Desert Day 38: For Some Things There Are No Wrong Seasons …

Then they gathered around him and asked him, “Lord, are you at this time going to restore the kingdom to Israel?” He said to them: “It is not for you to know the times or dates the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”
— Acts 1:6-8

Standing in my evening vestibule
wrapped in fading light
I push Chronos out the door firmly,
Your time is up, I say
as I usher in my dear friend Kairos,
pulling her into a welcome embrace.

Goodbye clock time,
tick-as-you-must-time,
Hello grace time,
Swirling-spirals-of-sense time.
Set-my-heart-free time is
past due today.

Come in!
I know you cannot stay long
and I so yearn to spend some moments wisely
in your comforting company.

Advise me,
hour of wisdom’s beginning.
Impart your secrets of forgivness,
Drench me with your sacred silence.
Remind me of my own steadfast spirit!

Reveal my task for this hour,
And then be on your way,
dear friend!
Move swiftly as I long
to clothe myself in your certainty,
to detain you forever as my faithful guide.

But alas, even you must be surrendered!
— Beth Fritsch from Seven Sacred Pauses (O Impermanence!)

 

There have been evenings when the light has turned everything silver, and like you I have stopped at the corner and suddenly staggered with the grace of it all.
— William Stafford from Waiting in Line

 

It didn’t behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything. But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn’t stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn’t
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me.
— Mary Oliver from A Thousand Mornings (Hurricane)

 

 

 

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