Evening Sun

In my quiet space the 

sun no longer

sweeps into my morning

with its gaudy brilliance

Instead the evening

sun spreads long shadows

on my comforter

sliding through the slats

of opened blinds

Its shadows now

and evening and darkness

that call to me

The moon and lights of

night have taken on the

task of lighting up my soul

And with their lesser light

is invitation to enter

shadowlands and darkness

to explore the treasures there

Some buried deep

in childhood fears

and some entangled

in my dreams at night

All bidding me to

come

sit

breathe

rest

My candle and the

tiny lights around my window

light the way 

Three Poems of Advent

Waiting for Christmas

Alone in the house
Quiet folds aroundme
Leaves silently flutter
Past the window
My hands hold close
My Christmas mug
The coffee's turning cold
I sit longer
Savoring the stillness

12/13/15



 Waiting

In silence
my heart is
free to wander
pathways otherwise
obscured by noise

My soul
opens to the
quiet and is
nourished and
watered by the
depth of stillness

How fitting that
this truth should
nudge its way
into my being
at this time of waiting

Just before
the burst of
angel song
and glorious loud
proclaiming of
the Son.

12/13/15



Silence

I hadn't realized
How noisy my life had become
Traveling, visiting
Living in a house with others

Now as I sit in silence
In an empty house
My soul opens
and my heart breathes

I have missed
the quietness and peace of solitude
But I've been welcomed
To a different world

Still, I shall work
To find these quiet spaces
Where the stillness speaks
and silence gives embrace.

12/14/15

I'm sitting in a lovely chair

I'm sitting in a lovely chair--
not on a porch
not even by an open window
This chair is in my daughter's
tiny living room
decorated with peacock lamp
stacks of books
mirrors, candles, pillows
and photos of her family
and friends
She brings me coffee
and a blueberry muffin
warm from the oven
And while there are no
misty fields nor breaking sunrise
my heart is filled with love
for this girl
and I am loathe
to leave this chair.

Morning in Jubilee's apartment. I'm here for a week with her and actually decided to return for an extended visit. I'm having fun working as her sous chef, and marvel at her prowess in the kitchen.
-September 25, 2015

New Day

I'm present at creation...
However it all started
It's Genesis just the same
The sun has separated from the night sky
And a new day
Unlike any other
Is forming

All manner of bird songs
Dewy fields
Mystical meadows lying still
Under hovering mists
Blue skies with wisps
of clouds with gold linings
Peaceful stillness

How grateful is my heart
To be present in
This place on this morning
And many mornings to come
I'm one with this day
In heart and soul
I'm present at creation

October 2015

Clucking

When a chicken lays an egg
the announcement is
loud, shameless and persistent.

It's wonderful to feel so passionate
and proud of one's
contribution to the world.

Makes me want to
practice clucking--
just an ordinary squawk.

Life on the farm is so inspiring; even a chicken stirs my creative pot!

Nancy Perkins
October 2015

I Am

Relation is the essence of everything that exists. - Meister Eckhart

I am
the grass
the shrubs
and the trees

I am
the blue jay and crow
the chicken, the finch
the tiny hummingbird

I am
the cricket trapped in the sink
the shriveled worm on the sidewalk
the stinkbug and granddaddy long legs on the screen

I am
the 300-pound guy lifting weights
the little old lady on the stationary bike
the men with walking sticks

I am
the rising sun
the pink clouds at sunset
the afternoon breeze

I am
my sister
my children
my husband in heaven

I am

A Fair Exchange

It's true I left my cozy porch 
on Pleasure Road

And it was hard, I can't deny that.

But I have been given fair exchange

This back porch on Bent Farm Road

Is more than I could ask for

It faces the sunrise--

The orange glow spreads over

The eastern sky

Rising from behind a distant tree line

And breaking through the branches

Of a closer cedar tree

Mist rises from the meadows

And the night sounds of 

cicadas and crickets

Give way to early morning song birds

The crowing of our rooster and the 

Clucking of a hen who's laid an egg

The cardinal's here--just like the one who

Sat in my neighbor's tree; here accompanied 

By the thrumming wings of a passing

Humming bird, and the tat-a-tat of a woodpecker 

And under all the sounds of nature

There is a profound quiet. 

No passing cars, no distant interstate

No conversations of passing walkers

Just fields of hay

And a garden of kale and collard greens

With gorgeous red and green Romaine 

And end-of-season tomatoes 

So here I sit with my morning coffee

Smiling as the sun bathes my face. 

There's no question

I am home and He is here

And all is well. 

My first poem in my new home in North Carolina. These first few days have been perfect. Cool mornings and warm days--God's own daily poetry. I'm so fortunate to be a part, as Maggie and John David's home becomes mine as well.   (9/21/15)

God is love: let heaven adore him

God is love: let heaven adore him;
God is love: let earth rejoice;
let creation sing before him,
and exalt him with one voice.
He who laid the earth's foundation,
he who spread the heavens above,
he who breathes through all creation,
he is love eternal love.

God is love, and is enfolding
all the world in one embrace;
his unfailing grasp is holding
every child of every race;
and when human hearts are breaking
under sorrow's iron rod,
that same sorrow, that same aching
wrings with pain the heart of God,

God is love: and though with blindness
sin afflicts and clouds the will,
God's eternal loving-kindness
holds us fast and guides us still.
Sin and death and hell shall never
o'er us final triumph gain;
God is love, so Love for ever
o'er the universe must reign.

Timothy Rees (1874-1939) 

A beautiful song.

Hunger

I saw a robin as I walked the labyrinth
I paused to watch her
Hop hop hop hop pause
Hop hop hop hop pause
I continued
When one again I faced her direction
There she was
Hop hop hop hop pause
She was on a prayer walk
Or maybe just listening for food
Just like me.


4/25/15

A small green worm

A small green worm
hangs from a thin
line
slowly climbing to
the leaf
above
sometimes dropping
then climbing

Life is like that


5/25/15

Timeless

We line up at the water cooler
with our cups and nalgenes
just like the women of old
stood by the well with
their earthenware jugs

We're still thirsty.

6/15/15

No thanks

Please feel free to sit on our porch
said my across-the-street neighbor
While we're on vacation at the beach.

I looked at the lovely outdoor furniture
and the freshly painted floor
and posts and railing

Thanks, I said
and watched them leave their driveway
and head down the street toward Avalon

This morning I came out my door
for my morning coffee
and porch time ritual

I looked at my rusty chairs
my mosquito coil and candles
my peeling gray floor paint

I can not consider
leaving this shabby holy place
not even for one morning of luxury

I might miss something.

7/26/15

Precious Jewels

Amidst all the moaning and the tears and emotional ups and downs in the process of selling my house, I'm afraid I may have missed some of the treasures God has slipped into my pockets. The gifts that at the time seem to be just part of the process or maybe taken for granted. I'm reading Learning to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor. She writes about finding a glittering stone in a dark cave, but when she got out into the light, the stone was quite ordinary--even common. But in the dark of her closet, it once again glittered like jewels. This story inspired me to pause and reflect on this somewhat dark time of selling my house.

Jewels I found in my pocket...

Meeting a young lady at a yard sale
is more precious that a for-sale sign

Loving my neighbors means more
than chipped paint or shiny floors

Sometimes a sister in law
is closer than a sister

The economy of a home sale is not a personal thing;
it's just part of the greed machine

A cup of coffee on my front porch
is still the best place to go deep

Memories with your children
are your dearest treasures

Giving away the old piano
brought me peace, and a new friend, joy

My old grill sitting on the sidewalk
was just what a passerby wanted

Packing up boxes of things formy children to open in the future
is worth my aching back and yards of packing tape

An unexpected container of beans and rice
in my fridge when I got home from work

Mr and Mrs cardinal chattering the reminder
that His eye is on the sparrow...and cardinal

FaceTime with Maggie always makes me yearn
for my new home

7/23-7/25/15

Tuesday morning phone call

These Tuesday-morning phone
calls to my dad
are bits of treasure
in my box
of precious things

His gruff early morning hello
followed by mundane details
of breakfast and the night before
always followed by
I love you

I carry this through the week
remembering his promise
to pray for me
until my phone dings
reminding me it's time to call him again


7/14/15

Boxes

I've been thinking about boxes.
Coworkers have been saving empty boxes
I bring them home to pack things up for moving.

Some are filled with things which leave my house
for other destinations
where other people will open them
and sort through the contents
maybe putting items up for sale

Other boxes are filled by my children
with things they want to store for future homes
of their own
Or things they want to take with them
to their apartments

Still other boxes are filled and carefully taped
and labelled--dishes, pictures, books--
and stacked on an ever-growing pile
to take with me to my new home
where I will open them
claiming my space with their contents

Meanwhile my house has emptied
and something inside me opens up
in this now uncluttered space
There is room to stretch and breathe
There is inspiration
and capacity for ideas and thoughts

I thought of Mary this morning
and all the moves she made--
Bethlehem, Egypt, Nazareth.
No boxes
No moving van
No yard sale
(True she had a donkey, not a car.)
But she carried her treasure in her arms
and in her heart.

If I should move again, God forbid,
I shall have fewer boxes.

7/30/15

Goodbye Front Porch

Goodbye front porch. 

You've been a true friend

Always there for me

(Except maybe in the winter

When the chairs and pillows

Are stored in the shed)

You've seen my tears

Of both joy and sadness 

And shared my smiles

Of contentment and peace

You accepted your role so graciously 

One of many in a row

Yet uniquely mine 

in early morning vigil

Always a breeze 

Even when the evening sun

Poured it's heat from the west

But mornings were always my favorite 

The birds song

The train whistle 

The sun playing shadows 

On the leaves of the tree in front of me

The people passing by

Children walking to school

Dog walkers with the required 

Plastic bag in hand

I felt the Holy Spirit here

I knew God's love

And gathered strength and courage 

I held my children close in my heart

And said their names in prayer

Oh I will miss you

I will indeed

But you have done your work

You've helped me face the next day

And the next

I pass you on to serve the new guests

May they find your gifts to be as rich

As I did

Goodbye porch 

7/22/15

Good-bye House

I took a sick day today. I don't have a temperature or a cough, but I didn't sleep well last night and my emotional well-being is pretty fragile. So here I am. At home. Looking around the almost-empty rooms. Grieving the end of 16 years in a place where we laughed and cried and fought and played. A place where love flowed through the rooms and out the doors onto the porch and patio.

Where teenagers gathered round the table to eat quesadillas at 11pm or smoke cigars and drink wine around the chiminea on the old brick patio. Where friends and family joined us to make hundreds of cookies, the children trying to outdo each other with the most outrageous icinged offering. Where we played scrabble and spades in front of the fireplace, eating popcorn or homemade cookies. Where people ate hamburgers and hotdogs at graduation parties, or finer foods at Jubilee's famous backyard dinner parties.

Where a colorful garden of bee balm, daisies, cone flowers and bright yellow yarrow, complemented by the addition of annuals carefully selected by my daughters at the greenhouse, brightened our small backyard. Where the children hung out in the kitchen while I made breakfast, and then sat with me around our table to eat and talk and talk.

A prospective buyer noted that the woodwork needs to be painted; it does. But I remember all the painting that we did. The dining room, where we thought we were so creative painting one solid wall a different color. April's room in two different colors of her choosing. I hired someone to paint the deep red walls in Jubilee's room, not wanting to leave it two-toned or streaked. Maybe the next person will see past the chipping woodwork to the possibility and the joy of making it their own.

Hard times came and went and lingered within these walls. Sickness and suffering of a different sort brought family and friends into our lives with empathy and shared tears and embrace. Words of comfort and encouragement entered our conversations, and our hearts were broken and mended and stretched and sometimes broken again. Children left and came back and left again. The times of return always bringing joy to my heart, with pride in their accomplishments and youthful wisdom.

So many people passed through our doors, slept in our beds and ate at our table. We were blessed to have best friends live next door for ten years, forming a mini community that included taking down the fence between our back yards, and shared meals of mac and cheese and sloppy joes or pasta dishes and wonderful salads. Family from the south came, sometimes unannounced (to me at least), and we ate collard greens and potato salad and sweet corn. Friends came and visited and we reminisced and laughed and cried together.

So here's my desire for people who walk through our house as prospective buyers. May they feel the warmth and love that permeated these floors and walls. May they hear echoes of the laughter and conversations that are part of its fabric. May they sense the hearts of love that offered invitation to everyone and provided comfort and respite on shabby couches and chairs. May they see beyond the necessary cosmetic fixes to the character and solid foundation, where they can begin or continue their own stories in a wonderful place.

Mystery

What will you do?
Hmmmmm
Will you write? Will you work?
Hmmmmm
Will you like living in the country
Where it's dark at night?
Won't you miss the sounds of passing cars
And neighbors passing by?
Hmmmmm
Won't you miss your solitude?
What if you and Maggie disagree?
Will you have your own space,
And will it be enough?

Maybe I will learn to meditate
Spend early mornings in a yoga pose
Maybe I'll find a job at Starbucks
Or at a small bookstore or as
A greeter at Walmart.
Maybe the moon will shine brighter
And I'll see new constellations
In the darker nights
Maybe I'll hear new bird sounds
And maybe I'll walk new paths to meet new neighbors
Maybe Maggie and I will find even deeper
Love and respect for each other.
Maybe we'll teach one another
And maybe space will be more fluid
And we'll be surprised at where it happens

I look forward to newness and
Hope to embrace what I don't now know.
I've seen the sun rise off the deck at Maggie's house
And watched it set in splendor from the front porch
I've heard and watched new birds
And reveled in the gorgeous flower beds
I've even met new people who await my coming
With words of invitation and friendship
I've seen my space and the possibility of
New and different spaces
Questions don't need answers when you
Move toward people and things you love
There's mystery in the moving
In the arriving and in the living

I love a good mystery!

Changing

Sitting on my porch in the sunlight safety

Drinking my familiar morning coffee
Change is happening
I'm jumping off the edge of all that is known
Into the next step of my life
A step I've planned to take for a long time
That now feels like it's coming too fast

Will my new porch be as inviting?
Will I find friends as willing to accept me
As those ones I'm leaving behind?
Will the moon shine just as bright
And bring me joy in the seeing?
Will I find a rhythm that feels
Fresh and yet familiar?

Change is such a mixed bag
Of sad and strange
And eager and exciting
Of leaving and longing
And tears and joy.
I bravely open wide my arms
To all that lies ahead

The trust I have in my Father
Is the rope I hang on to
His hand, His wings' embrace
Remind me of His love and faithfulness
This movement forward
This leap into the future
Is written in my book

I walk on in the words of a beloved saint:
All shall be well, and all shall be well
And all manner of thing shall be well.

Prayer in the New Year

The sun shines through
the slats of the blind
creating shadows
on the chair
on the floor
on my shirt
Light and dark
together make up
the pattern that is life
And in this new year
I will embrace
what comes my way
the days that form
the work of my life
gray and bright
sun and shadow

I wrote this in my journal on the first day of 2015, but it never made it to my blog.

Insignificant

I wrote this poem during a heart struggle, recognizing finally, a deep wound. A feeling of insignificance that colors my interactions with others and brings grief and anger when I experience a slight or perceive someone's greater importance. I called it pride, until my sister, Naomi, suggested pulling up that weed of pride and noticing what lay buried under those roots. The word, insignificant, came to my lips almost immediately, without thought or study. Later that day I was moved to give word to what I was feeling:

Sit in your chair
you ordinary insignificant fifth girl
Behave yourself
Read your Bible every day
Clean and dust; do the dishes
Empty the wash tubs
Braid your hair
Cover your knees
Be quiet, behave, be good
One day you might be a
missionary or a Sunday School teacher
And surely, someone's submissive wife.

There is freedom and release in recognizing one's self. There is love and grace in the embrace of my true self, even those feelings of insignificance. For in the denial of those feelings, are buried the seeds of anger and contempt that fill my gut, and spew from my mouth.

I No Longer Fear

I no longer fear the dropping shoe
They’ve both dropped—or should I say all?

And here I am.

Dropping shoes are a sure part of the journey—

The waiting, the dropping, the picking up again—

Weaves a blanket so incredibly mine

It warms me at night and 

Wraps around my shoulders as I walk through my day.

The bruises and the scars from the 

Falling down and getting up and falling down again

Can be covered with long sleeves in shame

Or worn defiantly like tattoos

Mementos to those dropping shoes that now bring smile to lips

and streaming tears in the telling

For now I know

Or should I say that I am learning

That cracks and broken pieces are the bearers of light and joy

When one sits down on the couch with them

And turns toward them with accepting embrace

And asks what brings you here, or maybe what gift do you come bearing?

Almost 3 years ago I wrote a post Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop. Time passes and our understanding and wisdom deepens. I'm seeing now the connection between sorrow and joy in life; dropping shoes just might be opportunities or invitations to something new. It's a work in process, but inspired by some recent Lenten reading and introspection, I put the above words to paper.

Nancy Perkins

A Cabin Wonderland

Did I like Alice fall into the rabbit hole

I’m in this wonderland of snow and ice

Trees like pencil slashes

Reach into the snow filled sky

I step onto the frozen pond

Like Peter I’m afraid I’ll sink—I won’t of course

In the middle of this lake of ice

I turn and look at the cabin

Cold burns my cheeks

But I still smile

As warmth floods my heart and soul

With love and wonder for this place

This is not a dream

I am very much awake and alive

And this is truly wonderland

Exceeding every expectation

Nancy Perkins

February 2015

Walking Through the Woods on a Snowy Morning

Not a day for a hike

But off we go into the woods

Snow is falling; it’s very cold

I grab the stick my daughter hands me

And follow in her boot prints

Step by step

The creek along the trail

Is not your summer creek

Transformed by snow and ice

My sister’s blue coat and

My pink scarf are shouts of color

In this still life black and white

We talk of summer days—

Playing in the water

Rocks, moss and ferns

All that—the leaves and seeds and flowers

Are here in these bare trees, 

    in our memories

‘Neath the snow and ice

Promises to keep

My sister Elena and her husband Ron, my brother Tom and his wife, Thelma, my daughter, April and I took the Lost Creek hike this past weekend—the coldest weekend of the year. It was fabulous and amazing and a time to treasure.

- Nancy Perkins, February 2015

I'm in Love with the Moon

I don’t remember when I first declared my love to the moon

but I have been a faithful lover—through full and barely there.

I turn a corner and there she hangs

I shout my love aloud; or at least smile if others are close by.

A slice of light, she offers a golden seat in which

one could recline and read or simply gaze at passing stars.

At fullness, a brilliant orb around which I would

wrap my arms and press to my heart.

On wintry nights when she glows especially clear and bright

her glorious light warms my heart and soul.

And no words can describe the harvest moon

when she hangs in splendor on the horizon warm and yellow.

Some mornings she lingers pale and lovely,

inviting the sun to take her place.

And as he rises to his throne, she fades and finally disappears,

a lady-in-waiting for her return as queen of the night sky.

I found this part of a poem by Rumi, and it expresses so beautifully my love for the moon.

At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face against mine
breathe into me...

How beautiful is that imagery. It brings a smile to my face and joy to my heart.
Nancy (March 2015)

Gray Hair

Gray hairs lay like a frame around my face.
I gaze at them with some consternation.
Look at us, they say.
We are your life.
We are grief and trouble.
We are love and joy.
We are your children and your lover.
We tell your story.
We are your prayer.

Beneath the Bark

The bare trees
  with a few brown
  shriveled leaves
Pay no heed to
  their nakedness
  in winter's bitter cold
The branches
  still reach
  skyward
A prayer of thanks
  for what lies
  inside
A deep knowing
  of leaves
  and flowers
  and fruit

Humbled

I am humbled by the realization

of the connection between inspiration and place and space.

I may say that I have not lately been inspired,

but the other truth is that I have not lately entered into

a space where inspiration is invited.

Oh me!

Truth of a Moment

Looking through the open slats of the blind

I see a morning picture

slice by slice

Pink streaks in pale blue sky

smoke curling from a chimney

across the yard

Snow-covered roofs

bare tree branches.

In my quiet space

my hands hold the warm cup

and I taste the goodness of my

morning coffee.

I breathe in and out

and listen to silence.

I am filled with knowing

that God is here

and within

That is the truth of this moment

and it is sacred

and hallowed.

Silence

Silence presses in around me

Almost ringing in my ears

I feel a strange discomfort

Almost a need to escape

Have I become so attached to

noise and sound?

Are my senses seeking the

stimulation to which they've

become accustomed?

Silence battles science

And the war rages--even in me

A seeker of mindfulness

and meditation

The Morning Sun

The morning sun
finds its way
through winter sky
unwashed windows
and tilted shades
to my upturned face--
turning an ordinary
Saturday moment
into an extraordinary
winter gift.


My face is glowing from the sun,
a reflection in my heart
A reflection of Your love,
a circle--complete!