Understand, I'll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd
when I see the pale stars rising,
blooming over the oaks.
I'll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows
with only this one dream:
You come too.~Rainer Maria Rilke
I ran across this poem when I read a piece in the Paris Review entitled Poetry RX. Readers wrote in with a life issue, and a poet matched a poem to their situation.
This creative endeavor intrigued me, as poetry has often captured feelings and longings I've had--that flow of words that can create hope, like glimpsing light in the distance.
And this poem reminded me of Jesus--He desires to take us to that peaceful place, that still location where we are satisfied, our yearnings satiated. He is that One who extends His hand, beckoning us.
Slip away from the noisy crowd
Pursue the solitary pathway
And His dream?
You come too.
I believe, and so do you, that things could have been different in countless ways.~David Lewis, Counterfactuals
I wrote in my journal that I felt comforted to come to the page, writing a solace. I'd taken a walk in the early morning, grateful to look upward and spy a sliver of pale blue. I wept as I wrote, contemplating the beauty of life, fringed with hope and, too, so often clotted with loss and letting go.
I'd hang on, willing myself to trust God, to rely on His ability to create an inner territory--a light-filled geography. Spacious. A peaceful internal landscape, echoing with laughter.
On my walk I noticed a feral cat sitting on a neighbor's porch steps, its chest emblazoned white, eyes green. The cat's whiskers glinted in the morning light, its nose a delicate pink triangle. I approached the cat, and for a moment he almost came near, but then bolted away.
If only he understood. I could provide daily sustenance. A home. Affection. But this creature could not take the risk of the unknown. He trusted more what he knew--living in the brush and subsisting on lizards, voles and frogs.
"Oh God," I prayed, "I do not want to be like this lovely feline. I want the abundant table you spread before me in the presence of my enemies. I want to live inside your companionship and protection, your goodness. I want to receive your fullness. Your joy. Your strength. Your deliverance and revelation."
Things could be different in countless ways for this cat, if only he could risk the unknown.
"Oh, God, let me risk to come to you, vulnerable and expectant, believing things can be different in countless ways."
A rush of chilled air hit my face as I walked through the automatic doors of Walmart. The relentless and undiminished sunlight of the Carolina summer day felt unbearable. A trickle of sweat ran down my back. I breathed a sigh of relief, the store's coolness acting as a giant parasol. Walmart's familiarity felt comforting too. I knew exactly where to find the dental floss sticks I like and the shade of fingernail polish I wear. I knew where the bottles of organic cinnamon would be, the wild-caught tuna and the flaxseed. The comfort of sameness.
I need protection from life's incessant heat and list here a few portals of refuge I create for myself...
Nature and movement. I rose early to avoid the worst heat. I did not want to get up, but knew I could stave off feelings of low mood and negative thoughts if I went outside and moved. The storm-rinsed clouds and swatch of blue sky above me felt like inhaling an intoxicating blend of hope and expectation of good. A lone bird perched on a wire assuaged my loneliness, its presence acting as a companion, encouraging me to trust in the creator who says, "Look at the birds. If I care for them, won't I care much more for you?"
Art and passions. I have thought about giving up on publishing the latest book I wrote. Everything has changed about self-publishing. I've had to start over with this manuscript and don't know what I'm doing. I've avoided finishing the project. Yet I sense it's pretty good. I want to finish it more than I want to give up. What is one small act I can do toward looking at it again? One thing that feels realistic? That will propel me forward? I find the Word document on my computer and update the author bio. There doesn't seem a lot to say. I have not been submitting much lately, and what I've submitted has been rejected. I say to myself, "Go ahead. Write what you've done so far." One of my books received an award and I've been featured in several anthologies. I get it written down. I feel better. Writing is a refuge for me. I cannot afford to let writing go. If I let it go, I let go of part of myself. "Quick," I say in my mind. "Email those few sentences to the artist working on the cover." Completion of this small action felt as if I'd lifted a parasol over myself, self-doubt as relentless as the Carolina heat.
People who understand. My job entails a lot of listening. I honestly love listening to people, attempting to know them, to reflect back what they are saying and feeling, to perhaps hear what may be under the surface. I, too, need listeners in my life, people to hear my story, to offer understanding and reflection. To ask me questions. I am blessed, truly blessed, to have several intimates in my life who listen without judgment. These persons, too, are portals of refuge, parasols of love and protection.
Gratefulness. This word gets a lot of press these days, and when I hear it, I can sometimes wax cynical. Yet when I declare the things I am grateful for, this action acts as a vault of stars over the dark places in my mind. I can drift toward depression, but when I stop and utter a few statesments of gratefulness, I can change my direction. "I am grateful for energy today; I am grateful for a sound mind. I am grateful that I have free will. I am grateful for Walmart and its coolness, that I know where the free-range eggs are, that I don't have to use one of those electric carts, that I can walk around in this huge store. I am grateful that it is cool and I am out of the heat." Thanksgiving like a parasol over my heart.
I'd always been on my way somewhere. Things were going to be great when. Things would finally be okay if. All I had to do was this one thing. Invest in my future. Plan for the future. But what about now? What about this moment?~From How To Be Loved, A Memoir Of Lifesaving Friendship, by Eva Hagberg Fisher
I stood on the banks of the tidal creek. The breeze was still cool; the intense heat hadn't invaded the morning. A hawk sat atop an oak branch, fish jumped, their silver scales reflecting the sunlight. A pelican swooped through the sky. So much life. The bustling atmosphere brought me comfort as I considered my own existence and circumstances.
I am prone to forging ahead, having a plan, making lists, weighing pros and cons. I felt exhausted by my efforts to control, predict and measure. I only wanted to stand on the creek bank and deeply breathe in the tang of mud and salt. To give myself permission to pause, like the hawk who kept me company in his contemplation.
Over the years, I've appreciated stationery that contains watermarks--those subtle traces of elegance that create another level of beauty and mystery for letter writing. The morning seemed to reflect a watermark of its own. There were many descriptors running through my mind to define the impressions--abundance, solitude, stillness, comfort. The word that materialized to identify this metaphorical imprint was mercy. God's mercy new every morning. His distinctive, decorous touch for my day. All my days. Tender in His ways to suggest a pause. Kind to provide such companionable creatures to share my experience. I'd wait awhile before I headed back, bearing in mind His faithfulness and compassion. My portion.
Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, "The LORD is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him." (Lamentations 3: 22-24, NIV)
The pale Italian sky reflects my face, drained of rose and sun, twisted with sorrow. My ex-husband died yesterday after post-operative complications.
I skyped with my daughter--our daughter--and we wept together. She said he had "landed softly" and that she had a vision of him being welcomed by Jesus "and he felt so loved, the Lord so happy to see him, calling him friend," she said through hot tears that streaked her cheeks.
Death paradoxically characterized by joy in the certainty that "neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus." Yet we are still here when the one who has left is in the near presence of the Lord.
I grieve for my children who are left without an earthly father. I mourn that I was not the wife my former husband needed me to be, that our marriage could not transcend the deep longings each of us held. My heart is broken for the wife he leaves behind. Fragments and splinters and slivers of sadness lay scattered at my feet.
Amid this grievous rubble, standng with me, is the One who also wept at His friend's grave, the high Priest who understands separation and loss. I pick up each shard of lament, each shred of disconsolation, and hand them over to Him. In return, He presses into my hands comfort and peace, the reality of His mercy and constancy in heaven and on earth.
The last words my previous husband wrote to me as he responded to an email I sent telling him I would pray as he entered the hospital were: "Thank you. I entrust myself to God Almighty." And my last words to him, "May peace like a river attend your way."
Morning bells are ringing. i can hear them resounding from the church in the middle of this small Italian village, parting the gray sky with peals of expectation. "All is well for the one you grieve, for the one gone too soon. He is free. I have swallowed death in the resurrection of life. All is well and all will be well."
Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and giving life to those in the tomb. The Sun of Righteousness is gloriously risen, giving light to those who sat in darkness and in the shadow of death. The Lord will guide our feet into the way of peace having taken away the sin of the world. Christ will open the kingdom to all who believe in His Name, saying, Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you.
Into paradise may the angels lead you. At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into the holy city, Jerusalem. (Taken from the funeral liturgy of Rachel Held Evans, June 1, 2019)
After my return to the states, I walk down to the tidal creek at the end of my street. I ask God for a way to say goodbye to my ex-husbnd, something tangible, experiential. A breeze ruffles the creek waters, an egret stirs the marsh grasses. I look up and a seagull glides by, its white body in sharp contrast with the wide expanse of blue sky. I glance further upward. A jet climbs higher and higher as it moves forward toward its destination. I lift my hands and wave. The sun glistens from the jet's wing, traces of silvery plumes track the ascent. "Goodbye, goodbye, " I whisper. "God speed. I will see you when we are both transformed in the New Kingdom, no more sorrows, no more tears."
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth, and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.
Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along and flung my eager craft through footless falls of air...
Up, up the long, delicious burning blue I've topped the wind-swept height with easy grace where never lark, or even eagle flew...
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod the high untrespassed sanctity of space, put out my hand and touched the face of God. ~John Gillespie Magee Jr. (from High Flight)