Weeds

A gardening friend once told me that a weed was simply a plant that was not wanted in a particular bed or plot. An extreme, if unlikely example: a rose would be a weed in a potato patch.

I am at a point where I accept most of the growth in my yard as equal — I have no emotional attachment to bermuda grass (it ain't naturnal to this region anyway). It's green stuff that grows, most of it gets mowed to be acceptable in this suburban environment. With any luck, that green stuff produces enough oxygen to balance out the damage done by the mower's internal combustion engine.

I'd like to think God looks at creation in the same way.

I like to believe there are no weeds in God's garden.

I Cor. 13

If I speak in human tongues
or the tongues of angels
but have no love,
I am a sounding gong
or clashing cymbal.
If I have the gift of prophecy
and knowledge of every hidden truth,
if I have faith enough to move mountains
but have not love,
I am nothing.
If I give everything I have to feed the poor
and hand over my body to be burned, 
but have not love,
I gain nothing.

Love is patient and kind.
Love envies no one,
it is not snobbish.
Love is never rude, never selfish,
never quick to take offense
neither does it brood over injuries.
Love keeps no score of wrongs,
takes no pleasure in the sins of others
but delights in the truth.
Lover bears all things
believes all things
endures all things.

Love never fails.
Prophecies will cease;
tongues will be silent;
knowledge will pass away.
For our knowledge & our prophecy alike 
are partial,
and the partial vanishes when wholeness comes.

When I was a child, 
I spoke like a child;
I thought like a child;
I reasoned like a child;
but when I grew up
I put away childish things.
For now we see but puzzling reflections
as in a fun-house mirror;
but one day we shall see face to face.
My knowledge now is partial;
then it will be complete
as God's knowledge of me  is complete.
There are three qualities that last forever:
faith, hope, and love:
the greatest of these is love.

---

I found this as I was going through some old notebooks last night; it was written circa 1987.

I sat down with the Bible translations in my library (KJV, RSV, NAB,& Jerusalem) and picked out the phrases that seemed the most meaningful and/or felicitous. I'll confess I changed a few phrases for this transcription.

NPR's Micropoetry Challenge

For the second year running, NPR is hosting a micropoetry competition during April. I wonder if I dare rise to that challenge.

If you watch the bottom of this page, you'll see my tweets - which are normally quite rare (my handle is @Jonah). However, for the season of Lent I have been observing a discipline of "Praying the Psalms". This has involved posting a 140 (or less) response to the psalm(s) appointed in the Revised Lectionary for the Morning Office. As much as possible, I try to include a phrase or an echo in my response.

The point being, I have maintained a discipline of daily tweeting. I've proved it's possible.

I greatly respect the work of Dave Bonta, who tweets a poetic impression of the world around his morning porch. He knows more nature than I do, and has more to observe than I do in my suburban environment. The standard Dave sets seems above my humble abilities.

Still, it's an interesting challenge. Would you take the challenge?

Your House of Light - Variorum

I can see the redbuds dancing
along the early misty streets
and I see the dogwood blossoms
gathered at my feet.
I can hear the young birds singing
with their youthful delight
At their place in your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

I can feel you walk beside me
under a canopy of leaves
your words are soft & subtle
as a gentle summer breeze.
Your breathvoice is sweet as honey;
your eyes are warm & bright:
that's how I see your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

When the farmers reap their harvest,
we hear the sermon of the loam;
and the barn is standing ready
for the horses coming home;
when the leaves explode in color
that gives my soulheart delight:
I know I live in your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

Now,Soon the sun will soon hang lower,
and the sharp crisp air draw us close.
My days will be build up like snow banks
and I hardly barely count the cost
for the turning of the seasons
have brought my soul 'round right:
within the halls of your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

House of Light by James A. Collins is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Strange Encounter

Josie started attending my church about two weeks ago. I met her this Wednesday — she made a point of introducing herself after Evening Prayer. She mentioned that she's very shy, but wanted to meet me because I made an impression on her. Turns out, she's been sitting one or two pews behind me at church.

Well of course, my ego enjoyed that. We continued on to the dinner after the service, and sat with mutual friends. During the meal, she said that I made an impression on her because I was tall & lanky.

Now, I'm pretty clueless about when a woman is flirting with me. But, you can imagine the assumptions I leapt to from that piece of information.

After the meal, she told me she wanted to share the real reason I made an impression on her: "I could tell you were a spiritual person."

I think she just mistook my bald spot for a halo.

The Land I Come From

I come from the land of self-righteousness & credulity.
I come from the land of the free to believe the air is made of molasses.
But - you know? I don't come from this land.
I mean, yes, I was born here.
I still live here.
The minerals swirling in my blood
were leeched from the soil,
sipped from its waters.

I live in the land of multiple wars & rumors of war.
I live in the land of fear & anger.
I live in the flickering scream
and the distant explosion.

I live here. I choose to be here.
But - you know? There's days,
special days like this
when purple weeds disgrace the yellowed grass;
when rain clouds haunt clear blue skies;
when the street is empty:
I see another land,
the land where I belong.

I dwell in light where the land is dark.
I dwell in sheltering trees where the land is barren.
I dwell in peace where all are fighting.

I want to live where the heart dances with the mind.
That's where I want to belong.

3 o'clock February

3 o'clock February morning:
awakened by the light
of a snow-laden sky

Idée d’jour

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark.
Wendell Berry

Prayer, 5.Feb.2012

Ever present God,
Let us live in your House of Light,
seeing with the vision of a child.
May we treasure our journey
and be mindful of your many fragrances.
Amen.

Late January Sun

Morning shines through buds —
such hungry memories —
bird shadow on window slats

Creator God

Creator God,
Cultivate gratefulness in us.
Guide us
as we cultivate the garden of our souls.
Guide our vision of beauty and be our final home.
This we ask in your Holy Name.
Amen.

Idée d’jour

To be capable of embarrassment is the beginning of moral consciousness. Honor grows from qualms.
— John Leonard, critic (1939-2008)

Master Gardner

God, you are our Master Gardner,
in everything and contained by nothing.
You are always available to us,
our first fragrance and our last:
We give thanks for our senses;
may we be mindful of our responsibility
to remain open to your Holy Spirit.
Amen.

Idée d’jour

There is no exception to the rule that every rule has an exception.
 — James Thurber, writer and cartoonist (1894-1961)

4:50, January 9

Morning so crisp
I hear a distant train
and dream of grandfather

Idée d’jour

Books have the same enemies as people: fire, humidity, animals, weather, and their own content. — Paul Valery (1871 - 1945)

Idée d’jour

Only those things are beautiful which are inspired by madness and written by reason.
— Andre Gide, author, Nobel laureate (1869-1951)

Idée d’jour

It is my belief that the writer, the free-lance author, should be and must be a critic of the society in which he lives. It is easy enough, and always profitable, to rail away at national enemies beyond the sea, at foreign powers beyond our borders who question the prevailing order. But the moral duty of the free writer is to begin his work at home; to be a critic of his own community, his own country, his own culture. If the writer is unwilling to fill this part, then the writer should abandon pretense and find another line of work: become a shoe repairman, a brain surgeon, a janitor, a cowboy, a nuclear physicist, a bus driver.
— Edward Abbey, naturalist and author (1927-1989)

Prayer & Commerce

Went to hear Miss Brown To You perform at Wings of Desire a combo salon, art gallery, and vintage furniture shop on Hudson, just south of NW 23rd. It's run by Patricia Lee Russell. Mireille Damicone, one of the artists was also there. Mireille creates large floral canvases, jewelry, and icons.

So, Patti and I were sitting in two salon chairs by the sink, and Mireille was sitting on a bench across from us. Patti asked Mireille, "Have you prayed today?" "Everyday."

"Would you pray for me?" Mireille nodded yes.

Patti joined Mireille on the bench and they clasped hands as they faced each other. I didn't know what to do. It felt like an intimate and private moment. The Spirit lead me to close my eyes and join my heart with their prayer. Mireille's words were soft, indistinct.

My heart burned as if on the road to Damascus. I felt blessed.

This was during the performance, so none of the patrons were aware of this private moment. No particular creed or belief system was imposed on anyone. Just a private moment of prayer, where two or three were gathered.

I was reminded of a similar incident years ago, when I lived in Norman. Tony's Top Drawer, a vintage & used clothing shop, was in downtown Norman. It was the best source of quality inexpensive duds. It was a frequent destination on Saturdays after payday, when I needed to supplement my wardrobe.

I was shopping there one Saturday when a group of people came in. The owners of the shop gathered around this group and prayed over them. Business stopped for this moment of prayer. Turned out, this group of people was going on a mission trip, and were friends of the owners.

As I paid for my selections, I let the owners know how much I admired them for that moment of prayer.

Idée d’jour

If they give you ruled paper, write the other way. — Juan Ramon Jimenez, poet, Nobel Prize in literature (1881-1958)