Even before the pandemic kept us sheltering in place, I could forget that any regular, normal day, was not so ordinary. All night I rested, slept long and hard and awoke. To this day. To this moment.
I awake too many days taking for granted the moment of right now. We have so many descriptions of time. We talk about how it marches or it flies. We describe how it drags or runs away.
We want to seize time. We want to rustle it; be the boss of it. We watch it. We regret it. We chase it. We rebel against it.
I want to mark time as holy, as sacred. I want to worry less about what I do with my time and enjoy more the moments, one by one, I get to live with God.
Holy Spirit, come. Show me how you are in this moment. Right now. With me.
It can take stopping, pausing, recognizing our breathing, even–in, out–to see a hint of the miracle.
It can take looking–determined faith that if we search hard enough for God we will see Him; we will hear Him; we will know more of what it means to have Him.
For if we want Him; we have Him.
And in this moment, as I type these words. My eyes are not on the keyboard, but looking out, past plates of glass to see tiny sparkles flit about near the stone bench in our yard, little bugs dancing above water droplets on green grass.
And I see, but I stop looking out, and I look in, my heart hungry to be filled.
Will you join me in writing about the miracle of this day–or the mess of this day (both?)–this moment you are in right now? It doesn’t have to be pretty–and your mood doesn’t need to be upbeat. (See my poem, which describes my bad mood, below.)
Avoid saccharine. Rather, speak to the place where you are. The good and the hard. The frustrating and the wonderful. If the moment feels like a mess, show that. If the moment is stunning in its beauty and hope, relate that too.
Share your poem with us here, in the private Loop Poetry Project group, or in the comment section below. I can’t wait to read your mess and miracles, friends.
while I shelter in place
they are banging next door
with drills and hammers,
taking apart the house
a few feet from my own.
The noise unnerves me,
making me anxious,
I want to run away from everyone
as if I could
as if I could flee not just the cacophony next door
but all noise, your voice too.
I search for silence in the deep place
that usually settles me,
draws me toward calm in storm and
I can’t find it,
the drilling reverberating through me
and I fear all sound is too loud:
music and laughter,
outside concerts and children bouncing
basketballs and playing in the street.
I fear I’ve changed—your absence
filling me these two months and
I am less tolerant, less patient:
your face mask covering your
nose and mouth so only your eyes show.
Where is humanity in the absence of your smile?
Distressed heart—why is all noise a threat?
Has the sickness spread not wider but
deeper now, into the quiet place
that taught me you were my friend?
This post appeared originally at jenniferjcamp.com