The Trackless Path

They are coming to me

From the far reaches of heaven.

So that I needn’t seek or reach.

This old house, weathered and gray,

Sits hunched around us,

With its windmill

That no longer spins,

And its fallow fields surrounding.

And we sit, retired, in the porch swing,

Rocking ever after, 

Grateful for the ruin of that 

Which once we thought was so important.

And the children watch with wide eyes 

From the parlor window,

And wonder at the love

That once they thought had died 

But that now they plainly see 

To their amazement

Has only begun.

Perhaps the reason that He feeds us day by day

Meal by meal, moment by moment, 

Is that he wants to see us more often.

He wants to have the interaction,

To rejoice in the exchange.

Me too. I like to serve out tidbits day by day,

Meal by meal, morsel by morsel.

I like to see you here,

To feel the warmth of your embrace.

But the world seems to have the attitude of

“Let’s take care of the needy in large waves

Let’s stock them up and streamline the process.

Let’s have less contact, less interaction,

But give them more stuff in the exchange.

That’s good if the goal is to move more stuff.

But I think I like His way the better.

Can you walk with me in the lonely way?

I hope so, because I miss you.

The circle turns round and round.

The soul of man is drawn toward God

Then falls into decay. And round and round,

And up and down it turns, but not quite.

It is more like the orbit of planets around a sun,

Not a perfect circle, but an imperfect eliptical pattern.

Out it flys away from the souce of life 

And into the cold unfeeling void.

Then at it’s outward limit 

It turns back toward

The source of life

Hurdled by the need for warmth

And draws as close as it can get without

Being burned in the brightness of the sun’s glory.

And for a season they rejoice in each other.

Until the planet, once again, feels the need

To wander far from home 

And gain experience.

And round and round it goes.

And such is the journey of the soul.

We like to think that it is an all an upward path to glory.

But we forget that even He who rose to be

On the right hand of The Eternal

First had to wander far

Into the depths 

Of the cold black night, an there be forsaken by the warmth

Before He was able to make his way back home.

The tortoise and the hare,

It’s a story that I heard 

From a child.

And I have tried both.

I have raced for the finish line.

And I have done my best to be steady

In the endless pursuit of more.

But the race itself seems to imply

That what I have is not enough,

That I must rely upon my wits,

My inward tortoise or my hare.

But what if I am already rich 

And do not need the prize?

What if it’s enough 

To be rich inside my mind?

And what if every little thing I need

An unseen hand, had promised to supply.

Well, then that would be a different story, wouldn’t it.

It’s strange to see how people gather.

Just a few miles away, 

Homelessness is everywhere.

And every store has a security guard.

And here, in the suburb, there aren’t any,

Homeless people that is, or security guards.

And I don’t know what to say about that.

It’s just an observation. 

And yet, it’s also a comfort that if I choose

I can put some space between myself and the world

Where I have to constantly think about things being stolen

Or where to park because they patrol the parking lots at night.

But it also means that I must venture out 

If I desire to be touched by those

Who are different than myself.

You reached out to me today in a song,

Though you didn’t know you did.

And I heard the sound

And answered,

Though you couldn’t hear it,

Or perhaps you did,

And answered on the wind. 

And perhaps I will hear the sound of your reply 

One day, in a song, or in the way a leaf blows in the wind.

And round and round we call, round and round,

Until finally we come back home

To the very sound

Of each other’s voices.

Won’t that be well? Yes. 

That will be well with us both.

God give me patience for the day.

I saw you where the sky meets the horizon,

A flash of unexpected perfect light.

And it colored my morning

In the beauty that is only you.

And I realized to my delight

That we were not so far away

From each other as we thought.

And now I sit as patiently as I can

Awaiting the rising of your essence

Into the middle of my sky. How I long

For your face to shine down upon me,

Sweet child of my delight, estranged,

But ever in my heart. It’s you for whom

I have been waiting. And I can barely breath

For anticipation. But take your time. Rise, rise,

Slowly, and only by your own intent.

For I have been up waiting,

Waiting when the storm clouds gathered,

And the terrors gave you fright.

Yes I have kept my vigil

Through the darkness of the night.

And finally, after all these years, it’s time.

Reformation doesn’t come by complaining 

About a perceived misallocation of means.

True reformation begins in the heart.

It is an inward motion, a conviction 

That one's way of being needs to change,

Which inevitably results in a reallocation of means,

The means of the individual.