they meet us here,
and there in our trips around the sun.
Here we start again.
Month: Dec 2019
they meet us here,
and there in our trips around the sun.
Here we start again.
Thank you so much Matt Kohrell for creating this tag here, and Pooja G for the amazing personality you are in blogosphere. Hey tags can be used well I’m sure, and this is such an inter-person-connective way to end the year.
We have a few hours left, but if you’d like 1: Share a link back to the person who tagged you/ 2- Share a link to the person who created the tag- jesusluvsall.wordpress.com 3- Share a favorite New Year’s Memory
4- Answer the questions of the person who tagged you.
5- Tag whoever you want.
6- Use any picture that you like for New Years’.
1- If you could celebrate the New Year anywhere. Where would it be?
2- What is your favorite snack food for New Years?
Ummmmm …. this?
3- Have you ever kept a New Year’s resolution? If so, what was it?
2019 was about tidying up! I’ll say it worked 80% +, seriously, cuz I held on here👇
4- What do you want to do with your blog next year?
Make it as honest as I dare, be readable, be real.
5- Do you prefer a big party or a small gathering to celebrate?
Depends. I love people, not necessarily masses all at once 😅
“With this being the end of not only a year, but also a decade, I thought I would look back at what the Lord has done in my life the past ten years. Also I would like to make this a tag- The Decade Tag.” quote👇
To play along:
1- Please share a link to the creator of the tag- jesusluvsall.wordpress.com
2- Share some highlights for you over the past decade and if you want a few low points
3- Tag whoever you wish to.
4- Ask them some questions
5- Use any picture appropriate for such a tag.
Highlights for me (@innerdialects are:
Miracles we watched as our son went through seizures and healing in the most bizarre, unexpected places and ways, among a host of unexplainable events that led me to start blogging again. It’s all here in this blog. Do browse through.
My questions from Tag:
1- What was your favorite song or songs from this past decade?
RECKLESS LOVE, Cory Asbury. BROKE& DROP EVERYTHING,Riley Clemmons. HOLDING ON TO THE CROSS,Vihan Damaris. MANY OH MANY,Vihan Damaris. COURTESY CALL,Thousand foot crutch. LET THE SOARKS FLY, Thousand foot crutch. GOD IS:(cover Vihan Damaris). EASY,Sarah Reeves. YOUR SPIRIT,Tasha Cobbs. CHURCH CLAP, Le Crae. I BELIEVE, KB.
2- Fav movie/ movies this past decade: THE SHACK, DO YOU BELIEVE?, BREAKTHROUGH, OVERCOMER, WAR ROOM, THE BLINDSIDE, RAGAMUFFIN, I CAN ONLY IMAGINE, SHADOWLANDS, CASE FOR CHRIST, HEAVRN IS FOR REAL, MIRACLES FROM HEAVEN, WOODLAWN, GRACE- UNPLUGGED.
3- What was your favorite book from this past decade? MERE CHRISTIANITY, CS.Lewis, WHATS SO AMAZING ABOUT GRACE,Philip Yancey.
Hey Tag yourself if you’d like, with link back to source! I really want to say something poignant powerful but there’s a Shepherd’s pie to pie, and a night to fix for the friends who will come in. Take care, stay safe, be blessed, you and I are more precious than we suspect!
She found us on a railway platform, Bangalore East; was fascinated by our daughter’s phone and finger ring. Then she wouldn’t leave us; half hour later I was curious to see her family, was she alone? Were there more pretty eyes like hers, gold amber, dark with long lashes….
You could get trapped between tears and soft rage. The child was not hungry for food, she was hungry for things she couldn’t have, not with her lifestyle on the pavement. I looked away hurt that I felt irritation, hurt that I could be repulsed. Somewhere in all that, there was (is) horror that 23%? (according to 2012 census) live below our poverty line. Somewhere in all that is the voice of Sakshi Malik a Facebook friend who said Poverty exists more in the human spirit than anywhere else.
So I follow Amber girl, past a glass bangle seller who also sells heart shaped balloons. He wears kohl in his eyes and one earring. Any other day I may have returned his smile but today the mother in me wasn’t amused. What has happened with us all, that children like this child, must stay in railway platforms? She’s speaking my local Kannada, she is chatty, street smart. If she went to school she’d be in front row full of pep and silver/gold paper stars in her project work.
She points me to her Ma with five other sibling, all their amber eyes on fire. The mother has infant at breast under thin cotton sari and green blouse with safety pins all down opened neck line. Words still fail me, what does one say?
Amber, she grinned at me, her face turning into one big heart. This was ten years ago? She was some kind of angel in that transit zone: we were shifting cities, just about getting used to our third child’s blindness, we were between jobs, it felt insecure, tiring.
I remember Amber today, not as representing the invisible population of a country unable to tackle its vast tribes, but as a bright faced young one who could be beautiful in her spirit and gift us a smile like that, no matter what her circumstance.
Do you have a happy place? A place you return to now and again sometimes for no reason, or when you do have a reason. I have a few like maybe you do too. This one below is almost exactly like the one I went to, eons ago, on a hill next to a forsaken lighthouse. It had lilies though, and a brick path with fallen out gate, I’d wait to hop over it and onto wild bush of Touch-me -nots.
The sheer smallness of the chapel was magnified by the amount of light falling in it, through it, it lit up chinks in the woodwork, so when you looked at it from the outside it was like a small house on fire. Emotional, some would say. But I’ve grown past mere emoticons. There was a Stillness in there that got into me. It defied, and still defies human conditions for joy. It stilled my father’s bad temper at being pulled out of bed to be on time for service 7 am. My Ma was the prettiest warrior I ever saw; when she sang the sun shone specially on her, her curls lit up with fire and faith in the God who taught her how to bring up us three girls all on her own with dad away on postings all over India. She taught us how to be Indian traditionals, yet free of false humility, how she did that I do not know.
when I return to the memory of that first chapel ever, I’m reminded of how small I am in the vastness of an era I do not understand. I’m reminded of fearlessness, of the brilliance of Light as It un-hides the dark- exposing areas in my life that needn’t be subject to human frailty. And I love how freeing that is, to lean on Light and feel Its’ pressure on my skin, on my senses even, and on my human spirit so frighteningly prone to Self-reliance. Which in itself is a good thing. And some days, the human spirit wants to lean on a Thing bigger than us. No matter the fuss and kick at higher strength, humans like/want/need the Infinite whether in affairs of mathematics or promises. We need the falling in love then the expectation of that Significant Other who needs be that Leaner-On. Some of us need a Festival, a Shopping Mall, Online heroes, or Plates of This and That. We go low, then high on things that will transform us via vein, brain.
Today I’m leaning on the One that found me in Unexpected Places, else I’d not have noticed Him. Else I’d have been suspicious of too much goodness, or Structure based mementoes that Transform our inner spaces irrespective of life as is visual, aural, tactile….
The pregnancy of Joy, Expectation, the Power of Hope, It swelled and stayed, It could not go away, unless
Unless I asked It to leave-
Even then I could not forget It. Not even in Its Silence.
It gathers me,
these Leaves of days in a year of prayers
that changed even me,
Abba Father, thankyou.
I’m excited, like in moments before you unwrap a gift. It is easier now to remember the good things not the bad. Hope is poised like buds waiting, tiny perked blossom. Promise cards/calendars read,”From this day I will bless you...” it started with Thanksgiving month. Every day feels closer to dawn, I want to lean back a bit, and rest on blessed assurance.
I do think it’s good to be like that, like a child with no bitterness attached to the way we accept life all over again; accept our own capacity to be good, yeah that – forgive ourselves too, in the eyes of God alone who is perfect.
If you’re thinking I’m sitting in a cleopatra tub of milk floating with rose petals, no I’m not. I’ve at least 2 good reasons to give someone a tongue lashing…I have my own personal hate list that God keeps (yes God, dyou mind:) …keeps reminding me to shred.
But as these last days of 2019 narrow down over the weekend and we plan a candle lit midnight with a few friends, I’m truly looking forward to shredding to ash some emotions I’ve picked up along the way not on the 31st, but right now. Looking forward to stepping into new ness, not merely on the eve of 2020 but deep in the crevices of my ME where an Unshakable Kingdom exists. We choose life, we choose death, we choose in-between states of grey:
Hey, choose Life.
Never be afraid, even of the Light. It isn’t what we know. It puts the Dark to flight:
Beautiful terrible ring in the sky, I spy you through a glass darkly,
among other things I do not understand but grasp at.
Today at our little church overlooking gulmohar trees and a blue December sky, the question was asked,“What does Jesus mean to you?”
I don’t like Q&As; we could be judged in these sessions, but this morning here there are people in their teens and twenties and the few of us other gen. humans. They are frank and brilliant,
some say Christ is Love and Light;
to make it even more hard to be real honest, the young preacher asks us to know Jesus sits in the room and that we do this on birthdays don’t we…don’t we say a few words about the birthday person, so… let’s make this a personal Christmas, she says.
I’m getting more uncomfortable. You don’t fake it with the son of God. It’s my turn to say my few words. I speak my heart,
“See Jesus used to be my best friend. The kind that puts up with all my nonsense. A Big brother. As I grew older He was the stronger. As I grew tired He was my strength. Now though, He makes me uncomfortable. “
I pause for breath before venting.“These days He is a mirror. Showing me how selfish I am. I see Him in the faces of neighbours, strangers… relatives… I see Him asking me to love them, help them if I had it in my power to.”
This info begins to worry me but it’s from a real place.
My life isn’t just about me. Sure. I know. And I wonder what kind of Person can love like that, to change me from the inside so I get to care about Mrs.Lanley Aru, and her husband who hurts people, and Ghanush, and Miya. And Bobo and Tre. All a bunch of people who should go to a school for behavioural disorders. I can feel His gaze go right thru me. Dont tell me that’s emotional stuff. You dont know me. I couldn’t love like that. I couldn’t care about these peoples eternal lives, why would I want to live with them eternally, please.
What kind of story is this: from cradle to a crude cross:
I’m out of breath.
To be cont’d .
Have a great day,
A Christmas Prayer:
“Let me be that Star,
Let Your Life blaze through my inadequacy,
Gaze thru’ my shadows with Compassion, with forgiveness and the kind of tender mercy You’ve stood for,
Oh Gentle Saviour, arrest my blindness with Your freedom to be who I was made to be, in the Light of your power. Free me from what blurs my vision
Beautiful One be born this day in my ash, my ashes of dreams, for a star is that; may I reflect You, reaching out to me via Light years of Love.
Teach me Love, Your Love Oh Sacred Head once Wounded for me, Your Story stuns me o’er and o’er….
past the frills and fluster of seasonal cheer, I want to know the real You more and more, Gentle Jesus of the Cross, as You go about Your Day do not pass me by,
may our planet shine with You, with the Life of Your Light.
May the day ahead and the ones to follow, fill you with a brand new season of rest, harmony and joy!
The Alchemists Studio hosts this Beauty in blue –
blue, the colour of our global roof, the essence of emotion, a Jar of heaven that turns tears to the Dew it returns, every morning. I’d call it ‘Tears of heaven…?’
The Alchemist :”From our tears spring the life giving dew that nourishes life!I hope you have a beautiful week ahead!“
Yesterday on our way to another part of Bangalore city, we got stuck in a crowd of 1 lakh protesters with banners, national flag, slogans being quietly yelled, all in simmering polite refusal to accept a recent political statement regarding Citizenship in our country. There were armed cops lining the entire route, khaki and guns at rest but ready. Section 144 is not a pretty section to be found in a march of that number, however accidentally. My husband would be calm in the Red Sea. Not me. An hour of that, and a detour home, I was thinking, dearest God, it is that time to pray for each other, I mean real prayers. For wisdom, peace, love, respect, safety, protection,harmony.
Dont ask me how we got detoured somewhere along this surge. It’s a miracle when you can safely get safe, though it’s also a beautiful thing to watch hundreds come together with love for each other, in a time of need.
Where are we headed this 2020, I’m scared to ask, think,imagine. What’s it going to be like for all our children? Will the world they inherit be kind to them; will they have space and time and support to pursue their dreams, will they be able to live, forgive, love? All our pretty poetry and wishes can sound like beautiful broken things. Yeah, it’s not an appropriate post for a season of cheer, but this is also a season of comfort. I choose to believe in that Comfort.
The Psalmist talks of tears collected in a bottle, poetic imagery/ real
all of which and more is graphically depicted in a must-see Movie THE SHACK.
Do not watch this one if you’re in the mood for sweet-nothings under mistletoe and fests in joyful carol. The Shack is 2 hours of one man’s acquired mistrust of God, having lost his little girl to a murder that leaves no closure; his own past a mesh of abuse/ disaster parenting. It is constructed in a way that can be controversial (depictions of God as ‘Comfort’ took me 2 viewings to understand. Wonder & awe at what divine reality is really like!)
Thankyou Alchemist Studio for your beautiful expressions of alchemy.
Every one of us a Story:
Recently I did a few paintings for a book on humans in bondage to abuse. In the process of that, one of the editors asked if I could work the Cover painting on the famous Japanese art Kintsugi, (also known as Kintsukuroi- the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique. Wikipedia)
What I finally did for that Book cover ofcourse was not a human face melded together with gold, though I would have loved to, (haven’t worked with gold leaf paintings yet).
Yet, fascinating that the very things we discard, as the breaking points in our day, could be our turning points.
Is this post flowing all over the place… perhaps yes. It’s a busy morning, we slept late last night(3 am?), theres a fair amount of action today, there are people who will be in tomorrow, cooking, serving, laughter and joy. Woven in the weave of all that theres the quiet of answers waiting, questions unasked, healing, scars, memories of loved one lost, a photograph on the wall, a melody that lingers from childhood, a recipe from Ma’s kitchen, a hug I wish I could receive all over again. This time around there’s the sense of new beginnings, a letting go, a new holding on. Even a new respect for the wounds that got us here. Healed by a wound. Sigh, but happily.
Hey, let the Alchemy of heaven seal us with new beginnings. For me it’s the story of that first Christmas that is an awakening. It’s a prayer in the stars. “Dearest Lord Jesus, let the blood that flowed from the Cross kiss my scars, let the breath of God breathe into me, I cant do this on my own, hold me with life anew, I’m hurting alone, I’m leaning on You. You. You. ”
I love that everyone has a Story. What’s yours…
Much love this season & always
We took them out one by one. Joseph has lost his little clay head and there’s no time to fix him back so I cover his torso with a tiny cane head piece. Can you spot Joseph?
Our son Johann is blind and yes he put out each figure like last Christmas, but this time, post seizures/ meds, he cannot concentrate. His hands shake and I do not insist that Joseph goes next to Mary, so it’s all askew. Does it matter, I wonder.
Would the real Joseph have been quietly seated next to new mom Mary? Wouldn’t he have lost his head, even just a wee bit,with this surreal pregnancy of his betrothed, a ferocious Herod, … the details of that divine birth blow my mind each time. My spirit fills with gratitude that over the years, Christ has not stayed in clay, but has gazed into my life with very real presence.
The reality of Christmas is fantastic. A Divine Babe that grew to face a Cross, a resurrection garden, He would walk through walls to get through my heart of stone.
May the heart of you be warmed warmed warmed this season, with Love Divine from the Manger to the moon and back.💓
Once upon a time there was this one roomed house with a thatched roof, and it was a nice house to a nice couple. They were happy people with enough peace and joy to go around this season and the next. Farmer Jose and wife grew potatoes and onions, they were not rich they were not poor, but they had enough to go around for visitors and neighbours.
Oneday thieves broke in; the thatched roofing fell in as four local young men stole through their well worn box of coins and notes.
Farmer Jose and wife asked the boys why they hadn’t told them they were coming, they could’ve cooked them a warm meal, they said. It was nearing midnight but the old man took out some fruit and offered it to the young men.
“Keep the coins,” Jose said as the men left their home. “And do come back tomorrow if you can. We are lonely for company, and our sons live far away.”
The four young men returned to fix the roof, and would return to the Joses’ whenever they could.
This is a true story, I just don’t remember the names.
I prayed that you would be given the gift of sight,
but God in His mercy allowed me to see His Light all around you.
Now I ask that you my child will pray too, this prayer for others: that thru’ your journey via the valley of shadows, you will leave footprints that lead another out of darkness.
Each day this prayer grows, and as it does, my eyes open to things I’ve been blind to. How we misunderstand the gifts we are given: they arrive in unusual wrap and bows, sparkling with the tears of heaven.
“For God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but He has given us a spirit of power, love and discipline…” quote from The Bible.
Published in Indian Anthology contemporary poets, Poesy 09, post Taj bombings Mumbai. A decade gone and we fight new wars of different kinds.
Sometimes I am too shy to pray but not today, no!
Not after our faces tore and skies brewed black,
and stars were smoked and we stared like that,
we were so many million poets among carefree corpses;
sometimes I am too still to dance again,
but not today, not here like this,
this Night is young, Its song is pure:
Truant words find their cure,
broken feet cross their street,
Great perils have this beauty, that they bring to light the fraternity of strangers. – Victor Hugo.
I called this one Street Prayers after a recent Haiku Jam starter, “Corner of the Street,” but maybe it was inspired by a visit few evenings ago, a visit by a little face in a shop window. The face of a small child, not 10 years old, he had these sweet eyes and half smile almost apologetic but steady. Any prayer of mine could be futile. I was staring at Humanity, and It’s hunger was staring back at me.
We were strangers in a month that’s all for shopping, fun, food, laughter. I stood there with my heart load of trouble but the kid in the street looking at me couldn’t see it. And yet if I hadn’t had trouble of my own, with my own sick child, I probably wouldn’t/ couldn’t have felt a twinge for this child with his cheeks muddied, burnt in the sun. When we came out of the shop he wasn’t there. Now I had guilt. I should’ve told him to stay right there, got him at least a meal. Looked everywhere, but he wasn’t there, not anywhere. What was his name? Did he have a home? Will I ever know? Will a prayer do?
A few years ago while at a street school in Mumbai, I met another little child, his name was Raju. We learnt how to draw and skip rope, brush our teeth and hop. He taught me how to walk through the tiny spaces between the shacks that were his colony. He taught me how to smile and laugh and forget that I’d had a fever for three years, he helped me heal. Raju wouldn’t talk to anyone, he was known as a kid that disrupted the hours at the two roomed house that also served as school for construction worker kids. When he drew, he did black circles. I don’t know how we got talking maybe it was during games and skip rope. I wasn’t great at it, he found it hilarious. That stint there changed me from an ambition driven ‘writer’ to an observer. And I’ve been watching the things that make us more human: here’s my finding. Need, shared or personal, it changes the way we respond to each other. Shared need, the need for acceptance, ah that one can start a revolution. And sometimes we pray for one another, and that’s the most powered place between Spheres that Humanity will ever experience. It changes me everytime I pray for another. (My Psychology lecturer in college would have a fit if he read this post).
Our new friend, a digital artist looked at me like I fell off Mars then cracked up in long drawn out sobs of laughter.
“What’s the worst word you’ve ever..?” He asked after a respectful pause. “Oh dont bother …”
Karu K. 10 years older than me, has seen war and love, and lost. If he’s bitter about life it doesn’t show as well as his cigarette smoke. He cannot tolerate too much peace, still does some serious heavy metal music, maybe has chain saws for pets, who knows. I love K. like a brother already and tell him that but is it helping?
“…$%$#%^… give me a break,” he cracked up again but his eyes went flat.
“How can you guys be artists and never need to unleash, yknow…?”
What’s an ‘artist’ supposed to unleash: tongues made of Cato’9tails?
I do not do Bs, Fs, Gs…Qs …not because Gran and Ma and aunt Rosa didn’t but because my tongue is attached to a meter that goes wahannnng if I go there.
So no Brother K., I don’t know how to swear, nor can I fake it. Is this a relevant post, is it necessary to even ask? Why is creativity so intertwined with the incredible Art of Swear? Why do people swear? Is it about being out of the box, is life that unbearable boring, are we run out of words as a human race, does it make us socially acceptable in some some circles, does life get easier if we swear…?
Over the past few weeks as they’ve been changing medication for our son, we’ve watched him go from being the gentlest human we’ve met, to a leashed/unleashed tiger with a certain tongue lashing quality that’s unbelievable. So I looked up one of the drugs our new doc said was probably causing some of the havoc. Looked it up and it says among side effects: “...harshness, negating of emotion… ” , perhaps theres the need to vent; need for a certain friendly aggression…
Does that explain a few things? Perhaps the details of K’s existence has had its side effects? Not just K, but the Shop owner 12th cross, and neighbour when his papers aren’t on time, and Mr. Dev at the Photcopiers’ and some in the bus, in cabs, in gas stations, in conference halls, oh in restaurants and magazine columns, in movies and music> side effects that list under Friendly Fire. Unsure how to end this post. If I’ve offended anyone I’m sorry, nor do I wish to hear offensive ling. And yes I’m seriously sad K will not accept brotherhood: is that old fashioned to even ask? I guess so. But I’m not changing bro. I like me this way.
When K came home the next day he did not use any of the words he’d used at the meet. Said he didn’t feel the need to, and that it freed him in a way he wasn’t willing to discuss just yet.
(This Post inspired by a friend who is happier with name changed).
Rest my heart, your fabulous heart rich with kisses from heaven,
rest your thoughts, pick berries, eat sweet raw tender leaf made by the fingers of God,
Life will pass its days in ways that surprise you & me; sunbathe your tears.Rest my heart, your fabulous heart
rich with kisses from heaven.
The lyrics of a song done with my lefty guitar (will upload when theres courage to do that:). Words run off me and I can’t think except watch how healing walks in. No evidence, it crawls in a millimeter at a time. Then two steps back. Yes I’m a dreamer but positivity alone has never helped med.side effects, see? And I’m seeing new light in the dark. Seeing hope against odds. Our son is on a new surge of withdrawal, the seizures stopped months ago, but this. As my fam and I watch each other cope, moods swing then settle. We must plan activity to zap his nervous energy. He’s been the sweetest calmest person here these 18 years, so this is hard. Jeff read this out to me just now,”He who dwells in the shelter of the most High will rest in the Shadow of the Almighty.“
I’m asking, so His Shadow goes where angels ‘d fear to tread, right. His shadow chases hell for us, It treads fire and walks stormy water to get to us, His Shadow would, Who, What else could? This isn’t a blog post for the sake of blogpost. I am grateful for that Shadow that lead me to some extraordinary readings today, rooting me back into security, ignoring my doubts, my fiery disbelief.
It’s too late now to be afraid
Too much Grace in this place,
too much Mercy walked in, kissed me,
New healings, I cant see yet, except thru’
This, glass darkly.
we are more than 206 bones,
we are makers of tears, not insignificant to history:
nah not lesser than kings,
we are more
than we dare
we may dare
Inspired by my mother who’d sit on that wall waiting for us to get back in. Today I’m reminded of that, over and over.
From gardens across the earth I got us some yellow berry holly I’ve not personally seen but it’s as real as the one that grew these :
I believe every leaf is a prayer for peace, she gives off fragrance you know in the belly of your bones, aye
a light in the core of your soul these are the original Gifts of christmas, Heartprints from a Place we’ve yet to be.
My Jeff (Noel – no one else would put up with my messy paint tubes and books in corners and centre stage of my life), when he listens to music it’s like he’s breathing it in via ear phones. I’ve not seen someone savour music the way he does; it’s his profession (Sound) yet him soaking it in with palms clasped over headphones makes me realize the gift of music is to be unwrapped, opened to senses and inhaled into spirit… the Balm of Gilead!
We’re listening to a recording of our three children doing their take on Kanye’s Jesus is Lordhttps://youtu.be/p2TuJFlv2Uk
(they’re at a carol a day: drummer boy, 3 kings, God resting merry gentle…)
where they get their joy is something to watch; it’s been a month of us battling med induced aggression with our son, I’ve written my nails blue on this one but that’s not the story here. Gratitude spills out my ears that mid all this there can be music? Maybe because its December, maybe it’s that time God’s letting in a new season. This time around I wasn’t able to think on a carol, then the kids do what they do in season and out. Music’s been a norm, a hard habit to break. It’s now a best friend. A gift from God, unwrapped over and over. Jeff gets his headphones out, his brown eyes swim out at me for joy, what else can describe this… comfort,hope,healing….
ay weeping may endure a night but joy comes in the morning.
Thankyou God that trusting You isn’t a myth, You’re not a long ago Shepherd with Psalmist sheep in tow, You’re not stuck in Time- wrapped in swaddling diapers, You’re not even embalmed on iron crosses for us to kiss when we can’t pray. You’re here.
I don’t know when healing will arrive for sure, but this is a greater miracle that Peace can trek thru’ storms with us. It’s a miracle that our son pushing through momentary random aggression can even smile and pause to sing.
Jeff is a warrior. I go climbing walls when am anxious; sure I pray but I turn into a praying spider woman. He’s the calm lake of Galilee thankyou Lord Precious Jesus.
Thank You for people in our lives who have ears to hear Your Music, Your Voice mid all others’. Thank You that Christmas is more than a Season of Decor & Shine. Thank You that though it’s a long trek through Valley of the Shadow of Doubt we need fear no evil, You’re there.
I was born of the dust, where Light fell like a stairway, ’twas calling calling, Child of the Dew, ‘fore you even knew it,
I know you..
Before you were born in the womb of galaxies of Stars, you & I were summoned to breathe, by the breath of God –
falling like Dew,
Lest we forget we are first born Natives of Light,
lest we forget ….
Painting Lyrics of my heart Watercolour digitalized, RN
Provoked by a heartbreaking post I read today in another blog.
This Bench follows me room to room, down the stairs and out the door. What drew Dave Bignell to capture it?
“Well I used to walk through Hyde Park every morning when I worked in London and of course every season transformed my surroundings. I think in this particular case the bench just looked lonely or somehow protected by the lamppost, like it was standing guard.
It is delicious chilly outside here in Bangalore India, welcome chilly after a humid late monsoon. I’ve been blog writing ferocious after 365 days of waiting for our youngest to heal. My mind is too preoccupied to start December decor officially at home, but this photograph last week pulled me in like lyrics of a yuletide cantata would; you thought you got its message, but nah not yet.
My Ma and Gran went at Christmas like heaven would have a heart attack if they didn’t. I’m not the high octane happy worker bees they were, not me, but this photograph from a place I’ve never been gets my attention just when energy levels are belly crawling. There I said it.
Out in my street by a bus stop, two men in the sidewalk, not 25 years old but with ancient eyes: one spits paan*, the other stares back at me. His friend looks away. They must think I’m waiting for a bus-
Life’s a bus, my Dad would say in his earlier years.
He couldn’t speak much before he went. Illness did that to him. I wish he’d stayed, but you don’t get to order these things. The 25 year olds in the pavement would understand that. Life’s not a bus Dad, its an earth in orbit going on and on. Seasons change, you and I in the beach, you laughing at me falling off the cycle, I was a hopeless learner. You were Unshakeable, you never told me I couldn’t do something if I wanted to. You never lost courage, ’twas seasons that went to winter around you. It got in you almost, like a chill season but inside you were the same person. You and I cannot really change even if I’m quieter these days of rising price, oh fixing salads with no onion, he-he what’d Gran have done with the onion mini-famine we have here? She’d grow her own veggies..
no dad its no bus: we are sitters, walkers, standing leaving arriving. Life is beautiful Dad, you didn’t want to go, who wants to die except my neighbour Mr.Alvarez and his Haiku poems on graves and sweet dying, he reads it out, smacks it out like it is candy. At Christmas Mr. Alvarez misses his two daughters in Kuala Lumpur and Greece, then he wants to hang low and not talk to his round faced wife who will not talk either. Please dear God, keep them from visiting this us this Christmas, I cannot answer questions about new lights, I like the ones we have, a few don’t work here and there but they are milestones of things we did and did not do. Alvarez has to deck his roof with lights to outshine Mars. He says so, that’s how I know. I like my life next to jacaranda trees with squirrel, our muted traffic snarls and manger clay angels with chipped nose and yes, Joseph’s (human father of Jesus) miniature clay head fallen off last Christmas: need to cello tape him back on.
At home we finish a chinese lunch, Kitsy our teenager enjoys playing chef. Jeff my husband is at a river in his easel, he paints rivers, no surprise. He’s from hilly river running Coorg district south of India. Dia and Joh are a few kms away getting the sun. No more seizures for Joh hopefully, but the aggressive side effects of his meds have us running circles to work his chi & chu, or whatever energies are called. Li my sis called last night, she doesn’t feel like Christmas with Dad and Ma gone, she cannot decorate for carolers, her knee hurts. How are you Ray? Just back from a village visit with her carol crew, Li is a village doc. She reminds me of Dad, and Ma in bits. Thel, eldest sis is like her own self + added fizz over the years. Me I’m growing more like my kids, picking their vocabulary and shoulder shrug. Rolling of eyes in particular is liberating but on my generation it looks rude; they get away with it. We hang in together, Haha like parked lampposts and bench, and tree. In season and out.
This Bench. It is park furniture. All the stories and footprints and winters that have gone by haven’t moved it. It is untransformed, though a little worn, yes?
Christmas isn’t the nicest time for those who have lost a loved one, or lost heart; for those feel alone it is easily a time of more than they can bear. I’m thinking about the quality of not being moved. I’m thinking of that Lamp post, the Tree and Bench all there like friends.
I guess December is that time we could spin stories out of threadbare sack cloth but I’m feeling the right to not be moved and it’s a heart strengthening feeling.
I’m thinking on something I read about: that Unshakeable Kingdom we all have for the asking; that secret place deep inside where the Love of God stands by us like a Light in a storm. That storm ravaged place where we’re parked? It can feel cold and uninviting, or it can create whole new perspective: Strength that waits out the winter. I’m the bench, the lamppost, the trees; sometimes I’m the snow…
*paan- betel leaf.
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