Old Mossy Steps

“Old mossy steps know lots of secrets.”

-Old Moss Woman's Secret Garden

The old mossy steps know lots of secrets. At their base is where my childhood pals and I met to plot treasure hunts and adventures. The bottom step was the starting point of many secret missions and the tall wall on the left is where I decided to try to fly, resulting in a spectacular fall into the the lower wall on the opposite side of the steps, and a dozen or so stitches in my chin.

Then it was the place of my first kiss. I still remember standing at the top of the steps looking out across the valley below as I held her hand and tried to work up the nerve to kiss her. She gave me a peck on the cheek, then I turned and looked at her a moment before leaning in and kissing her lips.

As a teenager I snuck off to the same mossy old steps to share deep talks with my girlfriend. We'd sit on the third step from the top and I would lean back against the taller wall while my girlfriend rested against me and we shared our most intimate fears and dreams.

But the middle step, staring at a patch of moss on the taller wall is where I told my biggest secrets. With no one listening but the moss and a few trees I would spill out my secrets and talk through my problems. That wall knew when I fought with my parents and what my girlfriend and I disagreed about. It knew when my childhood best friend and I stopped being best friends. It knew when I was depressed, when I was afraid to ask for help, and when I had big dreams I was too scared to hope would come true.

The old mossy steps know many secrets, and I'm sure they know more than just mine...

Photo and prompt found here.

The Earth's Psalm

The earth sings it's praises, slow and deep, but frighteningly powerful, like a determined old man. With a rumble the ground shakes as stones of the earth are clapped together in praise. The birds with their high and near constant songs are momentarily silenced, in awe of the effort this old man earth puts into his shaking song of praise. Then, as if strained by the effort of his singing, the earth falls still and silent again, and only after a silent amen does the rest of creation resume it's cacophony of praise.

Prompt: Write a psalm of praise about the earth or by the earth.

A Branch's Prayer

I stand alone, bare and naked against the harsh chill of winter. Waiting. But I'm not really alone. I am just one limb growing from a sturdy trunk. I am just part of the whole connected to roots reaching deep into the unknown of the earth. I reach to the sky as my tree's roots reach downward, lovingly gathering me sustenance from the earth. I give thanks I am not alone and in the spring I will blossom because I have my tree supporting me.


Prompt: John 15:4 Imagine yourself as a branch and write a prayer of thanks for the tree.

Why I Like Old Cemeteries

If anybody else is there they can't really blame you for it or get upset if you're crying for no apparent reason - they'll just assume it's cause somebody died and you miss them.

Little to no traffic/car exhaust to gag on.

Fresh air and open, but not too open space.

Feeling connected - it's a place to rub up against history and imagine what peoples lives where like and how this and that person with the same name were related.

Reading gravestones is like people watching, only less chance of being caught.

It's a peaceful place to walk.

Feeling like a natural part of the cycle of life.

Being reminded life is finite and to make the most of it.

The Moon

A distant friend,
who never laughs,
or sheds a tear.
Who never cries,
or truly smiles.
Her's is a lonely life,
but so simple,
without a care.

Holy Ground

I walk a path unknown,

but really more familiar,

bare foot in the grass,

cold beneath my feet,

sneakers crunching over gravel,

in the heat of summer,

weathered paths,

pulling me,

away from the world,

and closer to God,

to holiness and wholeness.

White

Falling spring flower petals,

blanket the ground with white,

soft reminds of sparkling snow,

cool and delicate in the warmth,

of spring times gentle breeze,

when ice has melted away.

Sea Glass

Sea glass,

or river glass, if you will,

bits of broken bottles,

scattered on the gravel,

washed upon the shore,

from unknown origin,

green, pale blue,

white frosted clear,

and once in a while,

rich bright true blue,

if luck will let you find it.

Moon Song

Pale silver moon,

in a purple sky,

like a money plant seed pod,

turned into a spotlight,

on clear rich blue sky.

written 10/22/10

Memories Underfoot.

My feet remember walking.

Walking bare-foot through a labyrinth in the cold.

It was a chilly morning.

We'd gotten lost on the way there,

missed a road and had to turn around

after calling someone for directions,

but that was exactly the kind of adventure we needed.

We had a place to go,

and a deadline for getting back,

but the point was more about the wandering,

than the destination.

There was irony

in getting lost going to a labrynth,

a maze we could follow

to lose our own path and follow God's.

Eventually we arrived.

Despite shivering a little in the cold

I couldn't resist

taking off my shoes.

Something about bare feet

touching the ground

calls me to be present

in a way I can't be fully present

without feeling the ground beneath me.

The grass was cold and damp that day,

softly cushioning my feet,

a striking contrast from the crunch

of hot black sharp stones underfoot

at the last labyrinth I walked.

It was strange

not to hear the footsteps

of the person walking with me

and yet,

I could sense where she was

in the winding path around me.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about memories underfoot.

To the Tree of Life

God of the woods,

God of nature,

you are the tree of life.

Your roots sink deep into the earth,

spreading to support our feet

even as we avoid your shadow of comfort.

You are the bright green beauty

of new leaves that catch our eyes,

if only we look up from our over busied lives.

You are the rough bark

taking on the scars of the world,

offering a love more permanent

than anything represented

in hearts and initials,

carefully scratched,

by reckless flighty lovers.

You are the branches reaching out,

bigger than life,

holding us carefully

as we try to climb higher,

reaching for the sky

with our fragile dreams.

You are the infinite complexity

of roots and branches and twigs,

leaves and veins in leaves,

far more intricately complex

than anyone could see from the ground.

God of the Rainbow

How can I write about God in a single color?

God is the deep murky blue green

of the Chesapeake Bay.

The refreshing wholeness

of living, dirty, fish and algae filled water.

The movement of different pieces of life crossing.

The clear breath

of wind across your skin

and the crystal clear water

where the zebra muscles live.

God is the red brown and gray pebbles

under twenty feet of clear water.

God is the dancing red spark

of a campfire.

I imagine God laughs

at being described

as hot like a spark.

God is the orange glow

of the setting sun.

The pale white shimmer

of the full moon.

God's smile is a rainbow

arching gracefully across the sky.

God lives in the pinks and purples and yellows

of flowers and butterflies on a summer day.

God is the lush green

of soft grass in the spring time

and the dry brown

of dust under foot.

Prompt: Pick a color in nature and write a psalm about God in nature.

A prayer for the wilderness

My god lives in the wilderness.

I meet God under the stars,

sitting by a campfire,

or rocking on a boat

with the rythmic clanking of a line

bumped against the mast,

by the breath of God.

To me the wilderness

is not devoid of God

but intimately tied to God.

It's where God hugs me in the arms

of damp woodsy air

and takes my breath away

with red and purple painted sky.

It's where the still and quiet

meets my busy mind

and calls me to slow down.

It's where no matter how big my worries are

they shrink against the back drop

of trees and sky and clouds and stars,

The God of the wilderness comforts me

when the walls of a church feel claustrophobic.

The piece of God in the trees

and the rocks

and the moonlight

invite me to be

who I am

when no one else

has the patients to wait

for the real me

to come out

of hiding.

Does it count if it's late?

It's been almost exactly a month since I started working on my writing goal for the year. So far I've been pretty successful. I missed one prompt completely (January 9: Write about a ceremony.), but I had other writing I was working on that day.

Some of my writing has really sucked, but it's been SOMETHING on paper (or computer as the case maybe). I'm also pleased to say I'm really proud of some of the things I've written.

Though initially my goal included posting what I wrote I quickly realized I limited my writing when I wrote with the intention of sharing, so having nixed that part of the goal I'm finding I'm writing a surprising amount of stuff I can't even share with my writing buddies.

Earlier this week I was disappointed when there was a day I didn't find inspiration for the prompt, or any other writing, and couldn't "catch up" for the prompt I missed in the next few days either, but a conversation this afternoon inspired an answer to that prompt.


My belated response to that prompt:

Outside my window,
lightning flashes,
streaking blazes,
as thunder rolls,
gray clouds grumbling,
across purple sky,
to the pounding pulse,
of torrential rain.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Look out your window; write what you see. (Jan. 20)

The Moon's Smile

Look,
it's the moon,
like the shadow of,
a Cheshire Cat,
she comes to watch,
on perfect days,
a warm day in winter,
or cool summer day,
with clear blue sky,
and soft sun shine,
she comes and smiles,
she's happy to see us,
happy to be,
part of a beautiful day,
and I wonder,
why she hides,
when the day could use a smile.


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about a day moon.


P.S. I didn't miss yesterday's prompt; I just haven't decided whether I'm posting any of it. The prompt was: "A year after your death,..." (after Czeslaw Milosz)

"A Writer's Book" Day Two

The prompt:
Write about something sacred.

The random rambling:
The earth is sacred, the ground we walk the stars above, the pen in my hand, writing itself. Life is sacred. I could write about anything and it would be sacred, but what does sacred mean. To me it means valued, loved by God, necessary for wholeness. Anything life giving is sacred, but so are the things that take life, because without those things we couldn't see the value of the things that give life. Love is sacred. Loving is living in the sacred way of God. The sacred is both invincible and as fragile as a glass ornament. The stuff of life is sacred. Life is sacred. Books and words and feelings. Relationships. Touching the soul of another. Perhaps that touching is the most sacred of all things. When you touch somebody so deeply their very soul moves inside them. Connections are sacred. We live in a web, tied to the earth and the sky, each other, all creatures and all creation by invisible threads, and everyone of those threads is sacred. Ubuntu.


The poetry:
Sacred Threads

I
am
not
alone.

I'm tied to you,
to creation,
to the earth,
to the sky.

Connected,
bound up,
by God's love,
the sacred threads.

The ties of love,
the give and take,
the push and pull,
the stuff of life,
that makes us whole.

The sacred is knowing,
I am because you are.
Ubuntu.

Unwinding

Come to the center,
distractions fade,
sitting in,
the shadow of God,
walked a path,
closer to you,
now it's time,
to unwind,
retrace the steps,
away from the center,
and yet remain,
centered with God.

Walking the Labyrinth

Faded paint,
soft echoes,
of stories told,
memories caught,
upon cold stone.

Quiet voices,
whispers on the wind,
creating anew,
todays stories.

Worn soft,
threads of time,
holding us together,
tying past to present.

Handprints left,
to mark this place,
a space to be,
alive with God.

Rain

Cold drizzle creeps,
into bones,
sinking in,
chilling,
heart,
and mind,
and body.

My blankets call out,
stay in bed,
snuggle in,
drink some tea,
and write a bit,
block out the cold,
with warming ritual,
tea and books,
writing by fire light.

Icy grip,
of downcast weather,
slows me down,
but children are immune,
bouncing and giggling,
begging for escape,
confining space,
too tight,
trapping busy bodies,
who resist the call,
of rainy rest,
with boundless,
overflowing,
energy.


Writing prompt (courtesy of my cousin): "a poem... about... rain and obnoxious children"

The Night Won't Save You

Crisp air blows,
stirring the darkness,
bright moon glows,
a beckoning call,
crickets chirp,
their incessant song,
promising not,
to leave you alone,
if only you'll follow,
into the night,
escape from the light,
but the night won't save you,
illusion of company,
in a lonely world,
promising safety,
but offering only,
a melancholy home,
for a broken heart,
the night won't save anyone.


Writing prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: "The night won't save anyone."