Painting with Words

I'm not the poet that I want to be
not even the poet that I can be
I want to paint with words
so that the poetry and prose
dance.

Heartbreaking Loneliness

Loneliness is the terror that haunts her days.
And nights.
She had never been alone before.
Born into a family with older and younger siblings.
Aunts and uncles and cousins.
From home to college.
From college to marriage.
More than thirty years of family and companionship.
And then a wasting illness.
Death.
Widowhood.
The family came and stayed.
And stayed.
Then the night came.
She was alone.
For the first time in her life.
At the age of 67.
Loneliness is a living thing.
Chasing her from dark to dawn.
Her lonely heart found another. 
The gift and grace of love again.
Years of love and companionship.
But the terror has returned. 
Another wasting illness.
Another dying husband.
The loneliness waits in the corner.
Her widowhood is immanent.
Again. 
And she is afraid.
And hurting.
Our words are dust.
The promise of Emmanu-el rings hollow.
She will be alone again.
It is not the love of God for which she longs.
She is confident in that.
She aches for the companion of her heart.
And she prays that when it is her time to die, 
she won't have to die alone.

The Womb of God

Human
Divine
Ripe
Birthing eternity

No Place Like Home

But where is my home?
One of the joys of this sabbatical has been visiting other churches. There is one preacher in particular who really speaks to me, although she regularly challenges me - we share neither theology (in some cases) nor denomination. And that is good. For me. I don't want to belong to or even visit a church of me.
Yet I find I'm reluctant to return to my home church. I have been back once every couple of months or so. And the people are so wonderful. I miss them and they miss me. I love them and know they love me. And I still love our liturgy and traditions. But there are some things about our hierarchy and preaching (preacher) that I do not miss. At all.
I'm clear that I cannot stay in any of my host congregations. Nor would I want to. I don't belong there. Or there. Or even there.
Do I belong in my congregation? I am committed to them. It feels like a job even though I volunteer and regularly serve in other congregations. I long to return to my teaching vocation, even with the administrative work and meetings that I loathe. It's more than worth it.
But I don't want to return to my church.
I really don't want to.
But I will.
There's no place else for me here.
I guess it is home.
For now.

I Don't Want to Wait in Vain

Advent
A ritual reenactment
waiting, hoping, longing
for a change
cosmic
cellular
dynamic
static
change
changing
changeling
child.
Christmas,
Twelve Days,
Epiphany.
Family and friends,
celebration and song,
gifts and (of) grace,
light and love,
promise of (and) peace.
A girl-child and her boy-child,
an ambivalent surrogate father,
whispers and conspiracies,
journeys and visitations.
Waiting for that day.
But I don't want to wait in vain.
What will the next days bring?
I want the world to be different.
I want to be different.
It's been a long time coming,
but I know my change is going to come.
Come soon Lord Jesus.

The sea is wider than my eyes

The sea is wider than my eyes

I love to see the sea reach far beyond my vision

Circling the world that rises from the depths

To see the sea as far as I can see

Curving into space

The edge of earth

A bowl of water

In the hand of god

The sea is alive

Breathing pulsing contracting expanding

Creating life

Giving birth

Taking life

Power

Glory

Majesty