Tag Archives: spirituality

Landscape of Love 101: Moonscape

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This faraway sea, tranquilly free from water, sits in concave solitude. Without waves and breakers it may do as it pleases, gazing out at the green and the good. Milky marble, Moody’s eye, always revolving in its dark socket and piercing the gloom, never fully silver in truth. Footprints from giant steps still ingrained in unforgiving dust that no breeze sees fit to stir. All breath long gone and flags unfluttering, undecayed. Perhaps it is this unchanged beauty pulling at our tides that makes us long for mooned monotony and perfect glowing skin, ignorant as we are that close to, our spectral sister still suffers the acne of ancient craters and pits, her beauty unmarred by her blemishes, scarred satellite silently singing to the wolves.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

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Landscape of Love 100: Oasis

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Sahara stopover, Gobi getaway, motorway mirage, where the imaginary camels drink their fill, until, running, stumbling upon the reality of dunes we also claim the resting place. Time stops, the news has no outlet here, the world is, albeit for a short while, just you and the sand, you and the cool water. And in the quiet, under the palm trees, the eternity of desert seems a long way off. There is a different way to travel, to drift, and the softest of breezes kicks around in your hair, laughing.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

179: Castle

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Interior rooms await us once the drawbridge has been crossed with silver, and the battlements admired and passed under. And then the real journey begins, and we balk, and wonder why we came at all, or even started out. Because these are our secret places and our hidden armouries, and to open the heavy oaken doors and let the light of familiar divinity in, this is painful. Our lips crack in dry fear and our egos shriek as their ice shards fall in the thaw and crash into the moat, never to be seen again.

Yet. Deep in the smallest cellar, a trapdoor awaits the one who can navigate the spiral staircases of her own soul, and find the centre, leaving the grand ballrooms behind, chandeliers sparkling with anger, crystallised neglected debutantes. And shall she have the courage to lift the iron ring? And when she sees the sky beneath her and stands on the clear melted sand, will she realise that the fall is the Way, and take her life in her hands, letting the weight of her true self gather and build until it breaks the emergency looking glass and lets her pass through into the light?

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

177: Marsh

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Waders and bitterns shy away into the reedy beds, and the salt water comes to mix death with life as is the case everywhere on land. What you find when you look into the sodium shallows, murky with nightmares, may challenge you, may frighten you out of your wits, but it must be faced, if you are to skirt this place and continue your journey.

For this is a betweening place, a not-sea, not-land minefield of slow rushes and long rough. A place for sinking not standing, to be passed through and never built on, unless you are a fool or a bird happy in a house made of straw. Everything here is washed away over and over, tide after tide, and the cries of migrants call harsh on the wind.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

 

176: Mall

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Spreading mollusc like, arms burgeoning everywhere, it seems, and stores begetting stores. A lichen upon the tarmac, breathing in card payments, breathing out sparkling things to hold our attention a little longer. The smell of newness, factory wrap, stodgy powdery chocolate muffins and coffee that tastes of polystyrene, any real edges dulled smoothly soporific by the muzak. Here and there a blot on the landscape, a piece of grit in your shell of perfection, threatening to dispel the mirage: a mad bag lady, obscenities dripping from her mouth like angry drool; a volunteer rattling a tin, asking for a little attention to be paid to reality; a woman in a lavender hijab, seditiously being different and reminding you that your homogenous waspy whitewashed shops are a sorry sepulchre of sameness.

Your flowers are cut and covered in cellophane, your paintings mass-produced by machinery, and your shine blinds us and your neon tempts us further in. But the grit may yet make pearls in the bright artificiality and the unwashed man carrying his endtimes sandwich board may well one day cause the screen to short-circuit, and for a moment, a hundred thousand shoppers might halt and see the world as it really is, bags dropping like tears from their unclenched hands.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

175: Rope Bridge

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Dare I take the first step? Dare I lean, let my weight fall forward onto so much air, with only a board between us? Is there enough courage, enough momentum to cross this way? I do not know. Holding the twisted hemp, eyes closed, inching onwards, knowing the two islands must meet somewhere in the middle, over nothing. I keep on and shuffle, mindful of nothing but the movement, and the wind determined to shake my already faltering heart, limp limbs desperate to buckle, tears welling, only grim purpose and angels pushing me now.

Who hung this pendulum, this swaying, swinging cobweb thread? Who fastened each plank and took the leap of faith into calling this a bridge? What is so great about the other side anyway, that I must garner every molecule of bravery and swallow my faith so it pounds in my lungs? And will that other clifftop soon meet me with outstretched hand, coaxing me into its palm, promising me safety? Yes, it was that voice which beckoned me, that soft, still call of love. I slide my petrified feet and move ever closer to home.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

159: Footprints

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Not neatly in a line, singly spaced on a clean beach, waiting for the clichéd response. Not theologically twee and comforting, suffering castrated of its messy, birthing dance steps, but instead, dog’s feet, running through mud, splattering sods everywhere and all about. Paws at full pelt, eyes on the ball, not caring about dirt or the inevitability of B. A. T. H. s to come later but completely alive, here in the now, mastering mucky mindfulness. Sinking only for a moment, splayed across the surface, connected to the earth, but skating across it. Leaving our marks and knowing that when God walks alongside us, his dusty, bleeding feet make tracks beside, before, behind, above and below ours. Not one set of footprints, but seven holy treads, Emmanuel on the way to Emmaus.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

158: Still Water

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Your deep peace is found in still waters, where rolling waves and whirling pools have ceased, paused momentarily, and the roar of your waterfalls is staying its breath, just for a short while. For this centre cannot hold for long, and is only part of the dance of flowing water, which is Spirit. So we stop, at the height of a pirouette, a slow-mo jeté jetty on the river of life, and see you, and smile. That loving gaze returned and all is set to rights, the wave unfrozen, the breakers roll on.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016