The 60-Second Sabbath

The End?

On August 31, 2010, I began what was (for me) a brave experiment. It was to be spiritual practice that started with a simple commitment to both God  and myself to post a blog with original text and an original photo everyday for one year. I felt called to transparency, exploration and playfulness, to step outside the boundaries and discover where God and I might go, if we set ourselves to it, in a series of 365 poems/essays/reflections combined with 365 photographs.

Yesterday marked the 365th day. I did it.

If I do say so myself, 366 days is a remarkable accomplishment.

I have grown as a photographer, which I'd hoped for, but also, although I didn't anticipate it, grown as a poet. Above and beyond that, I've found the blog to be grounding in a year of great change; PhotosByDirk.com has been a stillpoint. Sometimes, at the office, when I think I might be close to losing it, I'll click on my blog and read that day's (or another day's) entry...and stop to look at the photo...and feel calmer, centered.

And I'm way closer to "my voice." I have a voice. And I believe that having a voice, speaking that voice, authentically and courageously, brings healing to the world.

We all have the right to our voice. You do. And let it be your voice, not just the echo of what you've heard from others.

And I know, from the occasional comments and responses I get from the handful of you who read the blog (daily, occasionally), that some have, at times, been encouraged...or inspired...or challenged. Thank you for every time you let me know.

I don't know if I'll continue. Maybe it will become an occasional thing...or maybe it's become so much a part of my routine that something will show up tomorrow, on September 1, which would be day 2 of year 2.

Just wanted to say thanks...to you and to the Great Mystery, with whom I am ridiculously, illogically in love.

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

You There

You, there--
the one looking back from life's second half--
What is it you see?
What is it you know?
What is it you understand?

You have walked through transformational fire,
and it has melted from your eyes
the clouded lenses
that keep me from seeing
the real, the necessary.

Can I choose to step into those flames?
Or must the flames find me?
Is this a fire I can kindle?
Or is it a fire lit only by heaven?

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

Balm

Our Garden of Eden
is real
and waits for us
within a circle
of burning fields.

Reaching Paradise
demands sacrifice--
a long walk through searing heat,
watching our skin char and peel,
smelling our blackening flesh,
knowing the burn of loss.

And then...
the cool shade of ancient elms,
the sloshing of water in granite basins,
the rosemary oil poured on our heads,
sleek and easy with sweet healing.

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

Rationality

"I don't believe in ghosts, you see,
but only rationality--
for every bell, a well-blown whistle,
never down without its thistle."

    "But what of things untouched, unheard,
    unseen, unmetered, just inferred?
    The hair that lifts along the nape
    when flames of candles shift their shape
    without the presence of a breeze,
    when something moves that no one sees?"

"Poppycock is my response;
it's only wax and wicks and sconce...
And, oh, I thought I'd made it clear
you're not to touch me there, my dear!"

    "And how, my pet, do you suppose
    'twas I who touched you when you know
    I'm seated half the room away?
    Explain again the candle's sway?"

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

Bargaining with the Moon

Last night
we bargained with the moon;
"Your light," we said,
"for this handful of dimes."

The moon shook,
spinning silver slivers across the sky,
strands of light like firelies and summer sparklers.
"It's not my light," she laughed.

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

 

Metaphors for Departure

When my sister died,
she chose to stop life support,
knowing the consequences.

When my father died,
a heart attack damaged him
beyond choice.

When my mother died,
she decided, "That's it. I've had enough,"
and willled herself across the border.

Nancy pulled her own plug.
Someone stole my father.
Mom faded like a sailboat easing into the fog.

What will be the metaphor
for your parting?

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

I Don't Believe

"I don't believe in hauntings,"
she said.
"There's always some sort
of rational explanation." 

"I've heard your rational explanations,"
he answered,
"and many are so absurd,
not even a ghost would believe them." 

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

Great Joy

It is a great joy,
to bring God back to God!

"What does this mean?"
you ask.

Stop asking.
Just return. 

You are the missing part
of Completeness.

 Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

Abandonment

Many of us find great comfort
in the assurance that God will never abandon us,
but let's examine the record here:
she did abandon her only Child,
whose chillingly anguished cry
from the cross to which she was nailed--
"My God, my God, why have you left me,
now, of all times now!"--
must have felt brutal and complete,
without promise of return.
(To believe in return
is to misunderstand abandonment.)

And then there's Isaiah 54:7,
in which God admits, without apology,
"Yes, for a while, I did abandon you..."
She did return,
but only hindsight is 20/20;
the experience of abandonment
holds no hint of return.

So when you experience moments
of God's utter, silent, cold absence,
perhaps what you're experiencing
is God's utter, silent, cold absence.
Others will try to assure you she is still there,
still holding you.
But perhaps she is not.

And all you can do is hold on
and wait for a future you cannot predict.

Or so the Bible tells us.

Or so faith tells us.

To listen to this poem Download Abandonment

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved. 

The Poetry Group

"May I point something out?"
she asked,
fingering the fringe on the pillow's edge,
her feet curled beneath her in the corner of the couch.
She'd been silent thus far
as the others--
with great intensity--
critically dissected a poem written by another member.
Her small voice startled them
into a new place of attention.

"Well, of course," said the week's facilitator.

"We may be talking about two different things:
Yes, we're talking about his poem,
but we're also talking about the moldy, old bags
his poem asks us to unpack.
We don't like looking inside."

This was met with silence.

She hugged the pillow to her chest, took a breath, and continued:
"And really, if a poem helps us unpack,
no matter how smelly or forgotten the contents,
it must be a very good poem indeed."

To listen to this poem Download The Poetry Group

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.