Pieces of Love

     End of the day, and I was gathering my things and final thoughts. I heard a voice coming down the hall. There is never any doubt when it is Z’s voice. He really should be on the radio. You know the type- one of those deep, crystal clear deep bass voices. Z was obviously on the cell phone. He went in to the office across the hall as I heard him say ‘good bye’ on the phone.
     Long story short, as he related it to my co-worker across the hall, it was his wife’s birthday. Our work has been so frantic he forgot to order her favorite cake. Every year since they’ve been married, he has always bought the cake for her. It was almost 4pm and he was basically doomed. I chuckled as I heard them call all the local grocery stores that had bakeries, imagining the clerks laughing harder than I was – a lemon filled white cake and you’d like to pick it up now?
     Waiting for the computer to shut down I yelled across the hall and asked if a lemon meringue pie would do. Silence. I don’t think they knew I was still there. Doug’s voice bellowed back “even better.” I suggested he call the local restaurant that is known for its pies. I almost fell to the floor when I heard him on the phone asking “well how many pieces do you have and can you put them in one plate?” The negotiations went on and I heard the call end. I almost crashed into him as he entered my office as I was leaving. Z, well over 6’5” and me, barely 5’2” both came to a fast screeching halt. His deep bass voice laughed. He patted me on top of my head and told me he “owed me.” And off he went.
     Nothing philosophical tonight. No, tonight there is no hidden wisdom or play on words. Just a good man, who loves his wife, was disappointed in himself and was going home with a true gift of the heart – a pie plate of various slices of lemon meringue pie. To be honest, I owe Z.

The Heart's Prayer

     I do not want to be told I am a sinner because I failed to meet your expectations. I do not want to be told I am a transgressor because I pushed the bounds of conventionality. I want to know I am a sinner because I have seen the face of God.
     I do not want to see the gates shut to Eden. I do not want to see the burning bush. I do not want to see the Promised Land or Jericho’s fallen walls. I want to know that You alone are God because my heart cannot but kneel.
     I do not want to stand at the manger and think what an unbecoming throne. I do not want to hear Lazarus called forth and fear the dead walking amongst us. I do not want to eavesdrop on Gethsemane’s prayer and hear the sweat fall from his face. I want to know you are the Son of God because I looked through the eyes of the thief.
     I do not fear the hiss that I could be God I fear the venom that tells me I am a sinner. Maybe it’s time to leave Eden behind and forget the gate. Maybe it’s time to remember the garden is where God walked in the cool of the evening and called out to Adam and asked “Where are you?” Yes judgment was passed, there are consequences to actions, but the first question was “where are you?” Perhaps if the answer given had been from the heart and not deceit the story may have been different.

   “Where are you my child that you feel the need to hide? Where are you my child that you fear the very power that created you? Where are you my child that you see only your actions and not your heart?

Where are you my child tell me what has happened. You’ve eaten from the tree of wisdom but to understand you need your heart, my breath. For when I breathed into you, you breathed your life back into me. Where are you my child? You are in me. It is not a kneeling, it is not a cry of belief, and it is not judging eyes you seek. It is your heart, our breath. It is to know you are loved.“ 

      And when my heart rises from the altar within my soul, I smile. To love because you cannot not love is to understand the love of God. And when that path is taken, if I listen closely there is a whisper asking “Beth, how is your heart?”

Solomon's Wardrobe

    I am not a fashion horse. I try to look neat. Wrinkles and dirt just seem to find me. And then there’s coffee which sometimes just seems to find its way onto my clothes. Every now and then I find a particular shirt and slacks, the Woody Wood Pecker hair cooperates and I might feel cute. If I’m feeling particularly mischievous a certain twinkle in my eye will guarantee a lighter step in my walk and an inner feeling that I am cute. That is, until I drink my coffee and laugh. Alas, but even that is cute.
     I remember my Dad coming to visit me in Arkansas for my college graduation. My mother had passed away two years earlier. He wanted me to have something nice to wear for graduation – Mama would have wanted that. Now imagine a father who never shopped for clothes, standing in the women’s clothes department with his daughter in her jeans and sweatshirt looking for ‘nice.’
     Apparently our ‘lostness’ was not lost on the clerk, an older woman, who asked if she could help. We both looked at her with that blank stare that says ‘we haven’t a clue.’ She studied my wardrobe and off she went. I still remember her magic talent of finding that perfect outfit where a tom boy daughter and her old style southern Daddy would both smile and say ‘That’ll do.” I wonder if at supper that night she told her family, “you wouldn’t believe what I had to do today…..”
     We have comfy clothes, dress up clothes, work clothes, yard work clothes, beach clothes and fun clothes. When we put them on they create a feeling in both our brain and our body. The magic of the fibers and how we define them changes our attitude, our walk, what we will and will not do. Basically we become the definition we’ve given the clothes. The definition differs for everyone.
     There are days and nights, however, when appearances take on an entirely different meaning and feel. I find I am wearing the naked vulnerability of my soul, unshielded and without mask. That primitive vulnerability dares to say “as I am, as I wish I were, as I hope to be, this is me and for that I give thanks.” And the magic of life’s threads and connecting fibers whispers back, “I love you.”
     Solomon’s fields could not compare with that beauty or that wardrobe. And as I whisper back, “I am loved” another voice inside says “I’m cute.

Sometimes....

     I stand and inhale the night sky. Today was a day of exhaling. Sometimes, sometimes, the only thing a person, a writer needs to write is “I love you.” To know you are not alone, to know you can hear the heart beats, to know the joy (and pain) of laughing … to know … it’s just that simple. And so with that I lay my pen down and smile.

The Dance

     If I should glance over my shoulder as I leave, I am not asking that you should come with me. It is a glance in case it is the last and a wish for god speed. If I should stare into your eyes after you have spoken, I do not doubt what you say. Sometimes my heart likes to speak before my words. If I should ask if you are ‘ok’ I doubt neither your strength nor honesty nor do I speak out of need. I would rather you give me a knowing smile that tells my worry to cease than to think I did not care or notice.
     It is such a delicate dance and one never wishes to step on the other’s toes. In a dance one partner may lead. It is in the tension of the giving through the matching of strength to strength that creates the beauty of the movements, the dance.

Liturgy of Being Tamed

“Goodbye,” said the fox. “Here is my secret. It’s quite simple: One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes. . . . It’s the time that you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important. . . . People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said, “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose. . . .” [The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery]

    I unroll the scroll of my heart with the reverence, sanctity and veneration of a Rabbi opening the Torah’s scrolls. One by one my heart reads their names and bows to their images in my mind, each with their page sewn into my heart. Several have no images, only a name, but their inscription upon the scroll is equally deep. Some are present in my life today. Others have left this life and I await our meeting.
    The characters written upon the page differ in their boldness, grace and size. Written with love, the long strokes of fondness are thick and full. Other characters create names of those who taught my heart to heal. The pigment for the earth, her creatures, beauty, the sun, moon and sky are brilliant in their color and pictures. Whatever the boldness, size or color of the stroke each one has tamed me as I have been tamed.
    The liturgy is repeated each day and night and often when I spy a special star, a bird in flight or the sound of laughter. And as ritual and liturgy evolves over time so has mine. Time, roses and foxes have changed my ritual as I now begin with my own name.