Green Finch

I Am Broken

I am broken; I am mended.

I am broken; I am scarred. Lessons learned and some forgotten,

and I say, “Again, Lord, really—again?”

Round and round, my thoughts conflicted, hope and despair in this raw dance,

sure and steady, moments from the fall,

and I am broken; I am mended.

I am broken; I’m dependent, neither seeing nor knowing at all.

Rose on Fire

A Misty Pink Morning

Back Again . . .

I haven’t posted for awhile since WP logged me out somehow, and with all the craziness in our lives right now, I couldn’t remember my password! Oy!

We have dismantled our house and loaded a container in preparation for a move to Texas. Things are moving slowly with too many hiccups to count, so we are living bare bones.

But once we move, hopefully I will have new flora and fauna to fill up my pages.

Hope you all are enjoying the approach of summer and living covid free!

A quotation . . .

“Affliction and beauty pierce the human heart.”

~Simone Weil

Perfection

Contrasts

 

And this is love . . . (Lilly’s Amplified)

My dear brothers and sisters,
you, me, everyone,
take note of this:
Are you listening?
Pay close attention!
Everyone should be quick to listen,
to the reasons, the evidence, and the
pain
on all sides,
slow to speak,
not jumping to conclusions,
not demanding center stage in the discussion,
and slow to become angry,
irritated, condemning, and disrespectful,
adjudicating without regard for each person’s
inestimable worth.

~~James 1:19

These Carnal Threads

I look down at my hands and know that within those tissues and cells, blood is coursing,
coming from,
going to,
minute after minute, circuit upon circuit. But where is my soul in this pink, freckled flesh? Where is my spirit in this troubled, pondering life?

Is the soul hitching a ride on red blood cells as they careen by the white?
Is my spirit holed up in one of my vital organs? My brain, maybe? Concentrated in a command center, overseeing all my worldly cognition.
Perhaps soul and spirit share space, intertwined in the four chambers of my pulsing heart.

But when the soul is gone, the hands are still there, and even the blood; what stops really when we say life is gone? As the flesh cools, lying motionless, is the me-part that is really me immediately absent,

or hovering, waiting for further instructions?

It is said to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, but I am wondering when the absent happens. What changes in that one fragile second to another when what was thought alive is now

dead
and these carnal threads release their hold?