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!

Church...It Could Happen

If I would start a church

it would be like none I’ve known

It would meet wherever I am

And whomever I am with would be the body

When we ate we would hand bread to one another

and exchange a glass of wine at meal’s end

Music would be the singing of the birds or our own voices

raised in praise or lament from in our hearts

The sermon would be our eager conversation

or maybe just a hearty laugh or salty tears

Our prayers would be the longings of our hearts

shared with gratitude and humbleness and love

And when we parted ways our benediction

would be our warm embrace and promise

to meet again and love until that time.

I've been thinking about church, and how the traditional structures don't seem to work for me these days. I'm not sure my ideas make much sense, but wherever two or three...

-Nancy

Cabin Muse

The cabin is a sort of muse; it inspires me to no end. This past weekend was no exception. It was an absolutely perfect weekend, spent with some of my favorite people. Here are two of my musings.

Morning at the Cabin

Mist rises from the pond

Broken by the rays of morning sun

Each moment is a picture

to beautiful to bear

The breaking sun casts shadows

and reflections

Lasting only seconds

giving way to others

The morning is mystical

and magical and

in this moment in this place

everything is possible

 

September’s End

Early Fall

before cold robs the trees of leaves

and kills the green

When the air is cool and the sun is warm

It’s perfection, at the cabin.

The sky is so blue you could wear it

and the reflection of blue and green in the water

rivals the actual landscape for beauty

Kingfisher and hummingbird

and swarms of finches flit and fly

Frogs and fish break the still pond surface

sending ripples rolling into each other

Sitting on the time worn bench on the island

I am privileged to participate…by being

and being is all that is required

as creation does the work

 

The Pieta

Was it in her arms his battered body

first became the broken bread?

As she held him did she know

she would share his body with the world?

As his blood ran down

now staining clothes and hands,

did it there become the wine

we now share in remembrance?

Oh, Mary, I too grieve and mourn

the wounding of your son.

I too long to hold him

weeping, wondering

Taking now the bread and wine

in his remembrance,

passing it to friends, to sisters,

all the wounded round the world

Looking at this broken bread

now in my hands,

the wine I grasp with tears—

I become the Pieta.

Of all the memorable works of art I saw in Rome, Michelangelo’s Pieta has stayed with me. I had never thought of Mary holding her crucified son, and the image moves me greatly.

 

Reverie

Darling, here I sit

On a crumbling bench

On the island

At the cabin

And after all those years alone

This is till the place

Where I sit

An early morning breeze

...and I remember

You are very present to me here

The weeping willow

Has grown tall

And occasionally I sit beneath

Her drooping boughs

And weep with her

But mostly I smile

As I thumb through

Pages of memories

We made here at the cabin

Enough of them to last 
Until I’m old...

And then beyond.

Nancy Perkins

7/2014