The 60-Second Sabbath

On Growing Old

He witnessed the aging of his body
with detachment--
as if it were happening to an uncle
or a neighbor.

The graying hair,
the sagging in the face,
the loss of mobility and strength--
no, not after a lifetime
of doing it right--
eating, exercising, making all the choices
informed people were supposed to make.

His ego could not, would not own it.

But somewhere beyond his ego,
his actual self,
the self of God and the earth
and the slow wheeling of night stars,
knew the truth
and was at peace,
welcoming and embracing each decline
like a reunion with a long-lost relative,
a joyful Christmas memory,
or the fragrance of rain-rinsed air--
knew it, not as loss,
but as home-coming,
fulfillment,
the gentle release of breath
held for far too long.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Simplicity and Innocence

In the second half of life,
there often arises
the yearning to return
to simplicity and innocence. 

Have you felt it?
Do you feel it now?

It is the yearning
to see with wide-open eyes
and an equally wide-open heart.

That seems to us a paradox:
How can we see the distressing complexity of the world--
with all its challenge, sorrow and strife--
from the still viewpoint
of simplicity and innocence?

It happens when you embrace the reality
of the single, immutable All.

When this happens,
it is both a returning
and a moving beyond.

It is incredibly freeing,
but can also be frustratingly fleeting.

There is the One,
which will (and indeed, does!)
encompass everyone and everything
in a massive upheaval of healing.

We call this God.

Do what you can
to move this forward.
Rest.
Trust.
Prepare for that
which is Inevitable and True. 

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Poet

"I'm just rhyming," she said.

"Rhyming what?" he asked.

"Words, silly. Words and phrases.
I'm playing, experimenting."

"For what purpose?"

She tapped the top of the pen
against her pursed lips.
"Well, every now and then
something falls into place--
something happens--
and there's meaning,
or depth,
or insight,
or joy...
It's poetry--
it's hard to explain."

"I hate poetry," he said.

"Well, I hate death,
but there's not much you can do to stop it."

"But you could stop writing poetry."

"I've tried," she said,
"and I can't."

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

At the Brink

Visiting the Grand Canyon,
I stretched out on a flat rock
and inched forward
until my head was over the edge.
I looked down into miles of emptiness.

My brain said,
"Ninety-five percent of you
is secure on the rock."
My spirit--dizzy and unseated--said, 
"You will fall--are falling,
plummeting toward nothingnes,
toward extinction."

Odd, unexpected, existential moment,
clarifying and expansive.

God offers these moments daily,
and we avoid them as surely
as we avoid stepping to the Canyon's rim.

But God's hand,
gentle in the small of my back,
urges me forward toward the brink,
toward the possible,
toward the exquisitely epiphanic,
    eye-popping, breath-stopping plunge.

Why back away?

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

The River of Yearning

You fight the current.

Stop rowing.
Watch the oars slip from the oarlocks
and slide downstream.

One you let go,
once you relax into the river's pull,
then the herons appear,
lifting you from your leaky longing
and placing you gently among
the great, green, silent reeds
swaying at the edge
of that far shore.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Womb

I'm in the market
for a new womb;
I'm ready to begin again. 

They aren't sold on Amazon;
I checked.

One can a rent a womb
if you're looking to have a baby
but can't do it yourself...
or opt not to.

But I seek a way
to reinsert myself
into that warm, wet, floaty haven,
with a steady, firm heartbeat but inches away,
and my only task to absorb and observe.

Perhaps my death shall be
a return to the Womb.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

WWJS

WWJS
Who would Jesus shoot?

WAWWJC
Which assult weapon would Jesus carry?

He lived in a world
as dangerous as ours,
this Prince of Peace,

then took a bullet
to save it.

We'd be doomed
if he'd returned fire for fire.

"Father, forgive them--
they know not what they do."

Oh, what shall we do,
we Princes and Princesses of Peace? 

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Hiking with Death

Climbing the trail,
I'm joined by a young woman.

We chat,
observing the shift toward winter,
the changing colors,
the increasing coolness,
how this path of gravel
will soon be packed with snow,
rutted by cross-country skis,
pocked with snow-shoe tracks.

"Your name?" I ask.

"My friends call me Dee,"
she says,
"but it's short for death."

"You seemed familiar."

"Yes, our paths have crossed
on numerous occasions,
but don't worry,
today I'm just hiking.
I'm not here for you."

I laughed.
"Believe me,
I wasn't worried."

"I know that," she said.
"That's why I joined you.
Most people...you know..."

"Freak out?"

"Exactly.
But you're one of the ready ones--
much easier company."

"When you do show up...
for that, I mean...
this wouldn't be a bad place for it."
I say this as we break tree line,
awash in wonder,
and stand, side-by-side,
absorbed in the view. 

"Do you live," I ask,
"with this level of attention, of awareness?"

"As people do when they know I'm coming,
when their days run short?"

"Yes."

"I try to,
but it's hard for me;
I don't have the gift of mortality,
which is what makes your life so precious. 
It's the ending
the gives everything prior
such depth and meaning."

So many questions I could ask.
I settle on one:
"What do you like best about your job?"

"Being there when the light goes on,
when, for the first time ever,
they understand how unnecessary has been
the fear, the loneliness, the sorrow,
when they cross over into open arms
and all not only is well,
but always has been." 

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

For Me

My poems,
my photographs--
they live for me,
    to please me,
    to nurture me,
    to move me.

Through them,
I journey onward.

Or, perhaps,
they manifest for their own sake.

Or, perhaps,
for God's.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Looking Back on the Day of Epiphany

So the tree is down and gone for another year.
The living room expands, which is a plus,
and the furniture breathes deeper
and eases back into its familiar placement. 

But gone, as well, are the colored lights,
the sparkle of ornaments,
the friendly jostling of merriment and memory,
of restoration and peacefulness, of  loss and hope.

By now, I guess, I'm to have internalized all of these.
Or maybe, my optimist says,
this season was given so I might externalize them,
knowing that they were already within me
and live within me still, 
this restoration and peacefulness and hope.

How,
mid-January,
do I continue to manifest them?
That is my challenge.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.