(For a woodland walk): Wilderness sermon gleaned from the Creator's creation while on a walk and translated into a poem.

[text - from 2013]
the woods must have been Your first sanctuary
for the forest contains the melody
of time forgotten, time dissolved, time lost.
and the harmonic dissonance of necessity stripped down
to bare simplicity, is here valued as a worthwhile cost.

the subtle scent of sap and pine
form the perfume of perspective regained.
and in the woods the sound of silence survives
as a tangible yet utterly indescribable thing.
perhaps this is the only place left it still thrives.

altitude becomes a salve,
strained breathing the antidote to ceaseless activity
as the switchbacks demand forced slowness.
suddenly aware of the life lost when preoccupied with living
we realize doing less requires a certain boldness.

and Your breath comes as the wind
causing conversation among the evergreen branches
wiping away the audial veil, the deafness drape
and we hear You in startling clarity
and see You in every detail of the unburdened landscape.

the distant peak across the valley
its grandeur an illustration of our smallness
at once both threatening and fragile
since contradiction finds balance in Your artistry
and this is only learned through many-a-laborious mile.

the woods must have been Your first sanctuary
for the forest contains the solitude of thoughts
a forgetfulness of progress at-all-costs
and the rhythm of existence alters to the tune of:
“not all those that wander are lost.”

Wooded

From this mountain top I can see
The homeland that is calling me
But I cannot determine how to get there.
Or maybe (more honestly) I just don’t dare
To wayfind through that beckoning wild land,
Even with the equipping compass of Your command.

As You have told us, so it is true:
None of us can serve masters two 
And yet this is the very thing I am trying to do.
Love is a battlefield some do say
Which is so, but in a different way
For it is a war of loves within the heart’s terrain.

To truly follow You is to believe
That You are the fulfilment of every want and need  
And I wish to be stirred by that conviction. 
But, I confess it is instead my predilection
To linger at the summit, in safety, hesitating
In that dangerously luring comfort of contemplating 
That perhaps what I’ve labelled ‘satisfying’ is enough.
You see, I’ve become pleased far too easily
And have defined ‘flourishment’, somewhat breezily
As simply that which makes me feel good.
But even here as I wait
I can see such things have no life or weight
So how is it they spellbind me to complacency? 

I suppose that what I’m trying to say
Is that I want You to burn such mirages away
And thereby kindle my steps into motion
And become the sweetness core to my heart’s devotion.
I want You to be the air for which I am desperate.

I know not why I struggle to sacrifice
These things I do that obstruct glimpses of paradise
Thus relegating myself to be a half-hearted creature.
Even so, You remain a patient Savior and teacher
Inviting me to make my desire for joy stronger
And to not hesitate to walk towards it any longer.
So help me let You be my spirit’s stronghold.

From this mountain top I can see
The homeland that is calling me
Help me give myself to Your path to get there.

*inspired in part by a sermon given by Jared Michelson (pastor at Cornerstone in St Andrews, Scotland), and the writings of C.S. Lewis and St Augustine

homeland

We too often wait for time to run out
Robotic and methodical
Propelled by the swing in our step.
When did we forget?

And how do we relearn
How to not be driven by fear or regret
But to set free
Our nearly evaporated imagining? 

Finding comfort in
The tempo of faucet drips
And in the designs in dust
We trace with fragile finger tips
We contemplate
The shape we have in mind
For the marking
That we will inevitably leave behind.

Yet words unsaid
Hang behind tight lips.
And bravery ages into
All we might otherwise miss.

And held breaths
With careful steps
Become a dance around the edge
Of what has to be let go of. 

Suddenly
There's no ahead
And no behind
There's just where we are
And the distance, 
Once unguessably far
Is now so intimate,
It seems to be holding our hand. 

There's strength to stand
As the falsified defense
Grows paper thin
Dissolves is our enclosed palm.

It is then we become
Trespassers into the wardrobe
Awakened to the time we have
Rather than waiting for it to run out.

Crepuscular light
Comes in the limbo between day and night
And seems to be Your hand reaching down
To give me something.

Aptly called ‘God’s fingers’
The glow of it prompts me, as it lingers
To think about whether my hands are open
Or empty enough to be able to receive.

It warmly reminds 
That when I grasp not a thing
I grasp just what I need
Which means childlike reliance on You.  

It’s a simple sort of creed
But it does indeed
Prove impossible for me to believe - 
So, I resist opening my hands.

Mistrustful of Your commands,
I instead grasp all the tighter.
And as clarity shines the brighter
I become fearful of exposure.

See, I prefer some non-disclosure
But You’ve designed us each to witness,
And called us to stand in sight of others,
As a reflection of Your forgiveness.

Thus I like to think that crepuscular light
Is a visible sermon of how our every sinful blight
Has been blotted out in the illuminating glory 
Of who You are and what You’ve done. 

Let me, Father, with every so-setting sun
Think upon the restoration given by undeserved grace
Which You provide when we open our hands 
To receive the luminance of Your face

Crepuscular Light

i’ve always been strangely drawn
to the way of tripping hazards.
to reminders of the breakable.
to remind myself to risk to break.

but make no mistake:
even caught up in this dream
i know it is all irreplaceable.
all of it.

the inconvenient truth is:
my hands just can’t hold
all that i want to cradle at once
(and my heart can’t either.)

and this creates a fever,
forces me into that dance we each learn alone,
with both feet half lame,
bruised and aching.

i feel our heart breaking.
but this is a sort of self-preservation
and a realization that maybe it is best
to, sometimes, proactively forget.

i say “i’m just not ready yet”
but welcome to Hesitation
population: Too Many to Count
where Time is never Time enough.

but this is undeniably tough:
to uproot the heart
so i can catch a glimpse of a horizon
(instead of keeping blindness for my endpoints.)

as i become unhinged at the joints
i wonder: “maybe i’m just better on paper?
better at living, breathing, and speaking through paper?”
(safe and sound, and sound asleep).

this foreshadowing of hindsight has drawn me deep
into the burdensome realization that:
to deny myself the difficult
is to deny this life’s true worth.

this is a sort of rebirth:
to open up every uncomfortable place within the self
to set free the bird caged within
before its wings atrophy beyond repair.

but this lays the heart quite bare
and as i’m getting old, i want something to lean on.
but - (maybe) - it is this constant leaning forward
that keeps us constantly young.

and this is the song that’s being sung:
to store up Light,
like it’s going out of style
you need to recall to regular memory
all that makes life worthwhile.

unhinged

[*for the text see: https://forestryodyssey.wordpress.com/2019/03/28/roots/ ]

Roots

joy is in the ears that hear
not the mouth that speaks
how easily we forget this
in a fever of verbal streaks

keeping time time time
we miss the gift of bearing-with
committing instead the pride crime,
by driving for the “quick-fix”

silence has become unfamiliar and strange
so we fill space with speech
but if we were instead quick to listen
we’d find answers within easy reach

we scream aloud to die
desperate to hear Your voice
but we simply are not listening
and – Timshel – it is our choice

(inspired by: James 1:19-27)

listen

dear friend
you are ever like the moon:
you were designed to reflect the Sun
and the closer your orbit
the brighter you burn
which helps me learn
that our gentle luminosity
echoes the Creator’s generosity.

you are ever like the moon:
because when you risk showing your full self
you share a stronger Glow 
which helps me better know
that Light can cohabitate with darkness
and in your breed of bright
I am better able to fight
My own inner midnight
As I glance up and out
Captivated by the blaze you share
.
your are ever like the moon
for your emanating Shine stands
as a reminder of scriptural commands
to walk as a child of Light
in direct contrast to the enveloping night
of my inner landscape
your luminance does indeed 
recall to mind my great need
of the Lamp for my feet

you are ever like the moon:
you go through phases,
some in which you are only half yourself
when the earth obstructs your light source.
but know this: it is never your permanent state
so be patient with yourself as you wait
for the next chapter in your evolution
and even when you are slow to find resolution
you still sharing vital light with those who see you

you are ever like the moon:
your embrace of shadows,
is part of your brightness
for this tempered handholding of darkness
frames your core illumination
this is no aberration
but rather a welcomed invitation
for me to consider the strength that comes in contradiction 
which is often God’s form of benediction

you are ever like the moon:
you are periodically veiled in fog --
stand blurred, unclear, ill-defined to the eye --
but this again serves only to amplify
that gleam which you dispense 
somehow makes it easier to sense
for in its partial obscurity
I find it has a greater purity
and it is a gift to behold

you are ever like the moon:
you, like I, have a dark side,
we both have things we shield from the light,
which is part of what makes us a natural satellite.
even when pulled by earth’s gravitation, 
the sun always invites us to our true activation 
so in our elliptical state 
we still never obliterate
our access to the central star. 

Dear friend:
You are ever like the moon
And yes:
I decidedly do mean YOU

you are ever like the moon

The perching sparrow thinks upon
That same old feeling,
That hallowed-out cavity
Within which his thoughts are reeling.

So he tucks his wings right in again,
Mistrustful of the wind’s direction,
He’s a bit fearful of its sudden kidnapping,
And desirous of some self-protection.

The sparrow imagines he’s a jay, or a tanager,
A species colorful and fascinating,
But in the end, he would not trade his mousiness
He prefers feathers that are less captivating.

He keeps its wings folded in
At the moment, not testing their strength
He’s not quite ready to know if they could carry 
Him to that distance of unknown length.

He finds the empty branches around him
Are a haven, not a hell,
Their architecture is so familiar
That the sparrow falls willingly into their spell.

He is no aspiring Icarus 
For he does not crave high heights.
He is well suited for shadows
Feeling estranged from which is bright.

The jays dive in the currents,
The kinglets flit in the breeze,
The finches dance in the gusts,
But the sparrow is perched in the trees.

He’s curious what it would feel like,
To have feathers of a different hue,
But he only ponders this with detachment,
Pondering is what he is known to do.

He never quite wishes to be other
Than a sparrow, plain, but true.
And while watching the flight of the others,
His conviction of this grew

The perching sparrow thinks upon
That reoccurring feeling,
That subtle sense of gravity
That is so self-revealing.

Sparrow

It has become painfully clear
That I’ve taken up residence
In the House of Fear
I did not intend to dwell here
Let alone take a foot inside
Or even chance a glance
Through the window pane
But it is now quite plain
That I moved right in
Nested down
And acclimatized to its domesticity 
It was somehow hard 
To see the degree of its toxicity
The asbestos of the spirit its walls exude
Which does invisibly intrude
Into the landscape of my thoughts
And opiates me into a spinning cycle
That retracing of the well-worn grooves
Of all the anxious ‘what ifs’

I want to move instead
Into the House of Love
Where fear has no place
And trust suffuses the airspace 
Transforming my wayward worries
Into a faith set to the pace
Of living the questions 
And seeing the lack of answers
Not a haunted hallway
But a right of way
Straight into Your embrace

House of Fear

it is a dependable comfort,
an unfettering pastime
to obscure one’s thoughts within
the veil of poetic rhyme

you might think this a problem:
an abnormality that needing 'fixing’.
But, I might counter
that you really don’t know what you’re missing.

words are birds 
with feathers of every hue
and their cloaking wings give flight
to things perched within you 

often a cryptic blending
of honesty with rhythmic verse
is the exclusive manner
by which truth can disperse

“why not say it more plainly?”
perhaps I am simply unable
in light of my internal wiring
self-worth is always unstable.

this leads to a lack of boldness
and muteness so as to remain unseen
so it is in the enigmatic
that I can at least hint at what I mean

Then, much like a painting,
There can be multiple narrations:
Both my whispered transparency
And readers’ own interpretations

While admittedly an enabler
I think it not a crime
to obscure my thoughts within
the unveiling of poetic rhyme

rhyme

in a john-muir-like fashion of slowing down to truly observe minute things, these are a collection of short symphonies gleaned from the great outdoors

forestshadows

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