Let’s waste time together No agenda No purpose Speaking from the heart Musing in the silence One of us speaks, both listen Good listeners Hearing one another’s hearts
Approaching soul truth “on the slant” through the use of third things helps create a circle of trust. But we make or break that circle by the way we speak, listen, and respond to each other about a poem, a topic, a feeling, or a problem. Here we are governed by that simple but countercultural rule, “No fixing, no saving, no advising, no setting each other straight.”
I’m still struggling with the question, “who will listen to me?”
A silly picture for my grandson
Poetry is the language of the heart. But it isn’t written with the purpose being to write a poem. Sometimes in my writing I have begun with “I have a picture in my mind” because I actually do have a picture not words. The thought isn’t in black and white.
I have had in my life (I’m 61 years old) this lonely feeling whenever someone seems to be listening to me, and their response is to say,
“I don’t understand you!”
But I came across some encouragement in a video about one of Canada’s national treasures, namely, Leonard Cohen. You’ll enjoy the whole film, but the scene I am referring to is between minutes 8:00 – 10:00.
Parker Palmer explains, among other things, the danger of a divided heart.
My core beliefs begin with one in particular, The Bible. I will be quoting it over and over again, like a Lawyer quotes chapter and verse of law precedent. The Bible makes the claim about itself, that it is God inspired.
All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work
That means it is written by people, but God is the source of what is written, through his Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit still speaks today, and He always agrees with himself. There may be an apparent contradiction, but through prayerful meditation one might come to realize the truth in paradox.
In “Abounding Grace”, M. Scott Peck states that he does not believe that Christianity is the only source of truth, he says this in order to allow us, his readers, to listen to the writings of others faiths, and philosophies.
I’ve been reading other writers here at WordPress. Here is a young lady grappling with the need to be heard.
Remembering all the soldiers who fought in the war. Sad that they died Poppies Canadian, true North and Strong (The Canadian Anthem) I think I would really like to meet my relatives. A soldier comes from the heartA soldier is a soldier He is Jesus, fighting against the devil A soldier is brave, strong, willing and caring, Hatred to death, despair Explosions, guns being fired and tanks, Enemy soldiers being killed, Generals calling out orders, Stealth bombers flying through clouds with the sounds of an earth shattering kaboom, Fires blazing in the darkSmoke everywhere like fog, Grenades being thrown and exploding on impact, Poisonous gases enter the air, Radio frequencies being passed through space and time alone Excitement Victory, Brand new land being claimed their own, Molotov’s ignited like fire bombs, Dead bodies wilting away, Souls set free
I have always been alone, it seems, in this shell.
I remember piano lessons, I’d ride the bus from my childhood home to our church, it took about half an hour, a mile long walk on either end.
My thoughts would be a prayer, an open invitation for him to listen in along with me, as I turned over in my mind, my flurry of thoughts.
And I supposed that I knew when it was he that responded to me, and the conversation was constant.
One day as I disembarked from the bus at Portage Avenue and Vimy Road, a thought came to mind. To explain salvation through Jesus Christ from Genesis to Revelation. I began to talk out loud, and the words flowed. The amazing thing to me was that as I spoke, I learned. The walk from Portage Avenue to Hamilton Boulevard was about a mile. It was a warm evening. When I arrived at home I hadn’t finished what I had to say, so I sat on our front steps, until the words concluded.
I was intrigued, and though I forget the exact words I remember going back sermon to draw from that sermon when speaking with others.
I forget just where that memory fits into the time line of my life.
Glenn, my big brother, was gone. He’d had a fight with my Dad, and my Dad told him to leave. Two hard heads butted, and Glenn was prepared. He had a place to go that night, and in the morning, after stopping at the bank, he was on a train for the West Coast. He never returned.
Years later I set out to find him, to know him. He was eager to be my big brother.
Recently all my big brothers have died. But I’m still a little brother…
Late one night, as I was walking from here to there, the moonlight glinted off of something on the pavement, “what is that?”
A gilded button. Carefully cleaning it, and turning it over in my hand, I saw that it would need to be repaired. This was pretty fortunate. I’d needed a button.
I fastened the button to my jacket, and as I buttoned up, I felt a warm, soft comfort.
The light glinted off its dimming beauty, and I smiled. In front of me I noticed a shimmering of the air, and a force no stronger than intrigue pulled me out of this world, and into that next.
On the other side was a man in a beautiful black coat like the ones worn by the Captains of Cavalry, white pants, knee high black leather riding boots, cuffed gloves, and a long cutlass in a gilded scabbard.
He was tall with long whitened gold bangs that flowed from his head, tucked under his fedora. And in his left ear was a single black pearl with the gilded post. A simple yet full mustache, complimented a clear complexion. He seemed unaware of me.
Suddenly without a word he drew his sword and plunged it deeply into my chest!
I must’ve seen it coming but only enough to vainly grasp it, as it sliced through my hands! My grip was useless against its double edged, hardened steel!
I was pierced through!
I fell to the floor, a soft carpet of broadloom, and swooned as he reached down into me, plunging his hand in where the sword had cut, and just as swiftly he pulled it out again.
In his grasp was a huge fibrous many legged tangled throbbing thing of a thing and he flung it away into the high grass dancing in the wind.
New life flowed into me, the blood that had flowed from me turned to water, then to fire, then to a wind, and I was engulfed in a swirling whirling, roaring, sweet, quiet whisper deep inside of me.
The room went black and I realized that I was standing once again where I’d been. I instinctively looked up at the sky to try to see him, but there was only the black sky of shimmering stars. In my heart I whispered and he whispered back.
“I don’t want to be here ! I don’t belong here ! I belong with you!”
“yes, I am your home. But you are well prepared, you are ready. I will be with you always, and one day you will be home. Will you stay until I come for you?”
I felt a longing to be there. Where I had never yet been, but also there was within me a sweet peace about being right where I am. Belonging, necessity and contentment.
I looked at my clothing, I now had on that long flowing coat with those very same buttons, none of them had a single blemish, they all glistened with gleaming gold, and in my heart I could hear myself saying, “Thank You“
I felt joyful, washing tears flowing from my eyes, and words like a prayer flowing from my heart.
I opened my hand, there was the button I’d found. It was no longer broken, no longer scarred.
Should I go look for folks that have a missing button?
A most treasured garden She needs your sunshine to green her leaves, your rain to brighten her colors, and your wind to lift her sweet fragrance to you
Lord, is there a key to this garden?
Would that key make it mine? Would it then be mine to spoil or mine to tend?
I Love to swim in her pools, bathe in her fountains, run and laugh in her meadows nestle quietly and sleep a peaceful sleep in the sweet cool misty air, moonlit and quiet.
Lord make me wise, make me courageous, to drive away all pestilence, put out every fire and cage up every wild beast.
Lord, teach me to be her Gardner, to tend her delicate herbs, to recognize the weeds, and to see the rare foliage.
Teach me to delight in her beauty; so many times I’ve trampled through I’ve disregarded the beauty there to experience myself
Teach me, O Lord, to sit quietly in her garden, to hear the cricket’s click, see each spider spin, smell each subtle fragrance watch the sun rise on each new morning’s dew, to know each hill and valley and to explore each and every pathway.
Who would have a key to this garden’s inner court? Where only she can open Where only she can invite me in With fear and trembling I would enter Teach me, O Lord, being careful not to cause, a single flower’s petal fall, that lies within her
I’m overwhelmed by my failure to live up to whom I was suppose to be by now.
I’m sealed up, in my coffin, waiting for the lowering and the scoops of dirt.
I can’t hear any tears, nor any handfuls of dirt being lightly sprinkled by loved ones left behind.
Just a cold, dark waiting… here at the end of my days.
I lift my eyes up to heaven, and tell God how he’s let me down.
I’m being let down, into a 6-foot pit dug by anonymous grave diggers.
Just then, God, busy with some intricate matter, has one eye adorned with one of those high powered magnifying lenses you see jewelers use, just above that there’s a visor, above these, a low hanging bright light illuminates his workspace.
He sighs, as my words arrive at his ear, it’s a patient, loving sigh.
“Who is it that has disappointed expectations of you?”
he asks, turning towards me, after having lifted his visor and letting the lens pop out into his lightly outstretched hand,
“I, myself, am very pleased with you, and the life you are living. Why don’t you come out from under those covers and make us both a coffee”
Running Down Vimy 