there is a stillness pulling me into the silence
of a mirrored dawn, it doesn't make a
sound as it gentles the edges of what I see.
there is a stillness that holds me,
buoys me, laps around my heart and softens all
the harsh noises of the day...
there is a stillness so placid and motionless that
when I place my hand beneath the surface I am
not sure where it stops and I begin. even movement
doesn't inform fingers, palm, wrist...hands folded
in prayer...of the boundaries where one
begins and the other ends...
there is a stillness that says "this is you..." this is
your nature, this is what you look like when you
are all I have made you to be...be still, be still,
be still...and know.
there is a stillness that is ever itself, never
the less, consistently constant in its always-ness
a conscious capacity to know...just to know...and
then to observe the ebb and flow of that knowing...
there is a stillness that calls to me...in the blue
light that pushes forward the dawn and the
lavender-edged blush of a maiden as she
pulls in the twilight... a stillness that eddies in
a pool of sunlight...stretching, spilling, splaying
promise along the banks of our living....
there is a stillness that is as weightless as
dew, as heavy as an old quilt on a late November
morning, as languid as moonlight on the
Chesapeake beneath a canopy of stars....
there is a stillness I will dive deep within
myself to find at the center of His kingdom...
the place where He reigns...still
every year there is a new spoon to ponder
the perfect balance of slender neck, heavy handle
and weighted bowl sitting on the fulcrum
of a day when thunderclouds...black and
lowering...seep across the sky like spilled ink
and we dodge into a musty shop avoiding
a downpour we know will eventually wash red
dust off the pediments and lazy stone griffons
that hold watch over a sleepy Colorado town...
later I will stare across the space between here
and there....an endless yawn of sunflowers and
stone posts scattered through the prairie and i
will imagine our laughter, ourwhispered secrets, and
the shared dreams of a couple of little old ladies that we will
someday be. i will balance this spoon on my forefinger
and wonder if the William Penn Hotel knew its
silverware would keep a woman company long after
the aspens have turned to gold and Independence Pass
is closed for yet another winter....
I will sip my tea and see beyond the edge of the world
to where she sits in a valley of rivers and horses and
summers filled with her company...I will gaze into the
distance and imagine a stolen afternoon, this spoon, and
the elegant grace of her friendship...it will be a good
reminder, this spoon that carries the name of an old stranger...
"why are you taking your linens to camp with you..."
my daughters asked as we packed the car for the
long drive across kansas towards the home of our
hearts...a place tucked high up in the arkansas valley
where we lived from june until august...
sheets and pillowslips, quilts and towels stacked on
top of jeans and boots, sweatshirts and bathing suits...
how do i tell them that taking these precious few things
of home with me is as much a part of the summer as
rodeos and swim tests, barbeques and bunkhouse night..
seeing my room draped in tiny white fairy lights, over-bleached
sheets and quilts folded at the end of the bed, makes me feel
like a child coming home to her mother's house...
I open the door to this place that has sheltered my heart and
mended its ragged edges when it shattered into a million shards
of tear-stained sorrow, and it is home...
so, i bring my old sheets, the quilts I have carried back and forth
across kansas like a pioneer wife, and strings of fairy lights, and
something in me is no longer a child without an address to call
her own...
i am home...if only for a few weeks each summer....i am home...
