Blindness’ Sight

Blindness’ Sight

Breath comes hard. Not because I am panicked. But there seems no room to breathe. The stillness has taken it all up. What is this vast chaos around me?  Why these familiar noises? The frogs and crickets every night. Has it been so since the beginning of time?

Artistry has nothing here. Form and structure – they don’t seem to make any impression on the impregnable void before them. My world is so small, so familiar, so under my fingertips. My world…this asphalt I sit on, the yellow street light, the rocking chairs on the porch. But when my mind wanders to times and places my body has never been – then I am the only thing left to call small, and the rest is a mystery so unbounded I cannot lift my head for more than a moment to watch its roaring. Already, I am exhausted. This boundless existence which no one can really know or hold within themself, it is incomprehensible. Inexpressible. What then am I to do with it? I wonder how many have gone mad before me.

I stare at it. All this that is not myself. And I can see, see that it is loud. I can smell, smell that it has color; and my ears, they clearly hear an unutterable brightness. But it is no music or crashing or roaring that I have known. It’s no colors my world has produced. It’s a brightness so blinding I cannot see it.

No. Perhaps I have always been blind. It seems so terribly likely. The little I have known and experienced must be less to God even than the blackness of the blind.

I lose myself in the inconsolable racket of existence. But sometimes, I cannot escape the hand that raises my chin to look. My eyes lock with this ageless thing I cannot know. A quiet terror catches in my throat. Not of the thing. That I could bear. But to think that I cannot know it because there is not enough of me to hold such knowledge – therein lies the terror.

The hand that held my chin drops. Blindness strikes me. I can see.

(In the above passage I meant to express that strange concept – that all I can see and know is as blindness to the God who comprehends and is the source of all things. When I stare hard into all I cannot understand or grasp, then a great wall of dark rises before me. Eternity, I suppose some would call it. Regardless, it often seems that I can see far more in my blind, small life, than I can when I look hard into the ageless mysteries which baffle us all. But I would not leave anyone without hope. Though we cannot see or know all now, there is day coming when the curtain shall be pulled back and a true reflection of reality shall appear. “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. 1 Corinthians 13:12” Until that day, let us know the truest reality in the Love of Christ, so that one day we shall live with Him forever, knowing fully those things which are blindness to us now.)

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Thought for Food

Thought for Food

He is so full.

His feet are always bouncing.

He thinks so much, so deeply.

If he doesn’t share,

He’ll have no room left to think.

And that

Would be torture.

 

I”ll think of him there,

Like that,

Always.

Sitting, bouncing.

Breath held till

He snatches a chance

To speak.

 

I never saw him leave.

He always

Stayed.

Talking to the Teacher

Until she had

To go.

 

I tried to imagine

His everyday life.

I couldn’t.

He was always sitting

There.

A different seat, perhaps.

A different teacher.

 

But always

That cascade of tumbling thought.

And a sense of something

About to

Explode.

 

Driving

Driving

Windows down, music up

The air presses against me, shivering

Sun blankets us both

Trees race across the whole spectrum of possible greens

I feel small,

Looking through the legs of the forest

It’s the same feeling I had last night

When I sat down in the middle of the pressed concert crowd

There!

In that golden wheat field –

The ants know what I mean

 

 

 

Love’s Beauty

Love’s Beauty

I saw a couple walking down a path.

Arm in arm, white hair, slow steps.

By themselves, you would have thought

Him bent, her wrinkled.

But when she leaned on him, arm through his,

He was strong.

And she,

She was more than beautiful

When he looked at her.

 

And when I looked again, it almost seemed

They chose to walk so slowly down that path

That they might dream each other’s fading dreams

And breathe each other’s breath awhile yet.

 

They knew how to hold each other up.

Better than anyone. Better than themselves.

Alone, they could not have been strong enough;

Love gave them what they could not give themselves.

 

Perhaps when they were younger it was not so.

They had walked faster then I think, and not so close.

Sometimes it’s easier, when you’re strong, to walk alone;

But love is stronger still when it’s needed most.

 

There was no passion of wild love about them now.

Only a depth of knowing, an unconscious care;

And when she looked up and smiled at him,

Her eyes were full of the lifetime they had shared.

 

Yet if you were to ask them what love is,

They might no longer have the words upon their lips;

But watch the way in which they walk, and live,

And know love by the beauty that it gives.

 

They each reflected the other’s luminescence

Till no space was left between their souls;

And laying aside love’s trappings, they found its essence

In the wholeness that two broken halves can hold.

 

 

 

 

 

Little Things

Little Things

Give me a pen, a paper, a warm mug of my favorite tea.

“It’s just a little thing,”

You’ll say.

I beg to disagree.

Step into these shoes for a moment, please,

And see what I see:

No degree

Of big or small.

I don’t see size in these moments at all,

Each one a drop

In the waterfall,

A single note.

But what I see in these moments most

Is their rhythmic growth,

A crescendo

Of petals unfolding.

Come now, moments, you had almost fooled me.

You would have told me

To look

For your life changers;

But now I see. Every moment changes me.

There is no in-between,

No value measure.

So I’ll dare to seek,

Dare even to believe, that every moment holds a treasure;

I’ll live and breath

Outside these

Inward fetters.

Don’t stereotype the moments as worse or better;

Perhaps you’ll find,

Like me,

That in a pen, a paper,

A warm mug of your favorite tea: there lies

The most beautiful things.

If only

You choose to see.

 

Ballroom Dancing

Ballroom Dancing

I see a ballroom, made of glass.

I see the waves, and each wave asks

Politely, if the birds would come and dance?

 

The floor is flooded with setting sky

And streams of color prism by:

A rippling mirror to catch the reflection of flight.

 

Slowly, softly, an unseen orchestra rises

Gently touching instruments of sea and silence.

The birds soar in the music, as if they would climb it.

 

Altogether now, (I can almost see the Conductor’s hand),

The waves and the birds and the sunrays on sand

Join in fluid symphony, hand to hand.

 

A whirling circle – laughter flinging on the breeze –

Twirling faster, their rhythm swings to ecstasy;

Color, form, shape, and sound cascade in untold harmony!

 

And longing seizes me, that I might stay;

I lift my arms, and somehow, in some small way,

I step into the circle, between the wind and waves.

 

Now this becomes my greatest praise:

For I hear the Conductor in the colored spray,

And though this beauty pass, He yet remains.

 

I see the ballroom, made of glass.

I hear the waves, and each wave asks

Politely, if the girl would come and dance?