A poem about the rhythm of solitude and community.
Tag: Rhythm
Waking Up to the Risen Life.
As people who love Jesus, who desire to live into Christ consciousness as best as we humanly can, there comes a call after Easter to live into the risen life. Each year, I wonder, what does the risen life actually look like? Really. What does it look like fleshed out? LIVED. I mean, let’s be honest, if there is a risen life to be lived, I want to be living THAT life, not some dreary, woe is me life. I started to think about waking up to the risen life, a zesty existence that urges me to be fully me….
Reclaiming Creative Space
Hello creative companions, It’s been a while! I’m not sure what season you may be in these days. It may be summer outside your window, but winter in your heart. For me, I’ve been living summer but desiring fall. Summer is extroverted! She’s lively! She’s exciting! She’s a tad… exhausting. After a while, I dream of cool mornings and warm cups of tea. I long for the rustle of leaves and the quiet harvest reaped after an active, working summer. This on-the-go, unpredictable spirit of summertime has had my head spinning on more than one occasion. The truth is, each…
Taking Stock
Sometimes you begin something and you aren’t sure why. Sometimes you begin something and you aren’t sure where it will take you. About a year ago, I began blogging. Even though the “why” was elusive, two things prompted me to take the leap. First, I was readying to take a class in the Fall entitled “Journaling as a Spiritual Practice”. I felt prompted to write on a more regular basis to ready for the class. My journaling life, up to that point, had been a sporadic dumping of words at devastating or elated times. The challenge for me was to…
Come to the Altar
al · tar noun a table or flat-topped block used as the focus for a religious ritual, especially for making sacrifices or offerings to a deity. Here I come, to this altar again, this place to meet God. Where trees sway, birds sing, mowers mow, wind whooshes. It’s here where I write, where I ponder, where I reflect. It’s me, my pen, and a blank piece of paper. It’s the blinking cursor on a white screen. The space I sit is where I slow down to notice details. Like the birds who come to and fro to this little church,…