Love's Eternity

I own a lovely little book called Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning purchased at a delightful oasis in Post, Texas called Ruby Lane Books. (Ruby Lane is a whole story by itself better left for another day.)

Anyway...sometimes this little book calls to me which was the case a couple of weeks ago when I ran across the following sonnet (Number XIV). The "spirit" of this poem has stayed with me (I say "spirit" because I am not one to be able to recall anything word for word) and so today I wanted to share it with you and also capture it for myself. So, without further ado...Sonnet XIV

If thou must love me, let it be for
nought
Except for love’s sake only. Do not
say
“I love her for her smile—her look—
her way
of speaking gently, --for a trick of
thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes
brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a
day”—
For these things in themselves, Beloved,
may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and
love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love
me for
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks
dry,--
A creature might forget to weep, who
bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love
thereby!
But love me for love’s sake, that ever-
more
Thou may’st love on, through love’s
eternity.

My very simple analysis of this work is that it speaks of unconditional love. In other words, love me for me. Nothing else. Simple. Pure. Everything else may change, but unconditional love will hold "through love's eternity."

Many thoughts are stirred for me, so this could be a series in the making...or possibly not.

Love on.

Moments

Coming from one whose primary medium of art (at least here) is the written word it can seem odd to say that it is not the words of life that count, but the moments. While reading Mark Nepo’s words today, “when I think of those who’ve taught me how to love, moments come to mind, not words,” my mind was flooded with moments (many of them from the last few days.)

A hug. A smile. A laugh. The simple words of “eagle, eagle, eagle!” as the majestic bird flew past the shoreline. My son and his girlfriend head to head on the beach looking like two carefree children studying the tiny crabs. An arm slung over my shoulder and a kiss on my forehead—feeling cherished as a child by the son to whom I am mother. A joke and laughter shared that I cannot recall the words. Sitting with friends around a fire. Breaking bread together. The splendor of flowers at the market filling the air with fragrance and beauty. A car full of teenagers spilling out and wrapping me in bear hugs before they went off to play. Fireworks. Hard work. Quiet moments.

Moments. It is not the words I will primarily remember about the last few days, but the moments. The moments I knew that God was speaking to me through the beauty and wonder and glory of the creation surrounding me and teaching me that I am beloved.

What are the moments that speak to you of love?

Friend Time

Hanging out with friends. Will check back in soon. Cheers!

"The greatest sweetener of human life is friendship. To raise this to the highest pitch of enjoyment, is a secret which but few discover." --Joseph Addison

Let the Little Children Come

So, when and how do we cease to be childlike? Must we? Is it a requirement for adulthood? Jesus said, “Let the little children come.” It sounds so inviting. It certainly feels to me that I am closer to God in a childlike and simple state than in all the seriousness of adulthood.

When did things get so complicated? When did I become the grownup? Is there a button that gets pushed? Is it irreversible? I think the change begins when the world starts to press in. The negative messages start to come. “Don’t do this.” “Don’t do that.” “Don’t act like a child.”

Why the heck not? The kingdom of heaven is for the children of God. Get it? The children—not the grownups—the fuddy duddies—the policy makers. Blessed are the poor, the meek, the humble. Who is more poor (and therefore rich) than a newborn babe? Who is more meek (and thus bolder) than a child who knows no condemnation? Who is more humble (and consequently more brilliant) than one who does not recognize (and yet somehow fully knows) his own beauty?

When does it change? Must it?

“We do not quit playing because we grow old. We grow old because we quit playing.” –Oliver Wendell Holmes

photo by geezer dude

Why I Am A Poet

Last night before retiring, I read the chapter “Why I am Mystical/Poetic” in Brian McLaren’s aGenerous Orthodoxy. McLaren referenced several points from theologian Walter Brueggemann’s introductory essay to Finally Comes the Poet which speaks of the Gospel being a “truth widely held, but a truth greatly reduced. It is a truth that has been flattened, trivialized, and rendered inane.”

Both authors go on to make the point that “reduced speech leads to reduced lives.” The point being how do we resurrect a truth that is buried in prose. Here is what Brueggeman suggests:

“To address the issue of a truth greatly reduced requires us to be poets that speak against a prose world. The terms of that phrase are readily misunderstood. By prose I refer to a world that is organized in settled formulae, so that even pastoral prayers and love letters sound like memos. By poetry, I do not mean rhyme, rhythm, or meter, but language that moves like Bob Gibson’s fast ball, that jumps at the right moment, that breaks open old worlds with surprise, abrasion, and pace. Poetic speech is the only proclamation worth doing in a situation of reductionism, the only proclamation, I submit, that is worthy of the name preaching.”

Makes sense to me. Have you ever tried to describe a deep feeling with words? When I struggled with how to describe Jesus in three lines, prose felt totally inadequate. When the words would not come, they made their way in poetry.

So, here’s to the poets of the world! Which leads to one last offering. This morning I read Tess’ Sunday Collection (always a Sunday favorite!) which aptly this week is a tribute to poetry. Take a look. Read a poem. Maybe write one if you feel so called.

photo by geezer dude