Succulent yet tenacious

“Nourish your eye and spirit with inspiring things. They will bloom with your tending.”
S.A.R.K
IMG_0547
(a beautiful tray of succulent plants from the local home improvement store / Julie Cook / 2014)

The word succulent conjures up images of plump juicy, as well as sweet, leaves from such plants as the aloe and the agave, as well for most other sorts of cacti. The obvious object of the thick plump leaves is for the storage of water, as these plants are accustomed to living in very arid, hot, desert like environments. This built-in self watering system makes them rather indestructible as house plants for these plants are most forgiving when a regular watering is inadvertently forgotten.

They are not tall showy plants, boasting vibrant blooms, but are rather short and stocky bloomless alien looking vegetation. They often sport such comical names as hens and chicks and lamb’s tails. Appearing in a wide range of colorful tuberous leaves, many varieties often form beautiful patterns with their concentric circles of leaves.

Succulents may appear to be the more lazy of the plant world as they just simply seem to sit around not doing much. Not all of them bloom or produce flowers. They don’t grow very large in stature and they require very little maintenance, often appearing dormant or even dead.

Yet they are a tenacious lot.

They are not faint of heart as they stand up to extreme heat and drought. They can handle being ignored and often forgotten. They are the type of plant that can certainly take a licking as they simply keep on ticking—they have been around for thousands of years. It is said that a single particular little succulent plant, living at the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna, Austria, dates back to 1780.

There is much to be learned from a succulent, or cactus:
They are self preserving (they gather everything they need, storing it for later)
They are self defending (the prickly varieties)
They can be self healing (as well as healing to others, as in aloe)
They can self nourish (they draw from their stored resources, think of sweet agave sugar)
They hold up under pressure (how well do you do in 120 degrees with a 4 percent rainfall total?)
They hold up under extreme heat (again, back to that 120 thing)
They hold up during the dry spells of life.

So it is, on this new day to this new week of this new season of life, that perhaps we should be mindful of the lowly cacti and succulent. Most often over looked at the garden center.
This hardy bunch of little stumpy leaved plants usually sit off to the side, pushed away making room for the rows and rows of garish flowering plants and shrubs–all as we make a mad rush wanting to purchase the more showy colorful plants as we ready our yards and gardens.

In the long run, which plant out lasts the others?

Those pretty boastful show plants most often need constant pampering and babying. Just the right amount of fertilizer, just the right amount of water–too much or too little and death is quickly at hand. We fret who will water the plants during our time away. Many of these plants are annuals, simply good for a single season which can equate to a costly endeavor.

On the other hand, there is the lowly succulent and the cactus. . .they are hardy, forgiving, tenacious, self sufficient, colorful–yet juicy, sweet, plump and long lasting. A rather good combination for endurance and some rather good attributes to attach to living a productive and prosperous life. We can learn much from these humble plants.

Here is to the succulents and cactus, those lowly and most overlooked of plants, yet some of the most hardy plants to have at home in the garden.
Happy Spring and happy planting. . .

Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.”
― Robert Louis Stevenson

Fanfare

All Judah rejoiced about the oath because they had sworn it wholeheartedly. They sought God eagerly, and he was found by them. So the Lord gave them rest on every side.
2 Chronicles 15:15

DSCN4283
(sweet maple pods / Julie Cook / 2014)

Awaken buds and blooms, come dance with the wind.
Rejoice with triumphal fanfare, for all of Heaven proclaims Spring’s newness is at hand.

Hear now the sweet yet busy twills and chirps of excited birds rising across the sky.
A chaotic crescendo alerts all who may hear that Nature is now busy, for new life is soon at hand.

Soft demure colors tenderly shimmer in the sleepy morning light as the dew dotted grass sparkles like a thousand stars in a distant night sky

Winter’s dark glum shadows, finally vanquished. It is the triumphant shafts of light, penetrating the cold and dejected ground, which ring victorious.

Wake up, wake up all slumbering seed and nut– arise you who have been hidden deep– the sun now beckons all to come quickly her way.

Rejoice and be glad for all of earth’s splendor prepares to welcome a most happy and new day

“Welcome, happy morning!” age to age shall say,
Hell to-day is vanquished, heaven is won to-day!
Lo! the dead is living, God, forevermore!
Him, their true Creator, all His works adore!
“Welcome, happy morning!” age to age shall say.

Earth her joy confesses, clothing her for spring,
All fresh gifts returned with her returning King:
Bloom in every meadow, leaves on every bough,
Speak His sorrow ended, hail His triumph now.
Hell to-day is vanquished, heaven is won to-day.

Months in due succession, days of lengthening light,
Hours and passing moments praise Thee in their flight;
Brightness of the morning, sky and fields and sea,
Vanquisher of darkness, bring their praise to Thee!
“Welcome, happy morning!” age to age shall say.

(Stanzas 1-3 taken from the hymn: ‘Welcome, happy morning age to age shall say’
Written by Venantius Honorius Clementianus Fortunatus, in or around the year 570 AD

What he knew and others chose to ignore. Déjà vu or simply a continuum?

From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the Continent.
Winston Churchill

DSCN4262
Casablanca, 1943

On March 21, 2014, with the sweeping act of a single pen, Valdimir Putin signed away Crimea, transforming a portion of Ukraine back to what was Soviet Russia. Changing the world map.

In 1938 Adolph Hitler annexed Czechoslovakia, with a similar sweeping act of a pen, known as the Munich Pact.
Changing the face of Europe forever.

This week, Lithuania’s president Dalia Grybauskaite, who is attending a European Council meeting of the heads of state discussing the EU’s response to the situation in Ukraine, told a BBC reporter that we, the world, are sitting on the edge of a new Cold War.

In 1946, Winston Churchill, addressing Westminster College in Missouri, introduced the world to the phrase “iron curtain” just as the Cold War was rearing its ugly head.

DSCN4264
Churchill surveys the ruins of chamber of The House of Commons after a German assault of the Blitzkrieg.

DSCN4265
The smiles of Uncle Joe deceive, while a wise Winston is all too keen to true motives.

DSCN4267
1943 Churchill addresses a joint session of Congress urging the American allies to remain steadfast, staying the course, in their “duty to mankind”

Within the blink of an eye and the sweeping act of a pen, the world changed this week. The world map shifted as a piece of the free world was unimaginably sucked back in time.
If we, the world, choose to simply remain as mere spectators, change will continue–history teaches us such.

Winston Churchill was the lone voice of foreboding warning alerting the World to the true motives of first, Adolph Hitler, then those of Joseph Stalin.
Each time, the free world chose to ignore his words.
Words which were alarming, scary, troubling.
Who wanted to think of such?
Why should anyone worry, it’s not like this was happening in the backyard of the US or that the island nation of Great Britain would be affected.
That was all over there, not here—these being our thoughts as we lulled ourselves into looking the other way.
Maybe it’s all just bravado and bluff.
We just want to live our lives.
We don’t want to dwell on bad things. . .

But then the bad things happened. . .

Each time, Churchill was correct.
And each time, the world was too slow to react.

I wonder what Churchill would say after this week’s blatant act of “what’s yours is now mine” by Valdimir Putin?
I somehow think there’s an “I told you so” out there somewhere.

May we be mindful of our continuing duty.

A sunny spring day makes most all things bearable

“Faith is what makes life bearable, with all its tragedies and ambiguities and sudden, startling joys.”
Madeleine L’Engle

DSCN4249

DSCN4251
(aren’t the quince beautiful in bloom? Julie Cook / 2014)

As you may recall, Dad turned 86 last week.
Last’s week’s visit was nice.
I purposely chose to ignore the office, aka, my old bedroom, with the latest stack of mail containing any and all errant bills–those late, those ignored and those cancelled notices of service.
The lights were on, their heat was working, the water was running so I just decided to go with the flow and ignore any pressing business at hand.

The week before that was not such a happy visit.

Upon my arrival, I made my way down the hall, back to “the office,” with Dad hot on my heels following. He was wailing for me “not to go in there,” assuring me that everything was fine in that high pitched voice that signals everything is not fine.
What I discovered upon entering the room was a couple of huge piles of very official looking papers, scattered in chairs, desks and the floor. . .several IRS payment vouchers, a myriad of file folders overflowing with records, along with some very official looking booklets from a tax firm.
UGH–I didn’t know whether I should sigh or cry.
“NO, STOP, DON’T TOUCH ANY OF THAT, YOU’LL MESS IT ALL UP!” he screams

I begin riffling through the stacks, OFFICIAL NOTICE, LATE PAYMENT, PLEASE RESPOND. . .”
“Oh Dad, this is not good” I lament.
“NO, STOP IT, GET OUT!”
“WHAT THE HELL??”
“Dad, there is no reason to curse”
“GET OUT, GET OUT AND JUST GO BACK TO CARROLLTON” he screams before plopping down in the chair droping his head to his chest bearing a huge frown on his face, much like a pouting child.
Gloria immediately admonishes him, telling him to stop acting like a child and attempts to remind him that “Julie has come a long way to help”

I feel the tears filling my eyes, stinging as I fight blinking them back.
I mustn’t lose it.
No, not here, not now.

Long story short.
I called my cousin who told me not to fret.
Yeah right.
I called the tax man, who has yet to return my call.
I drove home rehashing the entire sad episode.
Thinking to myself how I very much wished, how I very much needed for him to still take care of all of this kind of stuff— this was his area of expertise–the finances, he’s always taken care of all of us in that regard and he’s always prided himself on doing it by himself. This is not my strong suit. I still very much needed for him to do all of this as he had yet to teach me how. . . this as the tears flowed down my face.

As I continued driving home, I simply pondered what to do.

Fast forward a week.
I had not spoken to Dad in about 5 days–I admit I was not only hurt, but I was mad at him. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk to him yet.
The phone rings. . .
“Juuuulie”– the familiar warble
“Hi Dad”– I say in my cheeriest voice.
“Julie, are you mad at me?” asks a very child like voice.
“Mad? Why would I be mad Dad? I’m not mad.
I was going to come up tomorrow but they’re saying it’s suppose to pour down rain in the morning.”
“I know, I hope it clears out by the afternoon because we have an appointment with the tax man.”
“Really Dad? That’s great”
WHEW!!! I silently shout.

Today’s visit was luckily short and sweet.
I had a 1PM appointment there in Atlanta so I quickly stopped in for a hurried bite to eat.
As Gloria was busy in the kitchen, she tells me to go in and visit with Dad.
I go plop down on the couch as dad is simply sitting in his chair with the TV muted. He’s rather silent.
“So Dad, how are things?”
“Okay”
“What do you think of all this Crimean business?” –this as he usually keeps Fox News constantly on the television.
“Oh it’s bad.”
“Do you now what I see every morning when I wake up?” he oddly asks.
No Dad, I don’t–what?” Thinking he’s going to say that pair of lamps in the den, the ones he’s told me, in no uncertain terms, to keep in the family after he is gone, I’m floored by what comes out of his mouth.
“Ed dead on that metal table”
“DAD!!
“Oh my God!”
“Dad, Ed’s been dead almost 30 years.”
“Well you know I drove him to kill himself. . .”
‘Oh dear Lord’ I’m silently screaming in my head as I’m asking myself why in the world did Gloria want me to come in here to visit Dad if this is where he’s going today. . .”

He never talks about this kind of stuff in front of Gloria because she always puts him in his place mighty fast.
And once again I start the litany that Ed, (my bother who I wrote about many moons ago “Forgiveness, one step at a time), was very much mentally ill–his death had nothing to do with Dad. . .funny how he fixates on this when all rational common sense and everyone knows, Ed was mentally unstable—Dad’s obsession with Ed’s suicide goes well beyond the normal grief of a parent. Our family doctor had tried for years to work with him, getting him help, but it’s been as if he relished fixating and twisting the tragedy back to himself. . .

I look at my watch, 1PM can’t come fast enough.
More chatter about Ed. UGH
All as I quickly nip the direction of the conversation in the bud, turning back to Crimea and Malaysia– Suicide verses hostile takeovers and hijackings—what an afternoon!

Realizing that he’s not gaining any ground with me, he switches to the topic of Mother, who has also been gone now for almost 30 years.
Can we please talk about something other than death and how it’s all your fault I silently moan in my head.
My head is now starting to hurt.
I get up, going back to the kitchen, seeing if I can help speed Gloria along as the thought of running out the back door screaming seems most appealing.

Finally, its time for me to leave!
I make for my car, promising to come back next week for a longer stay.
“Good, I need for you to get things out of the basement.” Dad warbles.
This as I’m thinking that only large pieces of furniture remain down in the basement—all of which are not going to fit into my car. . .ugh

Finally and thankfully making my way to my appointment (mother of the groom dress thing you know), I marvel at how pretty all of the trees and shrubbery look as things are now starting to fully bloom.
The sky a brilliant blue, the tulip trees, forsythia bushes, cherry trees, the daffodils, the tulips and hyacinth. . . all in their full colorful regalia. It’s a true sensory overload, so much needed.

Old Atlanta, that part of the oh so shrinking the city which still harkens back to my youth, is so very beautiful. . .there is simply nothing as pretty as Atlanta in the Spring. The beautiful young debutante stepping out for her first debut and dance–that’s Atlanta all gussied up for Spring. An army of ancient oaks, which line the Atlanta streets like soldiers at attention, wait patiently under the growing weight of groaning buds ready to signal a new season with a new beginning.

Trying not to dwell on Dad or of our conversations or of his taxes, preferring rather to bask in the glory of blooms and colors which were now offering me a full palette of visual delight, I silently say a prayer, thanking God for blue skies, blooming flowers and the for hope which is lovingly woven into this single moment, the birth of Spring.

Woven, yet freaking me out just a bit

Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.
Chief Seattle

The only faith that wears well and holds its color in all weathers is that which is woven of conviction and set with the sharp mordant of experience.

James Russell Lowell

DSC01210
(image taken last April while out in the yard / Julie Cook / 2013)

Okay, I’ve written about this before.
Simple fact number 1—
I can’t stand spiders.

Yeah, I get it, you’re tying to tell me how beneficial they can be. . .they’re great out in the yard. . .they eat other bugs. . .yada, yada, yada. . .
You think good and I think black widows, brown recluse. . .you get the picture.

Lest I remind you that a couple of years ago, while at school, I was sitting at my desk in my office during my planning block— I turned around in my chair, reaching for something in the filing cabinet, suddenly sensing a bit of movement just out of the corner of my eye. .
Do you have any idea how large things can grow in a 51 year old school building which has dust bunnies as big as, well, real rabbits?!

Slowly and quite controlled, a couple of legs, yep, I said a couple,—long spindly legs, more like large antenna, come creeping out from the corner of the filing cabinet.
“OH DEAR GOD!!!” is the immediate scream in my head.

Very cautiously I ease myself up from my chair, leaning over as far as I dare, making certain I’m not seeing things.
“OH DEAR GOD AAAAGGGGGHHHHHH”

This time– the in my head scream is now quite audible.
I run out of the office, out into the empty hall.
I scan left, then right. . .
“S – P – I – D – E – R ”
The word haltingly spills from out of my mouth as I search in vain for a passerby. However, this is 2nd block, no one from the neighboring classrooms are on planning and no one is in the hall—just what an administrator dreams for. . . an empty hall— a panicked individual wants / needs people.

No matter.

I boldly open the door to the math teacher’s room across the hall, interrupting Algebra I (I never did understand the big deal about Algebra anyway, but my disdain for math is for another day), I calmly ask if I could please speak with the teacher out in the hall.
All 35 sets of eyes sense something serious was taking place as my eyes were as big a saucers, my teeth were clenched and I’m certain those on the front row could see the sweat beading on my forehead. . .

My friend and colleague steps out into the hall with me, closing the classroom door behind him. I’m sure he must have thought the worst considering my hands were shaking.
“s – p – i – d – e – r” barley lifts from my voice. By now I think I must be very pale as I think I may faint.

“What?!” my friend asks most concerned.
SPIDER” I now mange to pull the word out of my mouth.

Long story short, my friend, who I suddenly deemed mad and daft, proceeds to march into my office, grabbing the nearest ruler he can find.
“What are you doing?” I stammer, “Measuring it?!”
To my dismay, he gently coaxes the spider, web and all, out of the tight corner and proceeds to make his way outside to “save” it.
The spider is a wolf spider and is as big as a freaking golf ball!

“ARE YOU CRAZY?!” I scream.
“KILL IT!!!!”
By now, my former friend and colleague, has done his good deed by releasing, back into the wilds, a giant spider who I imagine was chomping at the bit to get back inside and back into his cubby spot in my office. . .

I tell you all of this as I am in a state of potentially freaking out as I type.

Breathe in, exhale, repeat. . .
Ok, here goes the real story. . .

A couple of months back, Michael, over on michaelswoodcraft.wordpress.com, wrote a tale concerning his son as a little boy. Michael recalled how his son had found an abandoned bird’s nest out in a bush bringing it in to the house. He kept his prize find in his room. Long story short, as the nest warmed in the house, the eggs of hundreds of baby praying mantis sprung into action—all over his son’s room.
Michael’s moral to the story was to always spray anything such as a nest, etc, for insects, otherwise an unwelcome infestation could be, literally, hatching.

I’ve picked up nests for years, as well as feathers, the occasional animal bone, shaded deer antler, etc, during my escapades out in the woods. I use to keep these things in my classroom as they made for wonderful artistic subject matter. I never worried about bugs as they all looked perfectly fine to me and I had never had an incident. . .until. . .

I like to think I keep a rather clean house. Being pretty particular as to tidiness, order as well as cleanliness. Now let’s remember that I was out of town for a few days recently. I naturally cleaned the house quite thoroughly before departing on the trip, as I have this fear that if, let’s say, something, God forbid, were to happen while I’m away and I don’t, er, come back, and my house had been left a mess—- People would come into my house thinking, “Oh my gosh Julie was such a slob.”
No, I won’t have that.
If people have to come into my house, should something unfortunate transpire during a time away, then they may remark “my goodness, what an immaculate house Julie has, imagine that, she has two cats and it looks and smells amazing. . .” I digress.
You get the picture.

So the other evening, once we finally arrived home from our very long day of flying and driving, I immediately plopped down on the couch– having been too tired to unpack–I simply plunked down the bags as soon as we walked in the door.
Sitting down, basking in the fact that I was no longer in some sort of perpetual motion, I notice, at the far end of the couch just by the lamp on the table, what appeared to be about three tiny little gnats of sorts or perhaps it was merely a piece of fuzz suspended from the lamp shade.

Mental note, “check out that lamp and dust that table tomorrow.”
I get up, dragging myself down the hall to take a shower before hitting the hay, when I feel like I just walked into the strand of a cobweb. Ugh. “Is the dust that bad on the door jam” I wonder.
Another mental note to self–dust door jams tomorrow.

The following morning, as the sun rose and I was now prepared to unpack and re-clean an already clean house, I spy what I thought to have been the fuzz the night before.
Horrors!
It’s some sort of little web with some tiny baby spiders.
OH DEAR GOD!
Upon further investigation, that cobweb dust business in the hall was actually a web, the entire banister was sheeted with a fine mesh web with hundreds of baby spiders

AAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!I am living the Twilight Zone—OH DEAR GOD!!!

This story could go on for days, but let’s wrap this up shall we because this is all creeping me out just reliving the nightmare. I saw that horrible B movie from the 60’s— you know the one—- the story of the giant spider that lived in a cave wrapping people up in a cocoon type web sucking out their blood. There are reasons why children should never see certain things and may it be known that a 1960’s B movie can , does leave lasting scars.

My we just say that I have since attacked the house– with the target area being where I first saw this initial massive spider nursery.
I’ve vacuumed, dusted, wiped everything down with poison, yes poision—the more the better—I might die from cancer due do the absorption of poison into my system as I’ve wiped down banisters, door jams, lamp shades, but by God, there will be no spiders within 100 miles.

In my sheer state of panic, my mind wandered to the question. . .
“Where in the heck did these things come from?
Is there some sort of giant spider mother living in my attic waiting to wrap me in a cocoon as I sleep, poised to suck out my blood?!”
—when it dawned on me. . .
The basket.
The basket under the antique secretary in the hallway.
What is in that freaking basket?!”

I get down on my hands and knees pulling out the basket. I note some more of that sheer webbing and a few more of the hundreds of the freaking spider babies.
Poison, quick, where’s the poison?!

The basket holds a few of my treasures from my adventures in the woods. The turkey, hawk and owl feathers, the shed antlers I’ve found, even a few intact skulls of a raccoon, an armadillo, and even a small deer complete with horns—my treasures from my time spent wandering in the woods. I always bring them home, leaving them outside for a few days checking for any sort of stow away creature. Perhaps the temperatures having been so cold, caused any and all life to lie dormant—just waiting for me to bring it in to the incubator, aka, my house.

Update: The basket, complete with woodland treasures, is currently sitting outside, sprayed down heavily with poison. The house is re-dusted, poisoned, vacuumed, re-dusted some more, re-poisoned and vacuumed again. I now sit nervously on the couch, eyes constantly scanning the horizon, as if I am on the ready for the hidden enemy, finger poised on the trigger, of poison that is—-I have declared WAR on spider babies and spider mothers, and spider fathers. . . arachnids, be warned!

Cast forth a great light

Even in darkness light dawns for the upright,
for those who are gracious and compassionate and righteous.

Psalm 112:4 NIV

“So don’t be frightened, dear friend, if a sadness confronts you larger than any you have ever known, casting its shadow over all you do. You must think that something is happening within you, and remember that life has not forgotten you; it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall. Why would you want to exclude from your life any uneasiness, any pain, any depression, since you don’t know what work they are accomplishing within you?”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

DSCN4194
(door of the granary of the Mission San José y San Miguel de Aguayo / San Antonio, Texas / Julie Cook / 2014)

I spend my life swirling in and out of the shadows of Death.
A precarious dance with darkness.
As the cold languid hand offers itself to entice me, to lure me, to lull me.

A spell is cast and the die is tossed.

A gossamer veil of deceit falls across the window.
No one can see, no one need know, I may do as I please.
The choices all mine as the caliginous night covers the secrets of sin.
A sinister glee echoes off the walls.

Truth is known, yet purposely ignored.

He twists his lies into the false truths I call my own.
The lies swirl around my feet as I sashay around the floor.
The lights are dimmed, blurring truth into the sweat which mingle and fall away.

Suddenly a door is thrust open
A blinding light floods the murky pitch,
quickly diffusing the darkness.
The shadows, which clung to the night,
drip eerily down the walls.

Standing for the first time, awkwardly alone, vulnerable and striped bare of the vibrant scarves of falsehood,
knees now buckle.
The sordid images of my deeds, flash against the brilliant sky.
The burden of guilt hangs heavily around my neck.
No longer are there shadows to hide within,
as the toxic dance concludes.
Hope has overtaken the darkness.

The radiant Light burns away the layers of filth which were once worn with pride.
The lies, the falsehoods, the deceit. . . drifting forever away–diffused in the rays of the powerful brilliance which now claims the room.
The mantle of guilt is gently taken from my weak frame.
The heaviness and fatigue giving way to grateful relief.

Light engulfs my nakedness, clothing me in an all encompassing and warming radiance.
There is a necessary healing in the Light.
Shame is expunged
Guilt is vanquished
Freedom now offered
Love now the Victor

Gone forever is the long night.
Death, now bound in chains, is quickly forgotten.
The shadows all dispersed, the murky fog lifted.
The sins all finally exposed.
Truth now sweetly claims my hand.

Because of my foolishness, the lamb’s blood had to be shed
My selfish follies rendered a price.
Love beaten, nearly broken, was laid bare
Keeping me from the shadows of Death, the sacrifice was freely made.

Assurances fill my being, flowing inward with the cascading knowledge that He’d do it all again–
— simply to have this last dance.
All of this as He lovingly reaches to raise my chin, lifting my face to His–
With a single glance, what was broken is now made whole.

Solitary

And if, happy in the lot of no created thing, he withdraws into the center of his own unity, his spirit, made one with God, in the solitary darkness of God, who is set above all things, shall surpass them all.
— Giovanni Pico della Mirandola

DSCN4048
(female mallard on the San Antonio River / San Antonio, Texas / Julie Cook / 2014

If I choose to go my way alone, wandering in one direction. . .all the while, as the world travels the opposite path, do you think of me as lonely?

If I prefer the silence of nothing compared to the constant wiring din of life’s deafening sounds, do you find me odd?

If I choose to leave behind the constant steady kinetic energy of the masses, seeking the single movement of One, do you think me sad?

If I am afraid of me, of being alone inside of me, who then can depend on me being fully there for them?

It is only in the recesses of the silence of my soul, far down in the depths of a seemingly empty void of nothingness, where I can begin to hear the tender sweet whisper of the Creator—this, as He whispers to soothe and woo His beloved, His created.

How can I, or you, say that God is dead, that God is silent, that God is non existent if I, or you, choose chaos over peace, noise over silence, crowds over solitude?

I, as well as you, leave Him no room, no space, no place. . .

He is not the raging storm.
He is not the restless wind.
He is not the shaking ground.
He is not the loud crashing waves

He is the Silence
He is the Stillness
He is the Calm
He is the Hush

I seek the solitariness of my being in order to find Him waiting.
He waits for me to come to Him not in the hustle bustle of my senses and nerves but rather He waits only within the emptiness of my soul.
I must pour off the excessiveness of my life
I must lose myself from not only the world but from myself as well

I must be quiet in order to find my voice
I must be empty in order to be filled
I must be solitary in order to be joined in Union

The Creator waits for His beloved in the space of the solitary