heightened senses….

“Memory believes before knowing remembers.
William Faulkner

(Victorian Christmas Greeting card)

Every memory seems more keen.
Every sight seems more bright.
Every tear seems more heavy.
Every scent seems more strong.
Every sound seems more bold.
Every heartache seems more piercing.
Every loss seems more painful.
Every joy seems more complete.
Every touch seems more dear…

Each year, finding ourselves standing before what makes Christmas just that,
Christmas…
Our senses,
our thoughts,
our tastes,
our recollections…
seem hopelessly more intense, more sharp, more profound…

Be that a blessing
or
be that a curse.

Pain is greater.
Suffering is more fierce.
Joy is more contagious.
While satisfaction hangs precariously in the balance.

There are those who gravitate toward this more mystical and magical time
full of giddiness and glee…
while others wish to close their eyes,
not openning them again until mid January.

The sensory overload can be overtly overwhelming or palpably underwhelming.

And yet it is in that overload, be it over or under,
that we actually become more….
raw…
more open…
and even more vulnerable.

And it is in that vulnerability that the ego slightly abates….
the guard slips ever so quietly,
While pretense evaporates as the dew in first light…
As we are splayed wide open.

And it is in that moment of pure raw vulnerability that
the heart finally realigns,
beating rhythmically for the first time since the tragic Fall,
as it is once again, albeit briefly, in sync with all of Creation…

For no word from God will ever fail.”
Luke 1:37

find praise

(a tired weary sheep slowly gets up / Slieve League, County Donegal, Ireland / Julie Cook / 2015)

Worn and weary
Run ragged and haggared…
Feeling forgotten and alone in all you do…
Overwhelmed and underwhelmed by all that must be done…
Add in the busiest time of year…
You’re stretched too thin yet can you please offer up some more?
They want the proverbial blood from a turnip…

There is a heightened sense of urgency.
The overbooked schedules…the events, the pageants, the parties, the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, the traveling, the wrapping, the singing, the sledding, the shoveling, the chopping, the washing, the exams, the grading, the deadlines, the reports, the dinners, the meetings…..it’s all simply never ending.
Or is is too quiet…
Too lonely, too empty, too little, too late…
Just shake it all up and pour it up neat…either way it’s all too much.

It’s either too cold or its either too hot.
You’re either too late, too soon, just in the nick of time…or simply put… you’re simply out of time as the deadline is all but passed.

The lines are endless and the tempers are shorter.
Good cheer is hard to find in the overcrowded parking lots, roadways, and snarling traffic jams.
Rush here, hurry there, get this and pick up that as you have yourself
a Merry Little Christmas now…

Or is it all just too quiet…
Too empty and too painful as you struggle though the day?
Remember, lock your doors and look over your shoulder, bad things lurk in the shadows. And don’t forget to unplug the lights….

Is it any wonder you’re tired, overwhelmed, ill tempered…
Fussing and cussing, complaining and lamenting…
The lists grow longer as the cash flow falls shorter.
As the airports cancel the flights…
Sneezing, coughing, aching…getting sick with no extra time in sight…
It’s hard to find a smile when hurting, silent and sad…
Bah humbug you shout, let’s be done with it already.

“Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani”

Forsaken and forgotten…alone and at wits end.
Vulnerable and exposed or simply empty and spent?
Who has time for joy, merry and bright…
When the mall is packed with people…
When you feel only sad and lonely…
When you’re so busy you’ve forgotten what it’s all about…

Emotions are heightened, raw and frayed this magical yet manic time of year.
Be it good or be it bad.
Isolation verses exposure as you fight to find the happy middle.
For there is no middle road to your life this season of the festive.
Only emptiness as everyone seems unable to understand why.

You cry out day and night but no one acknowledges your need as they’re too busy walking away…as the lady rings the bell…

Do not be far from me,
for trouble is near
and there is no one to help.

The party goes on with or without you, as everyone jumps to grab the ring.
The glasses are raised with each and every cheer, yet your glass is empty and your plate is oddly bear.
Everyone gloats as they bask by the fire, yet who’s really happy now?

But you, Lord, do not be far from me.
You are my strength; come quickly to help me.

A second wind is found, a helping hand is offered, a needed embrace takes you in while comfort is found in a smile.
And deep within you manage to find the words…

“From you comes the theme of my praise…”

I will declare your name to my people;
in the assembly I will praise you.
You who fear the Lord, praise him!
All you descendants of Jacob, honor him!
Revere him, all you descendants of Israel!
For he has not despised or scorned
the suffering of the afflicted one;
he has not hidden his face from him
but has listened to his cry for help.

(excepts from Psalm 22)

This time of year

When the year dies in preparation for the birth
Of other seasons, not the same, on the same earth,
Then saving and calamity go together make
The Advent gospel, telling how the heart will break.
Therefore it was in Advent that the Quest began…
C.S. Lewis, Launcelot

(a December’s fading light / Carrollton, GA / Julie Cook / 2015)

And just like that the passing of a season has quickly come and gone…
as the taking stock of another year has all too soon begun.
With the sun resting lower against a sagging horizon, as evening shadows grow ever long…
we pull our jackets and sweaters a bit tighter as we hurry our way along.

With the time for merriment quickly filling the air, a waning season holds fast and tight.
We hurriedly now race from here to there seeking good cheer on a cold winter’s night.
With gifts being bought and packages to send…expectation quickly fills air.
Our hearts grow a bit bigger as our eyes grow wider under the whisper of each tiny prayer.

Endings bring about beginnings as the the second candle is silently lit.
While those captives of ages past now recite the holy writ.
With festivities quickly underway and hearts now merry and bright,
our hopes and fears have met again during the course a single winter’s night.

With the cards having all been written and the invitations quickly sent,
well wishes and good tidings are the sentiments now kindly meant.
The carolers have gathered together offering their glad wishes to those who give ear,
As their songs once again offer up hope and joy to a suffering world this mystical time of year.

“Therefore the Lord Himself will give you a sign: Behold, a virgin will be with child and bear a son, and she will call His name Immanuel.
Isaiah 7:14

Sunny days

I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.
C. S. Lewis

(a fiery zinnia / Julie Cook / 2015)

Festively dazzling
Both fiery and bight
The sun’s brilliant performance
Both awes and delights

Miserably hot
And desperately dry
We look for relief
But no clouds in the sky

Radiantly beaming
She cooks and she bakes
With wicked hot rays
As she gives and she takes

Relentlessly strong
For relief we all prayed
As the sun beat down
We scrambled for shade

Delightfully relieved
As the sun finally rests
Yet the evening now yields
A myriad of tiny bloodsucking pests. . .

It’s gonna be a bright sunshiny day. . .

I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house.”
[Notebook, Oct. 10, 1842]”
― Nathaniel Hawthorne

“It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.”
Lyrics by Johnny Nash, I can see clearly now

(late blooms on the flowering Quince / Julie Cook / 2014)

Long past Spring it is now—that heady time of year when the garishly decadent displays of showy blooms stake claim to what had been a barren landscape. . .
Yet it appears, tucked away in the falling leaves and newly exposed spindly twigs, a few shrubs and bushes wish to reclaim a small piece of that now long departed season of glory— just as all manner of growth prepares, very shortly, to “go out” in a blaze of muted glory.

And so it is on this bright bright sunshiny kind of day, that I”m about to make the trek over to Dad’s.
There’s been some odd things perched on the horizon. . .can’t quite put my finger on it.
I’ve long ceased fighting with him over his lack of “taking care of business.”
I suppose it’ll all just go to the proverbial hell in a hand basket as the tax man may just come get him, but at least he’ll be happy in jail as they will indeed feed him.
And as they continue to have heat, lights and especially TV. . .life is good in Dad’s little world.

“Just stay there” he tells me. “It’s not safe to drive all the way here”
“Dad” it’s about an hour’s drive”—baring Atlanta’s infamous traffic.
“You could be killed!”
“Yes, well, I could be killed here at home Dad”
“But the chances are greater here!” this said with a sheer sense of panic in his voice.
I can’t argue that. . .

“I early voted yesterday. Have ya’ll voted yet?”
A warbly reply “I don’t think we can do that this year”
“WHAT?!” My oh so political loving card carrying diehard pundit is waving off a critical State election?
“I just don’t think we can do that” sounding almost disinterested.
I have high blood pressure, I’m in bed”
“You can’t go vote cause you’re in bed?”
“No”
“You can’t go vote cause you have high blood pressure?”
“No, no, I, I, uh, just don’t think we can do that!” said with the defiance that signals he wants to be left alone—too many questions which require too much thought and response—two keys areas he’s really falling woefully behind in. . .

Plus he’s taken to calling me on my cell phone– which means he’s calling me from his cell phone—the one he lost over a year ago and always said he didn’t know how it worked. Hummmmmmm
He calls twice a day now asking if everyone is ok, as though he’d forgotten he’d called just a few hours before asking the same. . .”Is everyone ok?”
“Dad I’m coming up tomorrow, have you forgotten?”
“You are? Does Gloria know this?”
“Yes Dad, you made me tell her yesterday. . .”
“Are you watching this business on Canada?”
“Yes Dad, it’s terrible. Are you still in the bed?”
“Bed? No, I’m up front watching TV”
“Well don’t forget, I’ll see you tomorrow”
“What? Are you coming up? What for?”
“Just to visit Dad. Do you want me to take you to vote?”
“No it’s too much trouble. I don’t like to travel anymore”
“Travel? Dad, it’s not a trip. It just up to the school to go vote. It’s right up the road”
“Did you vote?”
“yes Dad”
“Who’d you vote for?”
“Everyone you would have wanted me to vote for”
“That’s a good thing”

And so it is, or so I think. . .I’m off to see if it’s really a good thing or not. . .

Fading light

All that’s bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that’s sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.
Thomas Moore

(a piper in the shadowed light

Shadows grow long as days grow short.
A gentle hush settles in over the horizon.

Savory, heady scents and tastes fill our senses,
While we wrap ourselves in blankets filled with rich warm hues.

Yellow flickering lights fill the magical darkness,
As crunching crackling sounds serenade nighttime wanderers.

Time gently slows as clocks turn back,
While older hearts bask in youthful wonder.

Baking relentless Heat, now mercifully blown elsewhere,
Ushers in gently refreshing rains to a thirsty weary land.

A page turns as days now change.
Seasons shift as bright mellows to soft.
Fresh replaces heavy, as what once was now gently fades
Into the pale shimmering light.

an advent of color

Color is the place where our brain and the universe meet.
Paul Klee

(the first signs of spring as seen on the forest floor / Julie Cook / 2014)

As tightly wound fists rubbed sleepy bleary eyes
The senses slumbered for. . .has it been 3 or 4 months?
A cold world lay splayed open, frozen over and bathed in monochromatic tones

White, grey, brown, with every shade in between.
Heads and faces, turned downward, stare blankly at the grey mush underfoot
As all senses lack stimulation.

On a tired grey morning an amazing event transpired
As heavy faces remained downcast, with blank eyes staring emptily at the dead brown leaves,
A tiny piece of life fell from a tree.
What is this new strange object?

What is the word for this new phenomenon, we nervously ask.
Have we forgotten the words which represent this new oddity?
Could the word perhaps be “color?”
Is it red?
Or is it green?
Maybe it is blue?
Delightful words, words such as “bright,” “vibrant,” “saturation”. . .?

The reality of this presumed mirage, observers muse. . .
. . .merely the change of seasons.

The timely new word is Spring!
Marvelously bright and delightfully colorful Spring!
The scales have fallen from our weary bleary eyes and we are, joyously. . .
Amazed!!!

“Color directly influences the soul. Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammers, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another purposively, to cause vibrations in the soul.”
― Wassily Kandinsky,