sit down and rest.
Learn from gentle
and humble-hearted guide,
how to carry
and rest your souls.
At life crossroads,
ask for vision
to the ancient paths,
that lead to God, to good, to life
and a light load to carry,
on the good way
with no heavy lifting
cause you’re not alone.
Gotta let go;
This thing’s tossing me around
Like a merry-go-round.
Gotta let go;
Feels like I’m gonna explode
Like a Jack-in-the-Box.
Gotta let go;
This has me churning
Like milk in a lactose-intolerant stomach.
Gonna hurl, whirl and twirl,
Gonna pop, explode and burst
Wanna rip it out along with flesh.
Coiling round ribs
Twisting, wrapping and wreathing inside.
To release, liberate, and loosen
Gotta grasp Eternal,
Goodness, Truth and Love.
Hold on to Everlasting source
Or let that take hold,
The ephemeral, the disappearing
Sadly, the leaf clings,
like an infant rooting for its nourishment.
Violent gusts slowly sever
beloved from limb
in the fall of life.
Copyright Shuana Niessen, 2012
I dreamt of a lover
He guided me into his bed chamber
–a softly lit private place, darkened hues of red, blue, brown, and amber, like an uncurtained scene in a Rembrandt piece–
talking all the while
pointing to this and that
he storied the room,
the meaning behind the objects.
that fashioned his identity,
artifacts reflecting values, memories, masculine ideals, spiritual longings…
Watching as I viewed, he smiled his delight in my attentive response.
I suddenly felt sleepy, as though drunk with ageless wine,
and lay down on the bed–
his words floating,
closing me in,
enfolded by a blanket of self-expression–
My lids so heavy, I surrendered to their gravity.
The air, too, was warm and sweetly scented.
Safety here, a longing for rest and peace, for such a place as this.
Alerted by his pause, an invitation to weave myself into his story,
I offered my heartfelt response, “You’re beautiful.”
Relief and gratitude softened his face, fears evaporated through acceptance.
For I had recognized, respected, valued, and understood
the sacredness of this space–his inner sanctum
and my sanctuary.
Psalm 61: 4
Let me live forever in your sanctuary, safe beneath the shelter of your wings!
God is great, but I am not
God is good, but I hold back
God is love, but I am closed
but I have ceased.
When our faith falters, it is our self which has diminished. God is a constant.
A faded bag of tangled, once colorful yarns
spilled contents peek out from under the guest bed
forgotten, ill-used, neglected, frayed edges and lost stitches
the pattern that formed the knit items no longer visible
I begin the daunting task of sorting, ordering, reforming straggley strings into tightly wound skeins
Here, a string which once attached two mitts
with the one gone missing, the other of no value
There, a tangled mess of colours, once formed a scarf that kept the necks of my children from feeling the icy wind
Now, holes and tears have frayed the pattern of colours, and the yarns tangle into frustrating knots
An unfinished knit Fair Isle sweater makes its appearance through the mess
a reminder of lost dreams and hopes, of lost meaning
disheveled designs and plans and patterns that once made sense
a new pattern, new meaning, new understanding of purpose
will weave the frayed and tattered into something whole and meaningful
but what theme will guide my stitches?