In The Fullness of Time

 Sharing these thoughts is difficult in these days of ecological and man-made ruin. And yet, at the same time it feels right to acknowledge and be grateful that, in this small corner of the world, the land and its creatures continue on, for now, unimpeded. 

The chattering is non-stop,
recently fledged house wrens
congregating in the bushes,
asking their many questions
of the world.
The crickets' and katydids' song, 
emanating from the trees and old
fields that surround the house,
is constant, too,
enfolding,
like the Presence of God,
which, of course, it is.

Catbirds, readying to go,
gorge on the pokeberries
and this morning an unexpected
white-eyed vireo,
on his way to somewhere,
forages in the old apple tree,
gleaning from what this piece
of his world has
to offer.

Hummingbirds are on the jewelweed, 
their tiny tummies laying down the
fat that will fuel their long, 
upcoming journey
and
newly emerged Monarch's,
sipping from phlox and zinnias, 
prepare for a pilgrimage
that will take them
far into the
unknown.

All of us,
the wild things and I,
are waiting for what comes next.
And each of us,
the wild things and I,
are sustained
and supported
by the late-summer abundance
that has come
in the fullness
of time.

Worship Without Words

I have joined them here this morning, 
the annual cicadas in the woods 
across the street. Worship has
no words here,
no shoulds,
only the ongoing
crescendo and decrescendo
of gratitude for life.
And for place.
Beneath the thrumming of cicadas and
the chipping of catbird young,
the woods are still, 
expectant,
waiting.

It is written that the Spirit moves
where it will,
like the wind winding
through the shadows
where I sit.
This moment, the Spirit 
has come,
blessing the ordinary life
of all who live among
the trees,
blessing the communion
between them and
the Eternal
and me.

 

On the Day Smoke Hid the Eastern Sky

My attention was captured by the catbird splashing in the birdbath underneath the old apple tree,

and moved to the ruby-throat stealing from spider webs strung between branches,

and on to the Carolina and house wrens busily chattering congenially as they plucked miniscule insects from the underside of leaves and twigs.

Bumblebees, lazily awakened from their slumber on the cleome, 

      fed on phlox and cardinal flower

and anise hyssop.

          Hummingbird moths sipped from the monarda,

    

 

while green frogs in the pond and blue jays in the Norway spruce

beat out a staccato rhythm in their high and low pitches, 

the percussive melody of non-human hymns. 

All is worship on this strange, still and hazy morning.

Into the Silence

 

Season of surprising silence
when the air is still, as if
holding its breath,
when the cavorting of spring morphs into
the slow maturing of summer,

when the early and almost-forgotten
display of spring bulbs and
woodland ephemerals is becoming
the not-yet-flashy August garden,
and
the trees' and shrubs' exuberant
new growth settles into the barely discernable
process of ripening nuts and berries,

when, in the vegetable patch, the early lettuces,
spinach and peas have given way to
the not-yet-bearing tomatoes, peppers and beans
and 
the cacophony of enthusiastic avian mating song 
has become the stealthy movement of parents
going about their, day in and day out, 
never ending
feeding of nestlings 
not yet fledged.

I wait so long for spring and
once more it has come and gone.
And now?
I wait.
In this silent seasonal
liminal space
between promise and fulfillment
again
I wait for all that
comes next. 

And somehow, the waiting
becomes watching and 
the watching becomes participating,
and the participating becomes embracing
the holy space of belonging to all the
world around me.
It is enough. 

 

Of Strawberries and the Wood Thrush Song

Early June, and the strawberries are
bursting with flavor...
plump,
juicy, 
and sweet,
recalling the 
memories of every strawberry
I have ever eaten.
Each one at their succulent
peak for a day,
before the process of
decomposition begins,
still edible, certainly,
but no longer
exactly perfect.

Early June, and the wood thrush
bestows his
long-awaited, 
ethereal,
haunting melody
upon all who have ears.
Soon, however, when this year's
breeding is complete, his
voice will still, and in
silence will he forage and
flit through the trees.
In three months, he
will be gone.

Bees on the foxgloves,
newly-fledged chickadees chattering in the apple tree,
fragrance of mown hay and the mock orange,
bluebird sipping from the ant moat on the hummingbird feeder,
simple, simple noticings that ground my days.

Into what is this moment inviting you?
Be open.
Pay attention.
The Holy is beckoning.

                                                                        

Emergence

 

As the cicadas blindly make their

way through the soil

that bore them,

and last winter's buds burst

into white lace on the fringetree,

the juneberries that were flowers

a few weeks ago plump and color,

soon to ripen.

As tadpoles are growing legs

and losing tails,

and the newly hatched bluebirds

are on their way to becoming fledglings,

the tiny balls of fluff, tucked

safely into the straw mulch of

the vegetable garden, are looking

more and more like the rabbits they

have always been.

As cotyledons pierce the

the seed coat and emerge in 

the dark of night,

and snakes writhe to shed the
skin that confines them, 

caterpillars, unimaginably, dissolve
themselves into the newness

of butterflies.

I trust the ways of 

metamorphosis but

what about me?

I know the restlessness that

precedes birthing in the wild ones.

"Am I not also wild?"

"Trust the process," he said.

Who and into what am I on my way

to becoming? 

Who and into what, are you?

* Dedicated with thanksgiving to Glenn, Jo Ann, Doreen, Susan, Daniel, Glenda, Janet and Charlotte.

Now and Not Yet

Through the long, barren winter
I waited...wearied in the waiting,
truth be told, trying to believe
the promised green
would come again.
And flowers. And warblers'
song.

I bent over woodland floor
and garden beds, nudging aside
last year's leaves and stalks,
probing for the evidence
that was supposed to
be there.

And the day came that I rejoiced,
was giddy, in fact, at the all but invisible 
new shoots, seen only by those
whose patience is wearing 
thin. And I thought I
was content.

This morning I walked the woodland
realizing that my longing is not
assuaged, after all. 
Dwarf ginseng, trout-lilies
and spring beauties abound,
all in bud, but none open.
The brown-thrasher has begun
his glad singing, but I
hear no warblers. 
I am still
waiting.

And yet, the promise unfolds in
its own time.
Between hope and surety,
between wanting and waiting,
between desire and fulfillment,
in the mystery of this moment
I am embraced. It is 
enough. 

Now and not yet.