The 60-Second Sabbath

Heroes

Most of us
    (except, perhaps, for the most jaded)
have heroes,
folks we admire for the sacrifices they make,
    the causes they defend,
    the love they share,
    the ideas they espouse,
    the courage they demonstrate,
    the ideals they live.

Our heroes tend to swim upstream,
    lead by example,
    lift up others (in place of themselves),
    speak prophetically,
    remind us of what it means to be truly,
        honestly, fully human (that is, to live
        with joy, hope and compassion).

They may be known...or not.
They may be a favorite author,
    religious leader,
    entertainer...
or a friend,
    family member, 
    neighbor.

I see heroism in hospital beds,
    under urban overpasses,
    in office cubicles,
    in assisted living facilities,
heroes who fight on, despite illness,
    addiction,
    abuse,
    poverty,
    corporate soullessness,
    the slow decline of age.

Heroes are those
    who face the journey
unsure of their resources
    or the outcome,
those who continue on, despite setbacks,
    criticism,
    ridicule,
    institutional inequality,
    cultural obstacles,
    inner demons.

Do you have a mirror nearby?
Take a look...
    and meet (and celebrate)
your newest hero.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

On Negativity and Hope

It is hard, these days,
    when surveying the political landscape
    and the host of social challenges tearing at us,
not to feel cynical, even despairing.

The divides are so deep,
    the voices so angry,
    compassion ofttimes so scarce,
that I'm tempted to stop trying,
    stop believing,
    stop hoping.

I need to be reminded--
    by friends,
    by my spiritual practice and community,
    by immersion in nature,
    by periods of silence--
that hope remains,
that hope, in fact,
is more powerful and real a commodity than negativity.

Eckhart Tolle suggests
that "negativity is totally unnatural,"
    a "pollutant,"
        souring and distorting our vision
        of what can be and what we can do.

Just as love is central to our essential selves,
    so is hope.
It's there for us to access,
    beneath the noise and anxiety,
if we will quiet ourselves and allow it to surface.

Got hope?

Would you like to share it?

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

 

Built for Love

You were built
    to love.

You are hardwired
    to love.

You are programmed
    to love.

Your firmware,
    when upgraded,
increases your ability
    to love.

You can never be obsolete,
    out-of-date,
    useless 
if you
    love.

So, the question arises,
How do we best express
that for which we are built,
    programmed 
    and hardwired?

When we just are the beings
    we were created to be
love happens.

Glitches arise
    when we try to be
something we were not meant to be,
    when we try to be
something other than the love
    that is our essential nature.

Imagine a world
    where all humans functioned
as we were meant to function.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

The Grim Reaper

Another recent dream:

Tim and I sit together
    in the upstairs of an old house somewhere.
It feels like it might be our house.
We wait for guests to arrive
    to participate in a meeting or study of some sort.

I look up the hallway,
and I see one of our guests walking toward us,
and, a few steps behind him,
a tall figure cloaked in black,
    hood obscuring the face,
    carrying a scythe.
This, I know, is the Grim Reaper,
and he (or she? is the Reaper male?)
is coming for me.

He comes for me,
because--in the dream--I have a terminal illness,
    and I know that my death is imminent.
I knew he'd show up at some point,
and I make the observation to Tim 
    that now is the time.

I feel neither scared nor upset;
my response is simply,
    "Oh, it's happening."

But then it didn't;
when I look a second time,
    he has disappeared.
I've been given a short reprieve,
perhaps because he doesn't want to interrupt our meeting,
    or he stopped to use the restroom,
    or to get a snack from the kitchen.

That's all the dream I recall.

Do you have dreams of dying?
I have them a couple of times a year,
    and like this one,
I'm always surprised, but also grateful,
    that I don't feel afraid.
My reaction will typically be,
"Oh, this is going to be interesting."
    and
"Let's see what happens next."

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

On Angels, Pins and Dancing

Since the 17th century,
philosophers and theologians
have struggled to determine
how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

I asked Alexa, and she told me,

    If angels resemble a winged human
    then none would fit on the head of a pin.

When I asked the question as a child,
I was told,

    None:
    Dancing is sinful,
    therefore angels don't dance.

which really avoids the other, obvious question,

    If angels went ahead and danced anyway,
    even though they knew it was sinful,
    how many of them could do so on the head of a pin?

This would have been considered impudent
and brought a reprimand,
so I didn't ask.

But I can say with some certainty
that they were wrong about one thing:

    Angels do dance.

I've danced with angels on many occasions.

In fact,
we're dancing now.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

 

Dark Dream

About a month ago,
I dreamed I was lying on my back in bed
when a fibrous, black, swirling mass settled over me,
pushing me down into the mattress.

I knew (as one knows in dreams)
that this was an entity, a being,
and that it meant me harm,
meant, if possible to kill me.

But I wasn't afraid.
I noted--with surprise--
that this was my reaction:
awareness of its oppression and intent,
but believing I was, without question, safe.

And so I said to it/him/her:
"You don't have to do this."
    and
"You are loved."
I kept repeating these two sentences,
convinced that they were true,
and that whatever this was,
it was capable of understanding and responding;
it had the will to do so.

Then I woke up to find myself
in the exact same position in bed
as I had been in the dream.
It felt real enough for me to wonder:
Was it only a dream?

Some faiths posit the existence of fallen angels,
of demons,
who were once loyal to God
but chose to reject God in a bid for personal power.

If human beings can fall, repent and return to God,
why not these beings as well?
Perhaps it's happening all the time.
Perhaps it happened that night.

Or perhaps that dark, suffocating mass
was a misshapen, hurting part of myself
crying for recognition,
desperate for healing,
and my words of assurance--

    You don't have to do this.
    You are loved.

--were simply aimed at my own soul and spirit.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Answering the Door

I know death is coming for you,
    sooner, I think, rather than later.

I know death is coming for you,
    and you seem to have accepted this as fact,
as a simple, additional bit of the reality of things,
    the way you know the mail will come by 10:30,
as it always does.

It's just what happens:
    The mail. Death.

It seems a bigger deal to me than to you.
    I'm not ready,
may never be ready--
    not for your death,
not for your absence,
    certainly not for me without you.

Perhaps we're all more willing to embrace our own endings
    than those that leave us with holes
into which we too easily fall
    hitting the wall or floor,
scraping off the scabs.

I know death is coming for you.

When he (she?) rings the doorbell,
    I will stop breathing,
and you will rise to answer.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Poetry

I lie in bed
reading lines I don't understand

words collide, tumble, tease

I seek sensations, feelings
    (other than confusion),
an inside glimpse,
a deepening,
a quickening

plowing on

like trying to see fish
in muddy water--

    a thin fin briefly lines the surface,
    the empty O of a small mouth
        smacks and sucks at nothing,
        disappears

I plunge in my hand,
try to grab something

but whatever lurks there
scatters,
retreats down and away,
hides (for a time)

to find meaning in these strange lines
I wait
ever hoping something will surface

something I recognize

something to touch

I know it will;
it always does

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

 

C'mon Already

And so they say:

    Our thoughts and prayers are with you.

Yes, that's fine,
especially if you mean it,
    especially if you, like Jesus in the garden,
feel the anguish and shed the tears.
I do believe God also feels the anguish
    and sheds the tears.
I believe God does offer consolation and comfort,
    healing and hope
in response to our thoughts and prayers,
but I also believe God says something like:

    While thoughts and prayers are important,
        they are not enough;
    they are only the beginning.

---

Had my child just been slaughtered
    by a seriously ill young man with an assault rifle,
"thoughts and prayers" might not cut it.

Significant change might cut it.
Drastically different policies might cut it.
Proving to me that my child has not died in vain
    might cut it.
Giving me hope in my country again
    might cut it.

Even so, my child would be dead,
    and I'd be wondering,
How many more shall we
    "thoughtfully and prayerfully" sacrifice
on the altar of campaign finance and reelection?

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Dust

    Remember that you are dust,
    and to dust you shall return.

Why did she find these words so comforting?

    ...you are dust...

The minister smears an ash cross on her forehead.

    ...to dust you shall return...

It helps her remember:
We are all dust--
    the rich and the poor,
    the weak and the powerful,
    the young and the old,
    all those who've injured her,
    all those who oppress, scorn, criticize--
all are dust, just like she is dust,
all return to dust, just like she shall return to dust--
final, equalizing dust.

    ...you are dust...

She thinks of the soil of her garden,
feeding tomatoes, petunias, peonies,
warm, embracing, fertile soil;
knowing she is made of such necessary stuff
and will return to it,
eases her.

    ...to dust you shall return...

Life challenges her,
more, she thinks, than other family members,
more than most friends,
so sinking back into dust
appeals to her.

    ...you are dust...

When the sacrament has ended,
communion has been received,
she returns home,
penitent smudge still on her brow.

She forgets it is there.

A nap, she thinks, would be nice.
She lies down on the bed,
ancient, knitted afghan over her legs,
and before long,
just as she begins to doze,
her curious and attentive cat
begins to lick the cross from her forehead.

    ...and to dust you shall return...

She remains still,
letting the cat continue,
grateful for this second--
equally sacramental--
moment.

Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.