The old man

Grey wind races across the field,
Chasing lines carved deep in damp soil,
Churned and hacked by plough and harrow.
Year on year, turning the surface, Scraping and shaping,
Scribing purpose on the land.
Rain follows wind,
Drawn and driven,
Blown over ridges,
Filling in ditches,
Soaking the dirt.
Standing alone in the face of the weather,
An old man of the earth.
Battered and scarred,
Twisted and ripped.
Once he stood with others,
Young and wild,
Bright and beautiful.
They raced for the air,
Reached for the light,
Laughed as they spun and they stretched.
Their finger tips touched,
Brushed and caressed,
Then bound together.
But they are now gone,
No longer as one,
He stands alone.
He remembers the years,
He feels where they were,
He misses their shade,
He is not proud that he has survived,
He does not relish the solitude,
Or wear it pinned to his trunk.
The old man remembers,
As winter beats his flesh,
And summer bleaches his skin.
He remembers.
He takes a deep breath,
Drawing in the scent of his place,
Inhaling its songs and its stories.
And he knows they are here,
Down in the ground he can feel them,
He knew all along they were there.
Standing alone, just like him,
Feeling alone, just like him,
Never alone, just like him.

Wrestling Angels

Through the night Jacob had to fight,

Eye to eye, arm to arm,

held, twisting, pulling, knees. elbows,

Muscles and joints tensed in the search for purchase,

Pressure building in desperation and frustration,

Why must we wrestle, how is that love?

But the fight will not end,

Where is mercy, where is peace?

No space, face to face,

Only hard eyes and harder fists,

Down on the solid earth,

Bruising,

Tearing,

Ripping,

Bleeding,

In the dust and the dirt, stinging raw flesh,

Grinding bones and bedrock,

Forcing breath, and sweat and pain.

Day breaking, body breaking,

By the crooked river,

Bones are bent out of shape,

Forever crooked.

Scars born in love and hope,

Wounds exchanged for a name,

a blessing ripped from deepest injury.

With the rising sun a gift of pain that remains.

A reminder of the most intimate battle.

Not won or lost, just fought.

Finding rest…

After an intense week, I’m sat on the train thinking about rest, the chap opposite is fast asleep and snoring, whilst curled up in what looks like the most uncomfortable position. We all have to find rest however we can, and we all find rest in different ways. Rest isn’t just about recharging, although that is an important part of life, and some of use are recharged by company, some by solitude etc. But, rest is much more than that. Rest, is an outcome of security and love. It’s not just the body that needs rest. Every part of us needs to find a state of peace if we are to survive and thrive in a hectic world, a world where the pressure to be ‘on it’ can be intense. Sleep is part of rest, but it’s a fragile part and in many ways is a product of rest! I cannot sleep unless I am at rest. Of my mind or my spirit is in turmoil, sleep is a battle, sometimes one I cannot win. So, it is vital to understand what rest is to me if I am going to be able to sleep, never mind be recharged.

Rest is often about escaping the insecurity of identity and/or faith. If I can find escape from the nagging self doubts and existential panics that can plague all of us at times then I find rest. Rest can be in a good book, a film, a mountain walk, the arms of a lover, in meditation/prayer, even in silence. It’s in the place where insecurity and performance are irrelevant, where the mind and the spirit are stilled and at peace, where I need only be me with no expectation or judgement, where there is no place for performance anxiety! Rest is an outcome of peace and peace is an outcome of love. May you find love, peace and rest.