Don't worry.
I haven't abandoned this blog.
I am only temporarily absent,
having embarked upon
a Lenten discipline
that focuses on prayer
and imagery in response
to the readings
in Rachel Hackenberg's
Writing to God: 40 days 
of Praying With my Pen.
You can see the results
of my labors by clicking
on the image at right.
See you after Easter!
D

Perhaps Mediterranean

They say that over time
a husband and a wife
grow to look like each other --
breathing the same air,
eating the same foods --
And we know dog owners
often resemble their dogs.
So looking at the bottom
of this glorious boat,
I have to assume
she must have loved the sea
(perhaps the Mediterranean?)
very much...

There is a door

There is a door
behind the thorns
and bounded by the clouds
of doubt,
despair,
and grief.
Do you dare
to lift the bar,
slide it back
and grab the handle;
open up
and set the demons free?
Whatever courage
you can muster
for that last step
will bless you
all your days.

Cold feet

It's hard not to get cold feet
in the gray,
in the waiting,
when the fire of creation
dims and chills
and tears of frustration
muddy the paint
and wash out all the color.
Sometimes all you can do
is hunker down and wait:
fluff out your feathers
against the cold
squint your eyes
against the wet
tuck your wings in close
and brace against the wind.

Not eagles

Our mothers did not raise us
to be eagles,
you and I;
to sharpen beaks and talons,
to soar above the sea
and dive -- full focus,
perfect aim,
effortless grasp --
for what we want,
to know we're meant to have it,
not to question,
but to watch,
and simply to respond:
seeing the silver flash
beneath the waves,
to take it for our own.

An Aged Testament

On dry days
the driftwood on my beach
is soft and gray,
a sleepy reminder
of trees that once stood
tall and young and strong.
But when the rains come,
the old gray wood awakens;
the colors of a life once lived
spring forth again,
the wounds appear
to throb again,
a call to passers-by:
I am not now
what I once was,
but, oh -- the life I've lived.

Content with Now

How foolish,
and yet, how human,
to watch the rain
pouring down the window
and dream of dry desert hills;
to stand in the valley
and long for the peaks;
to climb all day
and wish in the dark
for the safety below.
Will we ever learn
to be content
with Now?