A God that doesn’t have to be bribed or placated. A God whose womb I exist within. A God who died to know the pain of life,
Author: joanvinallcox
Joan Vinall-Cox, Ph.D. is a lifelong learner, retired communications professor, rabid reader and poet who has taught in both the college and university systems.
Her Ph.D., in 2004 was an Autoethnographic Arts-Based Narrative Inquiry focused on moving from technophobia to technophilia.
She is a widow from a happy marriage and a mother to a strong and kind daughter.
Her interests include Centering Prayer, Multiple Intelligences, Attention Deficit Disorder and its connection to creativity, Jung, Campbell’s Monomyth, and Arts-Based Narrative Inquiry
If God …
If God is a question calling me, I evade but yearn to answer. If God is an answer, how can I live with what I can’t understand? If God is a promise I made under water can I hold my breath in the desert? If God is the whole and holy world, how can I birth myself within?
Pandemic Lament II
Time – a video
Marinating
Marinating in a sad mood, Searching for reasons, heavy and low.
Pandemic Lament, January 15
Wanting spring or the summertime lake, I mourn this pandemic winter. Netflix doesn’t solace, Zoom only teases, and constant craving defeats joy. I yearn for comforting news, for boring times, and a “normal” that will never return.
Sitting in Solitude
My tongue, seeking textures, tastes the flavours of lonesomeness. I must sit in solitude, my breath composed, awake and aware the space between our rough edges opens in quiet time alone softly present sweetly touched by grace..
A Transient Moment
Someone I love is burning incense for a holy day I don’t observe. Someone I love is waiting for results that may delay sorrow. Someone I love is writing poems to grasp a transient moment.
Imperfect Meditation
Like the farmhand during a church sermon
dozing
and the housewife planning
grocery lists,
I meditate
imperfectly.
Composing poems and
prayers,
resisting
resentments,
Seeking God,
seeking
peace.
In the Midst of Life . . .
Slow death and muffled grief
drum
their long passage,
marching me through
the parade of my life.
