The 60-Second Sabbath

T-Shirt Wisdom, Thanksgiving Edition

These are all actual T-shirts.
Enjoy!

----

I wish I was as fat
as I was the first time
I thought I was fat.

----

Hey, train wreck,
this isn't your station!

----

Being an adult
is the dumbest thing
I have ever done.

----

I don't repeat gossip,
so listen carefully.

----

"I saw that."
    --Santa Claus

That could also read:

"I saw that."
    --God

----

When's the right time
to tell your dog
they're adopted.

I wonder if our pets struggle to decide
when to tell us we're adopted.

----

So far this is
the oldest
I've ever been.

----

That's a terrible idea!
What time?

----

Sometimes I wrestle
with my demons.
Sometimes we
just snuggle.

----

Sarcasm:
It's how I hug.

----

I'm not someone
you should put
on speakerphone.

----

Judge me when
you are perfect.

----

On the other hand,
you have different fingers.

----

If you met my family,
you'd understand.

----

And finally, this,
just in time for Thanksgiving.

Clearly this is not
the grownup table.

That one I plan to use on Thursday.

----

Have a gratitude-filled Thanksgiving!

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

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Winter Storm

"Don't drive," urges the mayor from my TV screen.
    "Shelter in place."

Deep within a winter storm,
    the city slows, stops, shivers.

Hands wrapped around a cup of tea,
    I stare out at the yard,
barely able to make out the houses
    across the street.

I can't get out;
    no one can get in.
Yes, I'm safe here...warm, fed...
    but also acutely lonely--
not my usual state.
    Is it because there is no possibility
of companionship?

The outer swirl of wind-blown snow
    sifts into my heart.

I'm craving something beyond company.
    I'm fearing something beyond isolation.

Ah, I know what it is:
    Today I'm called to be
a kind and caring companion
    to me.

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

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Ambiguity

"Stop projecting your certainty onto God," she says.
    "I suspect God neither wants it nor needs it."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you
    and your unhealthy, unnecessary need
to have everything explained and planned
    and the expectation that God buys into it."

"But I'm more comfortable when I know."

"Tell me about it," she says,
    "and occasionally, I, for one, find it annoying."

"Well, forgive me for annoying you!"

"Done," she says.

I sip my tea;
    she bites into her scone.

She continues: "Ambiguity and uncertainty are the reality,
    a reality that takes courage to embrace;
being open to ambiguity is a vital virtue."

"That's crazy," I say.
    "Everyone likes things...you know...clear, understood."

"It's easy to see things in black and white,
    neatly laid out,
and then to be inflexible about it: easy.

"It's harder to live with the tension,
    and to love and listen and learn
from within that tension: hard."

"So you're saying
    that's how God wants it?"

"I believe so.
    That's the world God created.
Otherwise what's the point of faith?
    We see 'through a glass darkly,' remember?
What we know is so limited
    compared to what we don't know."

"I like answers."

"And most questions don't have them."

Silence for a minute--
    more tea, more scone.

"Can you say this with me:
    'I don't need to have answers'?

"Um...no."

"Oh, come on...humor me.
    Just try it?
I don't need to have answers."

"I don't need to have answers."

"How did that feel?"

"Uncomfortable."

"Let's try again."

And we do, several more times.

"Well?" she asks.

"A bit easier."

"Okay, how about this:
    'I can be fulfilled and joyful
not having the answers'."

I roll my eyes,
    but we do repeat it a few times.

"And now this:
    'I can live with ambiguity and uncertainty."

And we repeat that.

"And now?" she asks.

"Okay...I'm seeing a glimmer of something here."

"Such a good boy!"

"You know, you can be annoying too."

"Yes, it's an ambiguous relationship we share."

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Have you ordered your copy of Contemplative Vision: Photography as a Spiritual Practice? 
Follow this link: https://www.churchpublishing.org/contemplativevision

Gramma's House

funeral over,
    ashes interred,
        friends dispersed
alone back at her house

air still, stale
    I open windows
bird chirps, chips on a bush outside
    "Stop. You have no right."

I walk the three small rooms
    full of furniture
    full of knick-knacks
    full of memories
    full as always
empty as never before

bedroom, dressing table
    silver-backed brush, stray hairpins
    comb, rouge, lipstick
smelling her
    dusting powder and potpourri
feel again her soft, bosomy embrace

such quiet nothingness

how can nothing feel so heavy?

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Have you ordered your copy of Contemplative Vision: Photography as a Spiritual Practice? 
Follow this link: https://www.churchpublishing.org/contemplativevision

Therapy, 2013

"Okay," says the counselor,
    "you've identified one negative quality in your coworker
        that bugs you...and why.
Now I want you identify a trait in yourself
    that bugs you...and then figure out why."

Inwardly I sigh; therapy is work.
    I know it's worth the effort, but still...

So I go home with my assignment:
    What's one of my traits that bothers me?
        Why does it bother me?
            What can I (do I want to) do about it?

I wish I were less judgmental.
    There, I said it.

I typically keep my judgmental observations to myself,
    and while I'd like to assert that I do so
        to keep from hurting or belittling others,
the real reason is 
    I know how wearing and wearying it can be
        to listen to others' judgmental rants
            and I don't want to come across like that.

Not being judgmental is less about kindness
    and more about appearances and being liked.

Well, look at that, I've already identified three reasons
    why my judging bugs me:
        -- it isn't kind or loving
        -- it's off-putting
        -- it makes me look bad

But what else?
    -- it interferes with relationships
    -- it's often uninformed and thus unfair...
            or simply false
    -- it shrinks, diminishes me
    -- it contributes to unhappiness,
            both mine and others

I think that's a pretty good list.

So is there something to be done?

I can counter my judging with inner reminders:
    -- Ah, there it is again, my ego judging.
    -- I have a choice: Listen and verbalize it,
            or let it pass on through,
                like clouds in the sky or a leaf on a stream.
    -- I recognize the likelihood that the judgment
            is simply false.
    -- Is this the real, essential me or the false me?
    -- This person is a beloved child of God,
             just like me.

And finally
    (and this really does work for me)
        when a judgmental thought first pops up,
            I bump it out of consciousness with a prayer:

                May she be safe, happy and healthy.
                May she live with a sense of well-being.

I shift from the unholy to the holy.

I returned to my next session
    and shared all of the above.

"Nice," he said.
    "You've identified, owned and worked on
        one of your negative qualities.
Now I'd like you to make a list of your positive qualities,
    the things you most appreciate about yourself
        and why you value them
            and how you might honor them
                and thus honor yourself."

Inwardly I sigh;
    therapy takes work.

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

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Follow this link: https://www.churchpublishing.org/contemplativevision

Pain

"Pain brands your heart,"
    she said.
"And that brand, once it heals,
   will always be there."

He sobbed as she held him.

"Its mark will help you, in years to come,
    recall how deeply you both loved,
how much joy you shared,
    how you nurtured and grew each other."

His sobs subsided.

"But yes, the branding hurts,
    it sears, burns,
and seems at this moment
   like the sum of all that is:
all pain, all the time,
    gut-wrenching, unfair, vile..."

She released their embrace,
    and they sat side-by-side on the sofa.

"Pain's brand is a sign of union--
    union with the lonely,
the lost, the confused,
   and, therefore, union with God.
It is the mark of the vulnerable,
    the real, the wise."

He reached for a Kleenex
    and blew his nose.

"Pain, like prayer,
    opens a door to the Infinite."

Has he heard her?
    Maybe, maybe not--
but she is present,
    and that's what matters.

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

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Hell

In our creeds
    we profess that--
sometime between his crucifixion and his resurrection--
    Jesus visited hell.

This visit would be the disassembling of hell,
    its break down, its dissolution,
because hell cannot exist
    where we find the eternal, universal Christ.

Some picture Christ as standing at the edge of hell's abyss
    tossing in sinners and unbelievers;
I see Christ leaning over the edge
    pulling everyone out.

The love and sacrifice of the Beloved
    is surely hell's undoing.
To which I say,
    "Hallelujah!"

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

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Silence as Guest

Don't neglect silence:

    She is your friend.
    She welcomes you here and now, as you are.
    She brings gifts and graces.

Don't fear silence:

    She is gentle,
        like a mother cat with her kittens.
    She nurtures, comforts, grooms, protects.
    She prepares you for the wild world.

Silence.

Without silence, you lose your way.
Without silence, you lose yourself.
Within silence, you return home.

Silence (the noun).
Silence (the verb).

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Have you ordered your copy of Contemplative Vision: Photography as a Spiritual Practice? 
Follow this link: https://www.churchpublishing.org/contemplativevision

Pinecones

Just seven (very successful) years old,
    she heads purposefully toward
the bottom of the yard
    where her favorite trees
( a stand of towering pines)
    wait for her
as they do every day
    (whether she visits or not).

In one mittened hand
    she holds the handles of a cloth bag.
Her footprints in the fresh snow
    trace a straight path to the trees.

Once beneath the trees--
    where snow has not yet penetrated--
she pauses and scans the ground:
    pinecones!

She has come for pinecones.

She loves pinecones,
    and nearly everyday,
whether it's the season for pinecones or not,
    she comes to look and collect.

The trees know this,
    and so drop their cones more gently,
more thoughtfully,
    passed from branch to branch,
so they land undamaged.

The pines realize, of course,
    that these cones bear their seeds
and that--because the girl picks them up--
    few will germinate and sprout.
But they have talked and are in agreement:
    their love for the girl and their delight in her joy
make the sacrifice an easy one.

Today, with the approach of Christmas,
    they have been generous;
the girl bends to pick up cone after cone,
    counting as she places each--carefully--in the bag.

And the trees stir in the wind.
And the girl smiles within and without.
And the world is a welcoming place, after all.

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Have you ordered your copy of Contemplative Vision: Photography as a Spiritual Practice? 
Follow this link: https://www.churchpublishing.org/contemplativevision

Snowy Morning

When we moved into this house
    six years ago,
we placed the green chair
    in which I now sit

    (one of two Naugahyde club chairs 
        purchased 60 years ago by my father
    to welcome patients to his medical practice)

in a corner of the study
    next to the big window
that looks out onto a lilac bush
    and beyond to the front yard.

"This," I said,
    "is where I'll sit
on snowy days
    after I retire.

"I shall read or write,
    right here,
while the snow falls gently, quietly
    just a few feet away."

I have retired,
    but those dreamed-of, snow sits
happen infrequently.
    We don't have all that many snow days in Denver,
and too often, even if we do,
    I make myself busy
and don't stop to be.

But not this morning.

I'm in the chair.

The snow falls gently, quietly
    a few feet to my right,
and if I look through the open French doors
    to the living room,
I see out the dining area window,
    and can watch the snow fall on the side yard
gracing the nearly bare branches
    of the still-unidentified tree
just outside the window.
    (I call this our red-berry tree.)

Two clocks keep me company here in the study,
    ticking in sync:
click-click (pause), click-click (pause)...
   The dishwasher wooshes faintly in the kitchen.

And now
    a chickadee hops on and pecks at
the branches of the lilac,
    moving so lightly, with such little substance,
that it leaves the snow around it undisturbed.

Romeo (the cat) walks in
    and stares at me.
I put down the notebook and pen
    to make room for him.
He jumps to my lap,
    sits facing me,
and waits to be petted.
    Eventually he turns sideways
and drops into my left arm,
    head on my shoulder.

Without looking at either clock,
    I know it is approaching 8 AM
because the school bus that parks in front of our house
    at the same time every school day
has just arrived.
    It stays each morning for about 10 minutes,
and some mornings the driver
    sweeps the bus and opens the doors
just long enough to flip the dirt
    out onto the curb.
Too cold for that this morning.

The bright yellow of the bus
    contrasts with the white of the snow,
broken into chunks and slices
    by lilac branches
and the Ponderosa pines
    further out in the yard.

    White, yellow...white, yellow,
    click-click...click-click,
    hop-peck...hop-peck...

The chickadee flies off.
The school bus drives away.
The clocks tick on.

Time, it seems (this morning, anyway)
    does not fly;
time simply stays
    and ticks, clicks.

I simply stay
    and inhale, exhale.

It's happening:
    I am.

Text and image © 2019 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
Visit The60SecondSabbath.com, where spirit and image merge.

Have you ordered your copy of Contemplative Vision: Photography as a Spiritual Practice? 
Follow this link: https://www.churchpublishing.org/contemplativevision