, your inadequacies. Are they so very many? Let them sit a while in the golden grains, in preparation for what is to come. Lean back and watch the gentle wave ripple in and over these confessions, washing them clean.
What was dry and rough is now smooth and sparkling in a new dawning sunlight. There is nothing to be ashamed of here, only transformation, an offering given up in honest examen and left for me to tend to. Freshness abides. Stones sing Amazing Grace in the ebb and flow of living water.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015