Holy Scribbling: Looking at Life through a Sacred Window
136
Holy Scribbling: Looking at Life through a Sacred Window
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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781458205940 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Abbott Press |
| Publication date: | 09/20/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 136 |
| File size: | 749 KB |
Read an Excerpt
HOLY SCRIBBLING
LOOKING AT LIFE THROUGH A SACRED WINDOWBy Katherine Roberts Moore
Abbott Press
Copyright © 2012 Katherine Roberts MooreAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-0593-3
Chapter One
~ Words ~
We live in a "wordy" world. Media personalities pummel us daily with words that attempt to impress or manipulate. Everywhere, signs and screens and papers blast more words our way. Music lyrics stream continuously into our ears, rendering silence a near archaic experience.
Yet in spite of this, I love words! Words fascinate me. They intrigue me. But after awhile, I can hear no more. Words become excessive, tiresome. I run from them, struggling to hold the tension between words and silence, sounds and quiet.
And so, as I share my own words with you, I trust you will remember to stop from time to time and experience the power of the quiet.
The Blank Page
Clean and white it lays before me.
Waiting.
Open to newness—something not there before.
Ready.
Accepting all that is placed there.
Gathering.
Words and drawings
and scribbles and musings.
Fragments of life
drizzled and poured
onto the open space.
The paper invites my heart.
And I respond.
Country Ride
The empty paper stares at me,
beckoning words from my heart
that do not come.
Sights and sounds of
field and roadway bid me
gaze from the moving window
rather than attend to
my written phrases.
Gratitude comes easily today.
Country roads and country music
remind me of God's goodness
and tell me about hearts touching hearts
again and again.
Today my car is my church, and
I am bathed in an inexpressible
worship where words cannot go.
Writing Issues
What is this writing about?
Thoughts assail me with
ideas and plans,
problems and solutions.
Fiercely I hurl the words onto paper,
but who will read them?
Thinking is troublesome.
Too much of it debilitates,
too little of it dulls.
And all of it is lost in the vapor
of the next thought.
So I write and write,
fearful of forgetting
yet producing nothing.
Words read by no one,
thoughts going nowhere.
Today I want to throw it all away
and build a mountainous heap of
discarded journals,
scribbled-on paper,
and worn-out pens.
But I probably won't.
Silence and Sound
Slept too late.
The noise has begun.
I can't find the silence.
I wait for your whisper,
but I cannot hear it.
Already busy,
the world is too loud.
The din of ringing and beeping
and talking and bumping
and roaring and whirring
hides your sweet voice.
Slowly I learn ...
when I sleep too late,
the silence escapes
and sacred words are lost
in the clatter.
Another Loss
They used to come.
The words.
Leaping through the wrinkles
of my brain,
Singing and prancing their way
across my interior pages,
seeking form.
Nice words.
Robust words.
Gutsy, howly, growly words.
Words like
numinous and nuance,
escarpment and esplanade,
redolent and recondite,
obdurate and obsequious.
All tapping their rhythm upon
my mental paper
While rearranging themselves with
meticulous precision,
searching for perfection.
But where are they now—my words?
In a wild siege of boredom,
they scurried off my page in a frenzy.
Seeking adventures more lofty,
I suppose.
Now they randomly pirouette in
other times and other places,
leaving my poor mind void.
Oh, come back! Come back!
For what shall become of me
now that my words have gone?
Mystic Dawn
In deep quiet
Before the stirring of life,
I lie in bed peering
At the earliest hint of dawn—
A mystical place where sleepy eyes
Seek signs of morning and
Shadowy fingers reach
Into my heart to touch places
Where I do not go
In the daylight.
The ache inside tells me of my loves.
In my dreams I search for them.
Always eluding me, I remain bereft.
And I've used all the words—
Words of longing and hurt and
Yearning and tears.
There they are, cast aside,
All in a pile,
Worn out from wear.
Once they served me well, but
I am tired of them now.
No, I won't use them.
Today I must find new words.
But perhaps I shall keep this old pile
In a corner somewhere ...
Just in case.
Word Power
Talk. Talk. Talk.
Words. Words. Words.
Keep them flowing!
Joke. Laugh. Entertain.
Stay in charge.
Hold the attention.
No pauses. No breaks.
No waiting. No silence.
No listening.
Funny how words
Create distance,
Shield from intimacy,
Maintain control.
We part,
And still
We are
Empty.
Nothing Left to Say
There are no more words
for the beautiful
Just as there are no words left
for things catastrophic.
All the words have been used—
over and over,
stretched and shouted,
underlined and emboldened
until the hearer is weary of the
deadening sound
of sameness
that never touches the
truth of beauty
or the horror of disaster
or the pain of tragedy.
Too many words
hammer humanity,
numbing the senses.
And we stop listening.
~ Backyard Theology ~
Any window can be a sacred window. It isn't what one sees as much as how one looks at it. Observing life's comings and goings through a sacred lens discovers the "holy" in the stuff of ordinary living.
As I sit in my old kitchen, gazing from my sacred window once again, I am both startled and refreshed by this scrappy yard. The giant pecan tree, naked now save for the thick ivy covering trunk and limbs, stands with bare vines and tall cedar to allow glorious sunbeams to break through in scattered patches.
Suddenly, through the gray skies behind the pecan tree, there bursts a shining bold Light, clearing its path and resting squarely on my face. Illuminating me. Reassuring me. Healing body and soul.
And I know, O God, that you are One with our ragged world yet so far above it—immanent yet transcendent. Powerful theology discovered in my bedraggled backyard!
Simple Solitude
Just me this morning, Lord.
All by myself.
Why do I love it so,
this sitting by my window
that lets the tension fall
from me like unlocked shackles?
With visceral precision, my body
loosens as I gaze across from
tree to field to water.
Though fleeting and unstable,
the morning's contentment
settles over me gently,
and I give thanks
to God for something
so simple as this precious
window-spot.
Coffee and Prayer
My cup is hot,
wrapped with both hands,
steeping in warmth.
Aromas reach my chilly soul
and all is good.
Dark coffee.
Bold.
Rich.
Pure.
Just how I like it.
Forever the perfect companion,
whether in lively relationships
or deepening solitude.
Coffee is slow.
One cannot hurry coffee.
Its mystery must be ...
sipped,
savored,
pondered,
contemplated.
Reminds me of God.
Window Scenes
Gazing through the dirty window,
I strain to see the fuzzy images
looking back at me.
How blurred the landscape appears,
dimmed by dried splotches of rain and dust
collected on the glass.
With squinting eyes, I wonder,
"Could that be a bluebird?"
But how would I know, for it appears
to be the flat silhouette of a
mere "gray" bird.
Dingy clouds cover the sky—or
perhaps I am peering at a clear
blue heaven through a
cloudy window.
And my mind?
I know now why my brain
is full of foggy thoughts
and indistinct images, for
this is simply what happens
when one looks at life
through a dirty window.
Watching Him
He stands at the window, looking out at the world,
quietly observing what most of us miss—
a flutter of leaves from flitting warblers,
an egret sailing through the morning mist.
Loving the earth,
loving the sea,
he embraces each scrubby bush,
each reed,
each coastal tree.
Lowliest creatures elicit a grin
while he watches from the window.
It is cold now.
Inattentive eyes see all as dormant;
yet, peering deeply, he uncovers a spark,
a bud, a wiggle, a hinting breath of activity
casually overlooked by those of us with
less patience and less acuity.
Is this his prayer,
this silent seeing of quiet things?
The hidden, the obscure, enriching his
contemplation of humanity's place
tucked inside the woven web of Creation?
It is his pared-down way of watching and
listening to life's rhythms that makes his
gazing and reflecting seem limitless.
And the window summons his prayer.
Holy Rhythm
Stand in the morning light,
open to its warmth,
open to its focused rays
beaming into hearts
every morning.
Stand in the darkness of night,
open to the vastness of sky,
open to the shining stars dotting
heavenly dark, bringing rest
every night.
Holy rhythms.
Light-Dark-Light.
Wake-Sleep-Wake.
Life-Death-Life.
Separation
Brown and brittle oak branch
Hangs by a single woody fiber,
Broken off from its life source.
No nourishment of food.
No life-giving water.
Disconnected.
Dying.
How like myself.
Separated from your
Life-giving food of love,
Do I not also turn dry and brittle?
Disconnected from my life source,
Am I not just like the oak branch?
For only a little while
Can I hang by my thread
Without your love,
Without your completeness.
For without being rooted and
Grounded in the Whole,
In the life-breath of your Being,
I, too, die.
Dead Tree Haunting
What is it about the dead tree
standing sleek and bare
in the center of the field
that captures me?
Lone crooked branch
still reaches outward,
beckoning my soul
to the mystery of solitude.
A mingling of sorrow and beauty
painting images in my mind
of memories long forgotten
brought to life by
the dead tree.
Broom Trees
Little girl peering from her window
Imagined the pine tree tops
Were brooms turned upside down
With thousands of soft bristles
Sweeping clean the sky.
Today, gazing upward to scan the
Line of trees swaying about me,
I am convinced that this is
Still true.
Serenity
Quietness awakened me
this morning as gentle mist
hovered across the water and
dawn's first light
eased through the vapor,
catching the droplets in a
glowing web of softness.
Silent.
Pure.
And today I live immersed in
complete serenity.
Holding fast to their anchor
Tethered leaves tremble
As the winds blow and swirl.
God's breath?
Grounded beside the tree,
I, too, tremble with rushing
Winds of the Spirit.
God's breath.
The Leaf
Single maple leaf
Sits on a layer of air.
Hanging in the wind.
Aloft and still.
Solitary.
Waiting for the
Fall.
Coastal Mystery
Leaves rain down
in crazy clouds
as March wind gusts
shake the live oak branches
left nearly bare as they
wait, only briefly, for
new green to emerge.
I watch the small gold leaves
sail down, thinking,
it is all backward
how God mysteriously
programs the salty-air oaks
to think that fall
comes in the spring!
Rain and Coffee
From my window, I watch the world.
The rain has come again.
Beating bullets against the house.
Slugging stones on the roof.
Another day of storm and gray.
The rhythm of God's Creation—
Day and night
Wind and calm
Heat and cold
Sun and rain.
All weathers pass this window.
And the coffee brews with subtle dripping,
A soothing backdrop to the wild rain.
Its bold aroma surrounds me with warmth,
And I am wrapped in the very fragrance of comfort.
Coffee in hand, I stand and stare and sip.
A brisk rush of contentment floods me
As I sense my oneness with storm and all Creation.
Such is the gift of hot coffee,
And I revel in the intimacy.
Winter Rain
Cold raindrops form a linear stream
running down each leaf
splatting hard against the
wooden porch floor
while colorless gray enshrouds
every piece of twig and tree
as the landscape is saturated
with a dismal attitude of despair.
Brrr. It chills my bones.
Snow-Tree
Naked branch and limb
reach to the sky,
catching tiny flakes
as they fall.
Stark and gray,
each bare twig
is transformed
into twists and lines
coated with
sugar-dust white.
God and the Weatherman
Does God laugh when the weatherman is wrong?
Surely there is a heavenly grin—an indication of
gentle amusement at our folly.
How boldly human for us to analyze, to assess,
to predict our days with assured certainty.
And how fallible we are.
Instruments and mechanisms
of all styles and intentions
pour forth buckets of information
and we believe,
only to be called back, over and over again,
to the reality of our creating God.
This God of all who shakes the skies and
opens the clouds to send us rain
when the weatherman and
his myriad of radar devices
clearly show sun.
Wait ...
Is that an omnipotent chuckle I hear?
Litany of Trust
When the sun blazes upon my shoulders,
You, O God, are my shade.
In the howling winds of terror and destruction,
You, O God, are my anchor.
As flooding torrents of rain pour over land and sea,
You, O God, are my higher ground.
When ice covers the earth in brutal chill,
You, O God, are my warm flame.
If the land shakes and moves from its foundations,
You, O God, are my solid rock.
When fire ravages homes and forests,
You, O God, are my quenching rain.
All is in you, my God.
In all my fears,
In all weathers,
In all seasons,
I place my trust in you.
May I ever remember
that I hide in the shadow
of your wings, O God.
You encircle me
with your arms
and I am not afraid.
Secure in your love
my soul is at rest.
Amen.
Morning Music
Listen to the cacophony of dawn!
I had quite forgotten how raucous,
how exciting,
how expectant
are the sounds of early morn.
All of God's creatures
sing in a harmonious frenzy,
preparing for their day.
Melody and harmony,
Solo and discord.
Each note a part of a
Masterful composition.
Surely, this is the joy of the Lord!
Shhhh.
Just listen.
Dragon Fly
I see you,
delicate creature
with gossamer wings
spread full,
as you rest there
on my window screen.
Eye-to-eye
we encounter
one another
while I imagine
how it must be
to peer into my
human face
just as I stare back
into your great
green eyes.
The Bluebird Show
The bluebird show takes place
outside my window.
Captured by the zipping and skittering,
I sit and watch, transfixed,
as lapis wings flit and
dance across the narrow
strip of yard.
How many?
I get lost in the counting.
Six? Seven? Twelve?
Tangerine breasts
catch the sunlight,
and with a succession of twirls,
shining cobalt jackets
dart gaily to the
rhythm of the wind.
In a bursting flurry of
dashing spins and merriment,
the dance ends
as abruptly as it began.
The performance is over.
In awed silence,
I am left gazing onto
the empty stage.
I stand and applaud.
Fragrant Memories
Lifting their white heads to catch
the midday sun,
Gardenias bloom outside
my window,
Releasing their delicate sweetness
in every jostling breeze.
I inhale the heady fragrance and close
my eyes with
Lovely memories of lost days of
soft summer air
and home.
Waves
salty waves thunder
upon the sand
as full-moon tide
roars closer,
bringing with it
precious life and
splintered shells
in holy rhythms of
living and dying,
wrapping each gift
in intricate beauty.
Silver Crescendo
Dark shadow glides just beneath
the water's surface,
Pacing itself in steady motion.
Another creature,
lurking deep,
Makes his feisty move,
seeking his dinner.
Unheralded, the startled mass
explodes
To become a jumping eruption of
popping silver.
Fish! Leaping!
Flying out of the water
in frenzied escape.
With a brilliant flash
Life becomes a chase—
Wild and glorious!
And the fragile line marking
life and death
Startles me with Reality.
Our Waiting God
O God, you stand at the
window of my heart,
and you wait.
As close as my very breath,
You wait.
When my heart is ...
closed
walled
locked
you will not enter.
Blocked and rejected,
uninvited or unwelcome,
You will not come in.
Oh, but you wait!
Ceaselessly,
you long for me.
How near you are,
even when my heart
is tightly shut
within me.
And as you wait,
you know that
I will call to you again.
One day.
Finding God
Hushhh ... Hushhh.
Listen to the quiet.
Soundless space.
No drone of motor.
No din of machinery.
No blast of music.
No singing creature.
No spoken word.
Stillness covers all, save the
Single quaking leaf stirring gently
And the solitary monarch that
Glides in silence.
Shhh.
Do you hear it?
Listen again.
This is where God is today.
Nighttime Peace
Glimmer of shine pierces
The black-night leaves.
All is still.
No movement.
No breath of breeze.
Only slim-line moon
And a solitary star, a pin-dot of light,
Peek behind the leafy boughs.
How I love the night sky
With its palest pinks and
Lavenders lingering still
In the western heavens.
Cricket chorus shouts its music
As I watch the falling darkness
And stretch to glimpse
The sliver of moon
With its companion star
Along their nighttime journey.
The sky is so vast—and I?
Barely a speck,
Sitting in the stillness,
In wonder,
Here on the planet we call Earth.
Simply looking.
The world feels right this night.
I reach out and kiss the moon!
~ Fragments ~
And the daughter lamented, "My life is a mess. I am constantly being interrupted in all things I intend to accomplish. I seem unable to follow through with any plans. I lose my direction. Nothing is completed!"
And the Father said, "My child, I am in the interruptions. Look for me there."
Disorder
swallowing my day,
paper mountains greet me from
every vacant space
such a noble goal—
to pare down the exploding
debris that looms here
window beckons me
to stand and gaze as I run
from my dreaded tasks
surely I may die
no further along than now,
praying for mercy
On Retirement
a delicate line
separates contentment
from boredom.
the space I sought
between frenzy
and quiet is a
downward plunge.
in the gap hangs
only a void.
when energies generated
by deadlines and decisions,
issues and commitments
are no more,
all is blank.
where is my direction?
my drive? ...
dispersed and fizzled.
and where are the friends?
the colleagues? ...
scattered and gone.
and the downshift
brings to me
a restlessness
that disallows peace.
and in the uneasy space,
I work to readjust.
Again.
On Needing Wisdom
Lord, here I am again,
Struggling to see more clearly.
Ah, Lord, I have
Too many ideas,
Too many passions,
Too many plans.
And fatigue engulfs me!
Perhaps if I spent more time
In the follow-through,
In the doing
Rather than the brooding
And the stewing,
Exhaustion would not
Oppress me.
Grant me wisdom in my choosing
So as not to wear myself out
With selfish efforts to experience
And participate in and
Fix ...
Everything.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from HOLY SCRIBBLING by Katherine Roberts Moore Copyright © 2012 by Katherine Roberts Moore. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Acknowledgments....................ixIntroduction....................xi
Words....................1
Backyard Theology....................11
Fragments....................39
Lament....................51
The Cell....................67
Darkness and Light....................81
Haiku....................89
Circles....................111