A Poem
It was like a church to me/
I entered it on soft foot,
breath held like a cap in the hand.
It was quiet.
What God was there made himself felt,
not listened to, in clean colours
that brought a moistening to the eye,
in movement of the wind over grass.
There were no prayers said. But stillness
of the heart's passions -- that was praise
enough; and the mind's cession
of its kingdom. I walked on,
simple and poor, while the air crumbled
and broke on me generously as bread.
The Moor, by R. S. Thomas.*
I have posted this poem in the past.
It popped up this morning to remind me
that i need to "go to church."
Dianne also needs to go to her church.
She has not been there in nearly a year.
Each week for the past month we have
wanted to go. She has been too weak,
to tired, or too afraid to go out in the cold.
She is getting stronger. The days are getting warmer.
Maybe today is the day.
I also have been too long away from "church",
and i have "no excuse."
I only need to look out the window at a tree,
or take a walk to a nearby park
or remember the last time i stood in a mountain meadow.
or at the edge of a deep canyon,
or walked in a woods.
I've never seen a moor
(despite being a fan of English mysteries,
i have no real idea of what one looks like)
But i think i would find comfort there, and peace
and some figment of the holy.
* From: For Lovers of God Everywhere: Poems of the Christian Mystics,by Roger Housden.*