A poetic reflection on short sabbath I took last week at a dear friend’s cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Northwest, Georgia.
stubborn hill, spinning tires,
back it up, try it again.
Up it goes and forward I look…
and there it passes
by my right, unnoticed.
It will not scream out to me;
it will simply
to be found
for waiting is its only
its only calling.
At the top I weave and wind, whither and wane
as I shift and rev to return
to a lane that I once wandered far
and traveled upon alone
and with courage.
I celebrate my victory for the briefest of moments
and then remember
that I have yet to find that which begs to be found.
Rain gently drums on my windshield
and the wipers wake me from my thoughts.
I could call, I could ask, but, no,
this is the point, isn’t it?
I return and slowly slide down
that same stubborn hill.
the first time, I had no choice but to speed
for only momentum would do.
But this time
I creep, I crawl, my neck is free to turn
my wandering head back and forth.
My eyes squint and
there it is!
My heart leaps and I delicately turn into
a sanctuary that I have never known
and I have always
I welcome the rain for it reminds me that I am alone.
While others see it as dismal, distant, and dark,
I feel it, in this moment at least, as soothing,
as something that reminds me that things
are in need of being washed away.
Here I was….here I am….here I will be.
I adjust to the quiet; it is, after all, alarmingly present.
It isn’t a simple thing
going from an everything that is nothing
to a nothing that is everything.
I walk around, it take it all it,
or perhaps it takes me all in…I’ll never quite understand.
The mist rolls over the mountains
and the chimes,
ever so gently,
respond to the wind’s subtle push.
You’re here, it’s time, let go, and listen
their song so simply suggests.
And I relent, and reluctantly retreat into nothingness
and there abide
for a while.