Figuring Out Life While Aging
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?
Marinating in a sad mood, Searching for reasons, heavy and low.
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.
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..
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.
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.
Slow death and muffled grief
drum
their long passage,
marching me through
the parade of my life.
Watching the wild branches writhe in the wind, I surrender to mourning. Colour is leached from the sky, the branches bare, the earth cold, only glimpses of sunlight. Waiting for winter, I close my eyes, remembering warmth, waiting for silence.
Learning Living 