I am, you anxious one.
Don't you sense me, ready to break
into being at your touch?
My murmurings surround you like shadowy wings.
Can't you see me standing before you
cloaked in stillness?
Hasn't my longing ripened in you
from the beginning
as fruit ripens on a branch?
I am the dream you are dreaming.
When you want to awaken, I am waiting.
I grow strong in the beauty you behold.
And with the silence of stars I enfold
your cities made by time.
-Rilke, The Book of Hours 1, 19
A lot of Christians believe that Jesus speaks to them. I, personally have never experienced this.
Jesus has never spoken to me. Do I feel left out? No. Why?
Because God speaks to me.
In the stillness.
In the roaring of the wind as it tears through the great Ponderosa pines on the mountainside out my front door.
In the tiny but swelling buds on bare naked frozen branches in the dead of winter.
God speaks to Me!
In the love of my lover's eyes, the upturned corners of her smile, the sweet curl of her neck.
God Speaks to me.
In the night, when all is quiet, and all I hear is the deep sleep breathing of my child, my wife, my pets and the night. In the warmth of my body between the sheets. In the comfortable safety in the crook of her arm and her warm breath on my back.
God speaks To me.
Direct and unmistakable, searing speak, from the soul of my child, an arrow shot straight into the core of my being. Undeniable, unbidden, in raw-ness, opening me wide but leaving no scar.
In so many ways. I must only slow down and let myself be quiet to hear it.
Twelve Years Apart
3 hours ago