Tag Archives: truth

Creating Encounter in Colour: Ocean

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Just as the ocean cries out in glorious Technicolour that she is not only blue, not only green, so I shout out to the world that cannot see who I am.  All of us are so much more! Can you not see the myriad of hues that curl under each rolling tide, that sing through the cells of one leaf, that rustle and hum in every emotion passing across my face?

Light and shadow wash over all things, creating tints with no name, and driving the machinations of artists’ colourmen, sweating over the alchemy that will never, no matter how hard they work, obtain true dawn-beach-gold. For who can mix a palette for every green in nature, or even on one tree? And who can capture the nuances of light and dark playing joyfully, dancing as dolphins, on the crest of one wave?

Holding the briefest of moments in our consciousness, were we to live forever, we would never exhaust the meditations dancing in the light.

Text and artwork © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

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Creating Encounter in Colour: Red, White and Blue

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Devonshire or clotted Cornish cream, spread over the layer of waiting red preserves, strawberries captured in the sugary aspic of pectin and held perfectly on the tongue, a zing of luscious summer fruits alongside the soft dairy peaks, and all of it on the top of crumble-in-the-mouth scones, freshly baked and imparting their heat into all the rest, so that it deliciously melts.

Washing it down with orange picot or English breakfast, blue china pot warmed first before the leaves from far-off lands are heaped to infuse their flavour into just boiled water. Such is a thoroughly British late June sensation, bursting white, red and blue along with the clouds, sky and berries, a blessed Union.

And these are our colours, for which we send our lads and lasses to fight in distant un-Anglican places, and the flags that we plant in other people’s backyards, pinking the globe in British blush. We will bulldoggedly wave them at the Last Night, until we imagine Britannia rules okay.

You cannot have one United Kingdom without the other, past and present are bound together like the jam and cream before us, in a commonwealth of sweet and souring, even as we head out into hedgerowed rambling after the Sunday service, where we sang Jerusalem with ignorant gusto.

 

Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt  Photo from Pixabay

Lent 26

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Tap, tap tap at the window, the fingers connect with the glass, but we turn around to look and there is nobody there. Nobody seems behind so many of the tiny noises and small distractions that intersperse our days, and perhaps nobody is sometimes ourselves, trying to rouse us from the humdrum and the routine, so that just for a moment, we might look up, and see holiness gazing in, and beckoning with bright hands and hear laughter drifting into the air, calling us to come and see, come and see!

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 25

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The chambers of the heart pump and breathe their flow, in and out Life courses through, and like us they do not see the results, that they send word to every part of the body, and it hears the booming voice of love. They must simply trust that doing their work, monotonous as it is, makes some kind of difference. At the end of things they will be astonished to find they were the engine at the very centre, holding the truth and owning faith.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 24

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Treasure calls out from the most unlikely hiding places, “Ko ko, is anyone home?”  Here I am, sitting in the seeds of the pomegranate, new born beginnings covered in sweet blood. Here I am, shouting out from the veins of a butterfly’s wing, carrying life like sap beyond our sight and hearing. Here I am, in the cracked voice of a grubby stranger, trying to pour out their life story at a frozen bus stop, having chosen you as the recipient. Who are we to deny these glints of gold?

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 22

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The ego clenches itself around all it holds dear, like a fist. It coils around its own centre, rattling its tail and spreading its deadly hood. The fangs are at the ready and poised to strike. But also held curled inside that fist is a wave of love, and the fingers only need to let down their defences for a moment, the tightness to hesitate for a second, and love may prise open the prison and rush out in a tide of compassion for others that releases both the inner and outer worlds.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 13

 

Piggies from phil jenkins smallPearls of knowledge and wisdom are more often to be found amongst pigs’ husks than locked in ivory towers in safe deposit boxes. For the world barely knows real treasure when it sees it, and so much lies undiscovered, waiting and excited to be lifted into the air with cries of Eureka and Alleluia!

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 11

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Each head is tuned slightly apart, and God’s heart knows each frequency and speaks to it in its own language of love, not an impersonal broadcast to all four winds, but a soft Gaelic whisper in your inner ear, a sweeping sweet vision across your inner sight, for those who have attuned themselves, being drawn in by love.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

At the Name of Jesus, Advent 7

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Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:16 NIV)

“God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth.” (John 4:24 NIV)

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:32 NIV)