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We are afraid of emptiness. Spinoza speaks about our “horror vacui,” our horrendous fear of vacancy. We like to occupy-fill up-every empty time and space. We want to be occupied. And if we are not occupied we easily become preoccupied; that is, we fill the empty spaces before we have even reached them. We fill them with our worries, saying, “But what if …”
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It is very hard to allow emptiness to exist in our lives. Emptiness requires a willingness not to be in control, a willingness to let something new and unexpected happen. It requires trust, surrender, and openness to guidance. God wants to dwell in our emptiness. But as long as we are afraid of God and God’s actions in our lives, it is unlikely that we will offer our emptiness to God. Let’s pray that we can let go of our fear of God and embrace God as the source of all love.
Discipline is the other side of discipleship. Discipleship without discipline is like waiting to run in the marathon without ever practicing. Discipline without discipleship is like always practicing for the marathon but never participating. It is important, however, to realize that discipline in the spiritual life is not the same as discipline in sports. Discipline in sports is the concentrated effort to master the body so that it can obey the mind better. Discipline in the spiritual life is the concentrated effort to create the space and time where God can become our master and where we can respond freely to God’s guidance.
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Thus, discipline is the creation of boundaries that keep time and space open for God. Solitude requires discipline, worship requires discipline, caring for others requires discipline. They all ask us to set apart a time and a place where God’s gracious presence can be acknowledged and responded to.
—in memory of Aimee Schultz Losse
April 24, 1918 – February 27, 2002
“Purge me with hyssop, and wash me, . . .” Psalm 51:7
We took Aimee to the hospital
in the wee hours of Thanksgiving. And I saw
medical workers insert a tube through her nose.
That was before the feast
that should have been—no, was—but got delayed,
as they drilled us for reasons (in ER),
for justification
for the many pills we brought along
to keep her body in a fragile balance,
gone—unknowingly—with a broken sternum,
from the accident in Shelby.
We saw coffee-ground vomit,
knew only some of the answers, felt
reprimanded by staff doctors,
for ignorance, for nocturnal confusion. Still,
up for a day and a half,
I know what dehydration is
and tried hard to prevent its happening.
At home, I washed soiled sheets,
not for love (nor lack of it) but to put things
right. I moved like a poet—laboring—
under the weight of the burden of truth.
And once,
when we came to visit and found her unclean
with a powerful stench wafting in the air,
she waved us away with bony fingers,
hiding her face in a cotton blanket.
The nurse would clean her. We’d eat
hospital-chicken. But by accident, we left our
money in the car and—discovering our oversight—
left food near the register, fled
into the cleansing rain, much needed and ever-so-
welcome like the promises found in the canon of God.
Promises?
Yes. But hers is a much longer story.
And I deal here with possibility only:
How sometimes the mind fails to know
what the body fails to do. And sometimes it does know.
Sometimes the mind fails to know what it does,
the soul fails to know what the mind is doing—
like the time she said, especially
delicious meals, always, to my knowledge
and for many years, eaten in the company of Paul,
whom she misses—
and her mouth in sorrow now just forgets to eat.
So five—or was it six?—and three
at Monday’s Care Plan Meeting,
where the Springwood staff and her next of kin,
address her waning effort, her long-held depression.
We hear out their plan—(give it two weeks)—
buy wine and a bird feeder,
notice the commode, newly placed in her room,
hang an analog clock, or try to. And we,
who live in her dwindling shadow, quarrel,
while she nudges the contents of her
lunch with the tines of her fork. She lies there
day after day, her eyes either foggy
or shut.
But knowing that the past is never “just the past”—
knowing things she does not know—
what I want is a miracle. (Perhaps,
she wants the same.) I want to scream
like Jesus, no, to Jesus: Take up thy bed, and walk!
and watch her walk.
Too tired?
Why we all are.
I had even asked my friends—
when we left the Ghoeles’ house following the Fifth
Saturday Social of the local model railroad club—
Is it all right to pray for snow?
And they all said, yes!
With the new year, the snow came.
So we re-built four computers
in four acts of restoration
that helped us with the claiming of our peace.
She asked us to go away, visit her later—
just as January settled in—
on that Saturday
before it rained a cold and freezing rain,
the sky as dark and lonely as a prayer
thrown back from heaven.
And then one night, she said,
we’d kidnapped Aimee, even prompting me
to write it down. So I’ll include known details:
When she choked on breakfast sausage,
she got oxygen. The pneumonia had settled in,
clogging her lungs with invisible pus.
And the ligament—exposed and visible—
in the sore on her left leg was slow to heal.
Fact is, it never did.
She used her energy to resist therapy, or
so it seemed. She felt caught in the middle,
didn’t know what to do, said, it seemed
we all wanted different things.
And we did. We’re different people.
Then we said our good-byes in a hospital room,
cried and held each other’s hands. A kind nurse
drew the window shades. She told us to
take our time.
first published in ShoeBox Diaries
The angel stands, not in the water
of the flowing pool, where the four cherubs
frolic, but on a lonely slab of cracked cement.
And surely, as she reaches outward
toward an unreachable lamppost—
where joe-pye weeds line the garden wall,
and it is always moist, especially in summer—
the daisies flutter at her with their ostrich-eyes.
A part of her hair has eroded away. A part of her
right hand is broken, and the grass nearby
is as green as the Emerald Isle. In September,
the coneflowers accent the white garden gate.
The wind chases certain oak leaves through
deepening shadows, through expedient
patches of navy blue shade.
But the wind blows most of the leaves away,
and sometimes, after the rain, the sun casts
elongated rainbows on the sculpted path,
perhaps even, on the chestnut orb of a pumpkin,
or on the gourd that sits near the angel’s cooling toes.
Once cuddled by ivy, the statue stands forgotten,
up to her knees in the drifts of a late winter snow.
Icy cherubs gaze toward the stars. Then crocus
appear, and daffodils emerge from the melt,
their yellows as soft as a neonate.
The sun seems still innocuous, when Flowering
Cherry-petals become springtime confetti.
The angel wears, on her cheek, tiny droplets of rain,
a smudge of petal-pink for blush.
She’s been crying but pretending she wasn’t.
first published In Mastodon Dentist
“From the cowardice that shrinks from new truth,
From the laziness that is content with half-truths,
From the arrogance that thinks it knows all truth,
O God of Truth, deliver us.”
—Leslie Weatherhead
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Hat Tip: Richard Groves
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Richard Groves is the pastor of Wake Forest Baptist Church in Winston-Salem, NC. He once said reminded me that the truth does not lie somewhere between two extremes. The truth is wherever you find it. Dr. Groves continues to inspire me.
There is much emphasis on notoriety and fame in our society. Our newspapers and television keep giving us the message: What counts is to be known, praised, and admired, whether you are a writer, an actor, a musician, or a politician.
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Still, real greatness is often hidden, humble, simple, and unobtrusive. It is not easy to trust ourselves and our actions without public affirmation. We must have strong self-confidence combined with deep humility. Some of the greatest works of art and the most important works of peace were created by people who had no need for the limelight. They knew that what they were doing was their call, and they did it with great patience, perseverance, and love.
I’ve been reading much too much prose,
too many blogs. I’ve been arguing
too much politics, while the core of Lucipo
is hooking up in Asheville, readying them-
selves to perform. Sure I want to read. I want it
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like I long for the snow that now always
veers itself north, dumping on the Great Lakes
and New York, in awkward aside to
the theory of warming—coming or political—
depending on how you interpret Al Gore.
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Mardi Gras precedes Lent, year after year.
And I have been hoping that hope and hard work
would pay off, hoping that someone would listen,
but there are Republicans among us, ever-ready,
to tell us how dangerous I am.
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I’m a poet. And Utopia is where
I don’t have to travel to read in a bar. Sure,
I want to read, but perhaps in a garden like the one
I should have planted, before theories of Muslims
grew underfoot like crab grass, giving rise to
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the butthole-police who inhabit our American airports,
and shortly—I hear—are coming to thrash out the grass
of a railroad, near you. But in spite what they say,
I am neither communist nor alien. I am a poet and have
no conspiracy to hide from the day. Thinking it over,
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maybe I’ve been pushing the wrong buttons.
We like to make a distinction between our private and public lives and say, “Whatever I do in my private life is nobody else’s business.” But anyone trying to live a spiritual life will soon discover that the most personal is the most universal, the most hidden is the most public, and the most solitary is the most communal. What we live in the most intimate places of our beings is not just for us but for all people. That is why our inner lives are lives for others. That is why our solitude is a gift to our community, and that is why our most secret thoughts affect our common life.
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Jesus says, “No one lights a lamp to put it under a tub; they put it on the lamp-stand where it shines for everyone in the house” (Matthew 5:14-15). The most inner light is a light for the world. Let’s not have “double lives”; let us allow what we live in private to be known in public.
This photograph of the actual bus in which Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat was taken by Rev. Donnie Williams, a participant in the Montgomery Bus Boycott and author of The Thunder of Angels: The Montgomery Bus Boycott and the People Who Broke the Back of Jim Crow. The bus is now in Detroit at the Henry Ford Museum.
Eulogizing Rosa
Rosa Parks left us
an un-payable debt: A Pathway to Freedom.
Legacy secure, work unfinished,
this Freedom Fighter passed.
When God simply asked her to surrender,
her soul had said, “Yes!” “Seems like
it all started happening, when I stopped
talking,” she said. And so she sat quietly
in that Montgomery bus, so she could
feel the Spirit and do the right thing.
“If I perish, I perish,” she thought.
Servant-leader, giver, mentor,
she was a light to challenge the darkness.
And now we gather while yet we live
to honor her at this her Home-going.
The defiance that made her holy brought her
to the place from which she went quietly Home,
leaving us behind as her living memorial,
to be known by our works. “God uses
the available, grounded in Something larger,”
said her eulogizer. “Turn our mourning into
living, into something love-based.” And if
we believe that honoring our elders is the first
Commandment with Promise,
we’ll heed unto Preacher Jackson’s words.
We’ll follow freedom’s unselfish path,
hailing her as our (nation’s) Mother Parks,
both now and when “we meet her
on the Other Side.”
first published in TimBookTu
Intimacy between people requires closeness as well as distance. It is like dancing. Sometimes we are very close, touching each other or holding each other; sometimes we move away from each other and let the space between us become an area where we can freely move.
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To keep the right balance between closeness and distance requires hard work, especially since the needs of the partners may be quite different at a given moment. One might desire closeness while the other wants distance. One might want to be held while the other looks for independence. A perfect balance seldom occurs, but the honest and open search for that balance can give birth to a beautiful dance, worthy to behold.
The month of February celebrates and commemorates the history and tremendous achievements of extraordinary Black Americans in this country. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. championed the civil rights movement and contributed to world peace through non-violent social change.
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Situated on a four-acre site along the Tidal Basin, the Washington, DC Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial will be adjacent to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial and on a direct line between the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials.
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In commemoration of Black History Month, here are ten facts about Dr. King, remarkable Black Americans, and the civil rights movement:
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- Harriet Tubman escapes from slavery in 1849 and becomes one of the most effective and celebrated leaders of the Underground Railroad.
- In 1863, President Lincoln issues the Emancipation Proclamation, declaring “that all persons held as slaves” within the Confederate states “are, and henceforward shall be free.”
- The landmark Supreme Court decision Plessy v. Ferguson (1896) holds that racial segregation is constitutional, paving the way for the repressive Jim Crow laws in the South.
- Black History Month was originated by Carter Godwin Woodson as Negro History Week in 1926. The month of February was selected in memory of Frederick Douglass and President Abraham Lincoln who were both born in that month.
- Jackie Robinson breaks Major League Baseball’s color barrier when he is signed to the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947.
- On May 17, 1954, the United States Supreme Court rules unanimously that racial segregation in public schools is unconstitutional in Brown vs. the Board of Education, stating that “separate can never be equal.”
- Rosa Parks refuses to give up her seat at the front of the “colored section” of a bus to a white passenger in 1955.
- Buses in Montgomery are integrated on December 20, 1956 after federal injunctions are issued against many city and bus company officials. In the months before integration of buses occurs, the United States Supreme Court upholds an earlier ruling that declares mandatory bus segregation laws unconstitutional.
- At the historic March on Washington on August 28, 1963, the first large integrated protest march, Dr. King delivers his famous “I Have a Dream” speech from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on the Mall in Washington, DC.
- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. is assassinated at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee on April 4, 1968.
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see more at Build the Dream
Human relationships easily become possessive. Our hearts so much desire to be loved that we are inclined to cling to the person who offers us love, affection, friendship, care, or support. Once we have seen or felt a hint of love, we want more of it. That explains why lovers so often bicker with each other. Lovers’ quarrels are quarrels between people who want more of each other than they are able or willing to give.
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It is very hard for love not to become possessive because our hearts look for perfect love and no human being is capable of that. Only God can offer perfect love. Therefore, the art of loving includes the art of giving one another space. When we invade one another’s space and do not allow the other to be his or her own free person, we cause great suffering in our relationships. But when we give another space to move and share our gifts, true intimacy becomes possible.
I’ve been reading with interest the posts questioning whether we spend too much time blogging. And I’ve decided, I do. But I’m going to take a different approach in cutting back.
As allergy season approaches, no matter how interesting the content, if a blog has a black or otherwise very dark background populated with tiny unreadable white letters, so that I have to bend forward and squint at the screen to get the jist of the post, that blog is a part of my scaling back. . . .
WordPress and Blogger may think they are cute, but I don’t. Starting today I’m going to boycott the unreadbale blogs.
EDIT: Hey, guys. If you have black words on a light background, I can read your blog. 
To be able to enjoy fully the many good things the world has to offer, we must be detached from them. To be detached does not mean to be indifferent or uninterested. It means to be nonpossessive. Life is a gift to be grateful for and not a property to cling to.
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A nonpossessive life is a free life. But such freedom is only possible when we have a deep sense of belonging. To whom then do we belong? We belong to God, and the God to whom we belong has sent us into the world to proclaim in his Name that all of creation is created in and by love and calls us to gratitude and joy. That is what the “detached” life is all about. It is a life in which we are free to offer praise and thanksgiving.
“Dr. Martin Luther King is remembered as a great orator whose impact on the nation came from the eloquence and inspirational quality of his words. His speeches, sermons and public addresses melded themes of democracy deeply embedded in the American conscience, and reinvigorated these messages with clear and insightful reflections on the true meaning of justice and equality.”
Read the rest of the article and hear the audio here.
Today is my first “blogiversary.” I’ve been blogging a whole year now. And recently, an older gentleman challenged me as to why I blog—well, he didn’t put it in those terms, because he thought he knew why I “ought to” blog. But you know me. Well, I decided to take stock once again. Doing so is a good idea, even when externally motivated.
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I find my primary reason for blogging still unchanged: My blog is a place where I can showcase my poetry, when and how I want it shown. Everything else is an extra. The internet provides a means to network with other writers. Here I have met and—combining my blog with e-mail—conversed with several writers that Valerie MacEwan and the rest of the staff will be publishing in April in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. And there are the other bloggers. We chat in the comment sections of one another’s blogs, and occasionally we send e-mail.
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Then there’s Shirley, one of the first bloggers I met. Shirley and I have “purchased a house” on the internet, invited all we know, and laughed ourselves silly. We have also exchanged and read each others books, although mine is chapbook without a spine and hers has one. Shirley just started a devotional site. I love the idea that our silliness is not taken there.
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There’s Carol and her daughter Jen. Carol sent me a CD for Christmas. She’s also read Paper Snowflakes (to find it scroll down). There’s Jack and the Bereans, whose devotions inspire and challenge me to live the Christian life I proclaim. I love it that Jack will say “I love you” on a blog!
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There are many more: Daniel, Larry, and Tomas, whose beautiful art work was featured a few days ago. There’s Winsome from “down under.” There’s Holly, Miss Lionheart, and some new friends, some I just “met.”
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A number of the Christians I blog with are from the same denomination, but they haven’t treated me as an outsider. And now a number of Catholic bloggers have joined my “world.” (Not that I don’t know Catholics in everyday life.) AutumnRose is in a painful situation and needs prayer. Maria has visited most days for a while. Why even Father Joe has stopped by a time or two.
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While I have never pretended to be anything other than what I am: A Christian saved by faith—and faith alone—in the Lord Jesus Christ and His payment for the sin of mankind at Calvary for all who will receive, I have never claimed that evangelism is the purpose of my blog. I have regular visitors to my blog who are Muslim, Jewish, or agnostic. There are alcoholics and homosexuals. I think, perhaps, they might be more comfortable if I don’t name them, so I won’t.
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One of the other reasons I blog is to reconcile people, one to another. I blog to educate ignorance and to create community. This is the ministry to which God has called me. Fear and ignorance are powerful emotions. They often lead to hatred. Hatred of groups (racism and all the other –isms) is based on ignorance.
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I blog to share that which I learned while earning my MALS at Wake Forest, that I learned while studying Martin Luther King Jr., that is, Unmerited suffering is redemptive and to fight the triple evils that endanger our nation far more than any terrorist can, to remind people that we live in God’s world. I blog to fight racism, poverty, and war, because I hope to play a small part in making this world more nearly the way God intends it to be.
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I blog that somehow enemies might become friends, that we might lay our weapons down and learn to live in “peace on earth,” just as the angels who heralded the birth of Jesus sang.
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I blog to touch Christians who ought to be leaders in this struggle but often lag behind the rest of the world.
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And I blog for comic relief—as an outlet from a life devoted to reconciliation among people who don’t understand it and don’t want it. I blog to declare that Tony Stewart is the best NASCAR driver. Go Tony!! And in doing so, I met Clance. I blog mainly because I enjoy it. And if the day ever comes when I don’t, I know I can hit “delete.”
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I blog to create a community where everyone is welcome. And if I didn’t call your name, leave a comment, and I’ll add you right away. Or if—like Diane—you want me to just “leave you alone,” okay. But I never agreed not to pray for any of you, like it or not. Thanks for being a part of my “world” in the big blogosphere.
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NOTE: For links to the sites of bloggers named here whose blogs you haven’t visited but are interested in visiting, check comments, even going back a few pages. There are too many of you list and certainly too many to make links.
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EDIT: There’s Earthpal to add, right off the bat.
—for Tony Stewart
Almost weekly I am goggled, when fans—
well, I presume they are fans—
look for you in a poem, Smoke.
You two time NASCAR champion
with a two-day beard, a crooked grin. You,
the climber of fences despite self-proclaimed
“fatness,” you Chili Bowl flipper. You “Papa to
Mojo.” Last year Ryan Smithson
implied that Katie wished Mojo had a Mama,
(so the women could spar).
I thought you’d be all right. But then came
Charlotte, where you broke your shoulder.
Now I’ll just say what I think
(because it’s my poem).
You should re-model something big, Dude,
locate a peaceful woman for your pit box:
One whose hot red lips will feel your prickly kiss,
(slimmer or not).
She’ll give her body for yours,
sweet comfort for you soul, and you’ll win
the Cup again
in a harvest of purest of gold.
Although the table is a place for intimacy, we all know how easily it can become a place of distance, hostility, and even hatred. Precisely because the table is meant to be an intimate place, it easily becomes the place we experience the absence of intimacy. The table reveals the tensions among us. When husband and wife don’t talk to each other, when a child refuses to eat, when brothers and sisters bicker, when there are tense silences, then the table becomes hell, the place we least want to be.
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The table is the barometer of family and community life. Let’s do everything possible to make the table the place to celebrate intimacy.
The Washington, DC Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial Project Foundation was established to commemorate the life and work of Dr. King. He was a true champion of the human rights and a compassionate humanitarian, who used non-violent methods to spread messages of democracy, justice, and hope. Creating a Memorial honoring his life and legacy is a way to remember and celebrate Dr. King’s vision for the world.
Although the Ceremonial Groundbreaking took place in November 2006, the history and significance behind this extraordinary Memorial is quite extensive, encompassing events that date back to 1929, the year of Dr. King’s birth.
Here are a few highlights from the timeline of History of the Memorial:
- January 15, 1929
Martin Luther King, Jr. (originally named Michael King) is born in Atlanta, GA.
- May 17, 1954
The United States Supreme Court rules unanimously that racial segregation in public schools is unconstitutional in Brown vs. the Board of Education, stating that “separate can never be equal.”
- December 20, 1956
Buses in Montgomery are integrated after federal injunctions are issued against many city and bus company officials. In the months before integration of buses occurs, the United States Supreme Court upholds an earlier ruling that declares mandatory bus segregation laws unconstitutional.
- March - April, 1962
Dr. King is arrested during a demonstration in Birmingham. On April 16, he writes his famous “Letter from the Birmingham Jail,” in which he describes the motivation and defends the need for nonviolent, direct action.
- August 28, 1963
At the historic March on Washington, the first large integrated protest march, Dr. King delivers his famous “I Have a Dream” speech from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on the Mall in Washington, DC.
- December 10, 1964
Dr. King accepts the Nobel Prize for Peace in Oslo, Norway.
- April 4, 1968
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. is assassinated at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee.
- November 12, 1996
President Clinton signs Congressional legislation proposing the establishment of a Memorial in the District of Columbia to honor Dr. King.
- December 1, 2005
National Capital Planning Commission (NCPC) Unanimously Approves Preliminary Design for the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial.
To see the complete timeline of the Memorial, click here.
As you can see from the history of Dr. King and the Civil Rights Movement, the need for such a memorial is long overdue.
We are extremely fortunate to be living in an era in which we will see the construction and completion of this historic Memorial. The goal in building the Memorial is not only to remember and honor his message, but more importantly, to carry out Dr. King’s incredible work.
Interested in learning more about the history of the Memorial? Visit www.BuildtheDream.org to learn about the culmination of historic events that lead to the conception and creation of the Memorial on the National Mall in Washington, DC.
I am a woman, who has male friends. I am heterosexual, but I have gay and lesbian friends. I am an American, who has friends in other nations. I love my country, but I want it to change for the better.
I have light skin, but some of my friends have dark skin. My ancestors are from Europe, but I have friends whose ancestors are not.
I am a Democrat, but I have Republican, independent, and Libertarian friends. I think global warming is a threat but have friends who think Al Gore is making a political statement. I’m a pacifist, but I have friends who support the war.
I am a Christian, but I have friends who are Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, agnostic, and atheist. I am a Protestant, but I have Catholic and Orthodox friends and have worshipped with them in their churches.
I have been called by God to a ministry of reconciliation, fighting racism, poverty, and war, but I don’t question others who have a different emphasis to their ministries and/or gifts.
I have a master’s degree, and I have friends who have PhDs and ones who dropped out of high school. I write poetry, but I like people who don’t “get it” and don’t want to.
I’m a NASCAR fan, but I like people who hate it. I like Tony Stewart, but I like people who pull for other drivers, even ones I don’t like.
I try to be a “peacemaker,” but I’m not afraid of confrontation. And I don’t like it, when others insult my friends because they are not like them.
Let me explain.
My goal is to stand before God and hear, “well done,” not to fit into a system that favors some people over others, while pretending not to. The Bible says Jesus died to save US ALL. And while “God is no respecter of persons,” concerning sinners, “I am chief.”
I have stopped calling people names due to certain sins. I try to get along.
Here We Are is the title of this lovely piece of art, created by Tomas Karkalas and reproduced here with his permission. And, indeed, here we are.
This picture and many others, including a fabulous slide show, are avalable on Tomas’ blog Captain’s Bridge. Also, on the blog, is Tomas’ challenge: “And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” Hebrews 10:24-25 (NIV).
Tomas Karkalas, a Lithuanian artist, had a head a trauma in 1974. His head bones were broken, and he “walked on the edge of the death.” Then a miracle occurred, and Tomas returned to life without any outward signs of a disability…
Now Tomas himself works with patients at the Klaipėda psychiatric hospital in his native country. There, art therapy is infused with love. See some pictures by the residents of the hospital on Tomas’ bog Modus Vivendi. On this blog, Tomas quotes Helen Keller,” The greatest tragedy in life is people with sight but no vision.”
Tomas is surrounded by the incredible love and support of his family. And while he is able to work, he lacks the means to support himself. Yet he says that “love is spiritual feature. All I do I do on totally voluntary basis and all I earn is lovely feedbacks but not a penny… No, I am not complaining- I am incredibly rich: I have a computer and can try to express myself in English while most of my destiny brothers can just dream about that. I feel myself so confused—while talking about spirituality, about love and light I am brave enough, but it is so hard to beg for myself…”
Our Tongue Is a Weathercock For Our Loneliness
Other pictures can be seen on Candleday, a blog dedicated to “digital art and self comprehension,” and in his Artwork Gallery.
Tomas pictures are for sale and can be purcahsed by contacting him by e-mail at ktomkas@takas.lt
Profits will be used to buy art supplies.
Oh, BTW, while editing this post, I just turned over 50,000 hits.
Tony Stewart
“We do not exist for ourselves alone, and it is only when we are fully convinced of this fact that we begin to love ourselves properly and thus also love others.”
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“Living in A True Human Context Only when we see ourselves in our true human context, as members of a race which is intended to be one organism and “one body,” will we begin to understand the positive importance not only of the successes but of the failures and accidents in our lives. My successes are not my own. The way to them was prepared by others. The fruit of my labors is not my own: for I am preparing the way for the achievements of another. Nor are my failures my own. They may spring from the failure of another, but they are also compensated for by another’s achievement. Therefore the meaning of my life is not to be looked for merely in the sum total of my achievements. It is seen only in the complete integration of my achievements and failures with the achievements and failures of my own generation, and society, and time. It is seen, above all, in my integration in the mystery of Christ.”
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from No Man Is An Island. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, 15 and 16
I considered blueberry bushes
yesterday but didn’t buy any. Today it’s
raining hard. And the gloom of winter remains.
My dishwasher will not start, and my computer
monitor makes a high-pitched shriek. I look out
my window toward evergreens, where damp air
is too warm for snow. But even in February,
hope emerges—from the glow of a candle-
flame—and my heart becomes
a Byzantine cathedral of multi-colored tile.
I am bathed in incense and song, satisfied—
for the moment—with indoor light.
Birthdays are so important. On our birthdays we celebrate being alive. On our birthdays people can say to us, “Thank you for being!” Birthday presents are signs of our families’ and friends’ joy that we are part of their lives. Little children often look forward to their birthdays for months. Their birthdays are their big days, when they are the center of attention and all their friends come to celebrate.
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We should never forget our birthdays or the birthdays of those who are close to us. Birthdays keep us childlike. They remind us that what is important is not what we do or accomplish, not what we have or who we know, but that we are, here and now. On birthdays let us be grateful for the gift of life.
In solitude, I ponder life’s meaning
and have looked but not hard enough
through the open window.
Because a window is open does not
mean the air is full of light. Perhaps,
I have played too much solitaire,
evenings and mornings drinking that which
is worldly with my ample mug of coffee. I have
failed to heed the lesson, or, perhaps,
I barely listened. But I am asking you now,
God, with so much to ponder—as I gaze
upon the distant tree line—don’t I have my
salvation only by Your grace?
Last week another doe came bolting
through the yard. At first, I thought it was
a dog. But no dog leaps with such
magnificence. No, not even the greyhound.
I see that. Yes. So why not the rest?
Because if there’s really a verse for every
answer, two for every question, and no
mystery at all behind heaven’s gate—
only later to be revealed to the saints—
then I have argued, and I have lost.
Today is my birthday. Just after 2 pm (CST), I will be 60. It was snowing the day I was born, but I don’t rememebr that. We are having friends over this afternoon and evening. But now I am going to post my favorite poem, the one that reveals the most about exactly who I am. I’ve posted it before, so indulge me; today is my birthday.
.
.
Voices
.
I want to eat ambrosia,
dine with the gods. Dance.
.
Seraphim at the gate, velvet-winged.
“A plea is not a call,” says the tallest angel.
“One should not taste of success too soon.”
.
“Yes. Wait’s a word to ride the wind,”
says another. “And who will know the
mind of God?”
.
A celestial chorus in a quick response.
And I, reaching upward, raise uplifted palms.
A spurt of boldness: Each—in its own way.
.
The voices fade, and things I reach for seem too far.
Then just as silence slices through morning,
heaven’s jagged edge cuts my finger to the bone.
.
first published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and later in my first chapbook, Gathering the Broken Pieces, available form FootHills Publishing
Words, words, words. Our society is full of words: on billboards, on television screens, in newspapers and books. Words whispered, shouted, and sung. Words that move, dance, and change in size and color. Words that say, “Taste me, smell me, eat me, drink me, sleep with me,” but most of all, “buy me.” With so many words around us, we quickly say: “Well, they’re just words.” Thus, words have lost much of their power.
.
Still, the word has the power to create. When God speaks, God creates. When God says, “Let there be light” (Genesis 1:3), light is. God speaks light. For God, speaking and creating are the same. It is this creative power of the word we need to reclaim. What we say is very important. When we say, “I love you,” and say it from the heart, we can give another person new life, new hope, new courage. When we say, “I hate you,” we can destroy another person. Let’s watch our words.
Tony Stewart
UPDATE: And the winner is . . . Tony Stewart!
Yes, the wind
and the cold and the gray
define a winter’s day,
.
but the rain and the snow and the ice
keep me
springing.
.
first published in Blink: A Little Little Magazine of Little Poems
Consolation is a beautiful word. It means “to be” (con-) “with the lonely one” (solus). To offer consolation is one of the most important ways to care. Life is so full of pain, sadness, and loneliness that we often wonder what we can do to alleviate the immense suffering we see. We can and must offer consolation. We can and must console the mother who lost her child, the young person with AIDS, the family whose house burned down, the soldier who was wounded, the teenager who contemplates suicide, the old man who wonders why he should stay alive.
.
To console does not mean to take away the pain but rather to be there and say, “You are not alone, I am with you. Together we can carry the burden. Don’t be afraid. I am here.” That is consolation. We all need to give it as well as to receive it.
When I wanted a birdhouse,
Daddy built one. We hung it
from a branch of the maple tree.
A rusted hanger keeps it there,
though it rocks when the wind
blows. And a dusting of snow
on its lavendered roof glistens—
coldly—in the light of a
haloed moon. No one occupies
the duplex for wrens. Despite our
hospitality, they always winter
further south. The leaves
turn yellow and off they fly,
while fickle birds leave apartments
in disarray. The remnants
of an abandoned nest jutting
through the northernmost door.
A well-crafted perch—
once painted green—
has faded and fallen to the ground,
landing with the common sticks,
hiding under frost-tipped leaves.
first published in Tacenda, later in Paper Snowflakes, available from Southern Hum Press
Care is something other than cure. Cure means “change.” A doctor, a lawyer, a minister, a social worker-they all want to use their professional skills to bring about changes in people’s lives. They get paid for whatever kind of cure they can bring about. But cure, desirable as it may be, can easily become violent, manipulative, and even destructive if it does not grow out of care. Care is being with, crying out with, suffering with, feeling with. Care is compassion. It is claiming the truth that the other person is my brother or sister, human, mortal, vulnerable, like I am.
.
When care is our first concern, cure can be received as a gift. Often we are not able to cure, but we are always able to care. To care is to be human.
Once in a while we meet a gentle person. Gentleness is a virtue hard to find in a society that admires toughness and roughness. We are encouraged to get things done and to get them done fast, even when people get hurt in the process. Success, accomplishment, and productivity count. But the cost is high. There is no place for gentleness in such a milieu.
Gentle is the one who does “not break the crushed reed, or snuff the faltering wick” (Matthew 12:20). Gentle is the one who is attentive to the strengths and weaknesses of the other and enjoys being together more than accomplishing something. A gentle person treads lightly, listens carefully, looks tenderly, and touches with reverence. A gentle person knows that true growth requires nurture, not force. Let’s dress ourselves with gentleness. In our tough and often unbending world our gentleness can be a vivid reminder of the presence of God among us.
“Backbeat means the church feel. . . . ”
—Howard Grimes
Feel the beat. The backbeat.
Feel the beat. Stomp with the feet,
the stomping of the feet—
and the clapping of the hands—
the feet the beat,
the hands the ands.
Stomp with your feet. Clap with your hands.
Praise be to God / with the stomping of the feet.
The church said, Amen /
with the clapping of the hands—
the feet the beat,
the hands the ands.
When they had no pianos,
do you think that they were poor,
with the feet the beat,
the hands the ands—
the stomping of the feet—
and the clapping of the hands?
Church recall. The stomping of the feet.
Church respond with the clapping of the hands
The feet the beat, and the . . . .
first published in Adagio Verse Quarterly
We often confuse unconditional love with unconditional approval. God loves us without conditions but does not approve of every human behavior. God doesn’t approve of betrayal, violence, hatred, suspicion, and all other expressions of evil, because they all contradict the love God wants to instill in the human heart. Evil is the absence of God’s love. Evil does not belong to God.
God’s unconditional love means that God continues to love us even when we say or think evil things. God continues to wait for us as a loving parent waits for the return of a lost child. It is important for us to hold on to the truth that God never gives up loving us even when God is saddened by what we do. That truth will help us to return to God’s ever-present love.
I have a new poem, “Smiling and Looking Back,” in the Resurgence Isuue of Scorched Earth. The poem is a part of my book, which, by the way, has a new title, No Prayer Like the Fog. I’m hoping to have it ready for publication later this year. Then all I have to do is find a publisher.
If I had no choice about the age in which I was to live, I nevertheless have a choice about the attitude I take and about the way and the extent of my participation in its living ongoing events. To choose the world is not then merely a pious admission that the world is acceptable because it comes from the hand of God. It is first of all an acceptance of a task and a vocation in the world, in history and in time. In my time, which is the present. To choose the world is to choose to do the work I am capable of doing, in collaboration with my brother and sister, to make the world better, more free, more just, more livable, more human. And it has now become transparently obvious that mere automatic “rejection of the world” and “contempt for the world” is in fact not a choice but the evasion of choice. The man, who pretends that he can turn his back on Auschwitz or Viet Nam, and act as if they were not there, is simply bluffing.
.
From Contemplation in A World of Action. NY: Doubleday and Company, 1971: 164-165
After the Superbowl, my thoughts turn to Daytona, where on Saturday, February 10 at 8:00 pm ET, the season’s first NASCAR race, the Bud Shootout, will be run.
.
These drivers are eligible for the race:
.
2006 Pole Winners
Brian Vickers
David Gilliland
Jeff Gordon
Kevin Harvick
Jeff Burton
Kurt Busch
Greg Biffle
Kasey Kahne
Kyle Busch
Elliott Sadler
Denny Hamlin
Scott Riggs
Jimmie Johnson
Ryan Newman
Boris Said
.
Past Shootout Champions
Dale Jarrett
Dale Earnhardt Jr.
Tony Stewart
Mark Martin
Ken Schrader
Bill Elliott
.
As everyone can see, Tony Stewart is among the eligible drivers. So, Go Tony!
Tony Stewart
.
.
I know it’s not a points race. But it’s time to start those engines.
Boogity. Boogity. Boogity.
chicken wings (undecided flavors) & celery
sausage rolls
summer sausage, Havarti cheese, and crackers
corn chips with salsa and/or cheese dip
pretzels
cashews
Hersheys’ Kisses (dark chocolate with macadamia nuts)
Snickers dark chocolate candy bars
Strawberry cheescake ice cream (in bowls or sugar cones)
assorted beverages
.
“Are you ready for some football?”
I pick da Bears! (Sorry Condy)
.
UPDATE: Condy finally right (About something!) LOL
Oh, and we had carrots along with the celery.
Kindness is a beautiful human attribute. When we say, “She is a kind person” or “He surely was kind to me,” we express a very warm feeling. In our competitive and often violent world, kindness is not the most frequent response. But when we encounter it we know that we are blessed. Is it possible to grow in kindness, to become a kind person? Yes, but it requires discipline. To be kind means to treat another person as your “kin,” your intimate relative. We say, “We are kin” or “He is next of kin.” To be kind is to reach out to someone as being of “kindred” spirit.
Here is the great challenge: All people, whatever their color, religion, or sex, belong to humankind and are called to be kind to one another, treating one another as brothers and sisters. There is hardly a day in our lives in which we are not called to this.
How do we befriend our inner enemies lust and anger? By listening to what they are saying. They say, “I have some unfulfilled needs” and “Who really loves me?” Instead of pushing our lust and anger away as unwelcome guests, we can recognize that our anxious, driven hearts need some healing. Our restlessness calls us to look for the true inner rest where lust and anger can be converted into a deeper way of loving.
There is a lot of unruly energy in lust and anger! When that energy can be directed toward loving well, we can transform not only ourselves but even those who might otherwise become the victims of our anger and lust. This takes patience, but it is possible.
“It’s time for us quiet folk who quote and make poetry to speak out and speak the truth. If we do it, maybe others will have the courage to follow.”
–Sherry Chandler, in her recent blog enrty “Words From Molly“
We need silence in our lives. We even desire it. But when we enter into silence we encounter a lot of inner noises, often so disturbing that a busy and distracting life seems preferable to a time of silence. Two disturbing “noises” present themselves quickly in our silence: the noise of lust and the noise of anger. Lust reveals our many unsatisfied needs, anger or many unresolved relationships. But lust and anger are very hard to face.
What are we to do? Jesus says, “Go and learn the meaning of the words: Mercy is what pleases me, not sacrifice” (Matthew 9:13). Sacrifice here means “offering up,” “cutting out,” “burning away,” or “killing.” We shouldn’t do that with our lust and anger. It simply won’t work. But we can be merciful toward our own noisy selves and turn these enemies into friends.
My ancestors’
blood layered
and filtered
.
Down through
worms, grubs,
and roots.
.
Became a
consort of
lichen and dark
things.
.
Became a night
companion of
the dreaded
.
That creep and
crawl, dormant
and silenced.
.
Go down to where
my forefathers’
.
Blood trickled
with
knowledge;
Betrayed and
blackened.
Where their
.
Bodies, left
hanging
beneath
.
Carnivorous
skies,
remembered,
.
In death those
last blood
thirsty
.
Cries; without
lips, teeth or
tongue,
.
That is where
their blood will
speak
.
.
Celebrate Black History Month. Read more poems by Alice Parris and hear her vocal tribute to Dinah Washington.
on the first day
of Black History Month, I saw
.
a dusting of snow. A single deer
ran across my yard, heading south
.
in a perfection of nature-in-winter.
The temperature was in the high 20s,
.
but the gray sky refused to fulfill
its deep promise, sending instead
.
a weather non-event. I looked to
Ezra Jack Keats for The Snowy Day.
.
.
Ezra Jack Keats crossed social boundaries by being the first American picture-book maker to give the black child a central place in children’s literature. He won the Caldecott Award in 1963 for his children’s book The Snowy Day. Read his story here.
.
Conrtary to what some people believe, there have always been a few (white) people who have struggled with African Americans for freedom and equality. Ezra Jack Keats was one of these people.
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