Poem: A Note

Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;

to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain
from everything it’s not;

to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;

and if only once
to stumble upon a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another,

mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.

— by Wislawa Szymborska

Poem: Mindful

Here’s a gem I hadn’t read before from Mary Oliver. Reminds me that not all sacred scripture is found in Holy Books.


Every day
I see or hear
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for –
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world –
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant –
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these –
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

– Mary Oliver

Default Look

Yes it’s a new, less cluttered look. I went to one of the WordPress generic templates. Lost the verbage on the left. lost the ill-maintained lists. Lost the picture of me attempting to devour raising and kissing a baby petunia. Added a little color. I like the font better.

I love WordPress. Change the look of your blog with a button.

This is your same blog. Same management.

The Little Way

The Mustard Seed didn’t ask to be small.
In her dreams she may have been
glamorous like a flower or
important like an oak.
But with her “Yes” His Grace was planted.

The Mustard Seed didn’t ask to grow tall,
Pushing her roots through rocky dust.
Her leaves seared by Summer sun.
But with her ache and sweat she sowed
The Faith and Life His Plan demanded.

The Mustard Seed didn’t ask to shelter all
the flock He gathered in her branches.
But with her love she held us together
and became the Love His Law commanded.

I wrote this to send to my Grandma Clark who turns nintey years old this week. She is, in my eyes, one of the saintliest people I know. One of the most humble and doggedly joyful people I know. When I look around at our Thanksgiving gatherings with eighty family members I marvel at what God has made through the love of this one little person. She reminds me of the Oklahoma Hill Country Church of Christ version of St. Therese Of Lisieux and her Little Way.

Happy 90th Birthday Grandma Clark!

She's In Her Prime.

She’s in her Prime.

Her greatest common factor
composite with His. Indivisible. Associative.
A sum of two squares —
her cardinality ensures
their identity, and seeds a sequence
that monotonically increases
despite local minimums
converging on an asymptote.
Too timid to intersect,
too sensible to divide by zero,
too humble to presume discontinuity

Yet ever closer, ever upward, ever stable.
Robustness proven. Toward infinity