My curating impulse this morning was simplicity. I went with a small blue bottle, the humble but beautiful black pansy, and a strong sun backlighting our window screen. I call this photo hope, I’m not sure why, it just came into my mind.
The purple Pansy on the porch
April 23, 2008 – Am continuing to get messages of all sorts from all kinds of places – farms, the light, trees, flowers, dead leaves, dogs and animals, Paula and Emma, my friends, and have always believed that people who hear messages need all kinds of help. One facet of my life is that I never quite know when to run to a pastor or a shrink. Perhaps both are in order.
Some of the messages I get are from e-mail, and I appreciate these messages as I have learned a lot from them over the years. Messages to a site like this vary. This is a sharing experience. I tell my stories and people tell me theirs. Sometimes, as E.B. White wrote, messages can be overwhelming: “there are 10,000 of them,” he said, “and one of me.”
Some are disturbing, some inappropriate, most friendly and encouraging, others are funny, helpful, scolding or loving, and some just sort of pop out like sparkling jewels – wildflowers, or pansies or sunsets – and demand to be read and considered. I guess I love them all, all part of the tapestry of the farm, and now, the blog, which is such a surprising expression of it.
One of these was from Lisa Keeper, from Atlanta, and it was quite beautifully written. Lisa’s mom has been badgering her to write something before she passes on – she is 85- and I would urge Mom to keep at it, because Lisa can write. Do it, Lisa.
“Have to say,” she wrote, “that I love how God continues to woo and awaken your heart. Abba Father (Romans 8) is the true hound of heaven, but he loves partnering the wooing process, as he’s doing through Steve McLean and through the authors you read…And all of creation sings his praises. Your dogs, the rivers, the wildflowers, the breezes – all of it is just a shadow of the beauty yet to be revealed. I love being able to peek over your shoulder as God whispers all about himself to you and reveals more of his heart to you through the people and things he’s brought to your life. My family is grateful to be on the path with you, and we continue to pray for you, your family, the hospice patients, your friends – but especially you.”
Wow. Earlier this week, Carla told me I had the heart of a librarian, and now this wondrous message that left me a bit speechless.
Thanks, Lisa, and I am humbled by it. I took it on my afternoon walk with the dogs and even left the camera behind, worried I might wear it out. My mind was racing with questions.
These are some of them.
Could this beautiful sentiment possibly be true?
Why would God whisper things in my ear?
Is there more beauty to be revealed, when I already see so much it is sometimes blinding?
How does Lisa, sitting in Atlanta, know what is in my heart, and state it so clearly? Why would she bother to write me that beautiful message. Why would she and her family be praying for me, looking over my shoulder? How would they know to do that? Why would they bother? How do they see the love and strength of Steve McLean, out in his country church in Argyle, N.Y? Why are they so confident of him?
And how would she know that my family, the people I meet in Hospice, my friends, the flowers and the breezes, are God’s whispers to me? Sometimes I feel that my soul is broken, and I will never have enough time or strength in life to patch it all up.
Still, I do hear whispers, and all the time. And then, after the walk, watching the sunlight flash through all the budding leaves, I came back to the house, and the wind came rustling up through the trees in the valley below, and the dogs were eager to get inside and drink and rest and sit by me as I went to the computer, and I heard the goats commenting from their gallery, and Winston was crowing, and then I looked out the window to my right, and saw this purple flash, whipped by the wind, glowing in the sun, and I grabbed my camera and went outside to the porch. There was a purple pansy, bobbing in the wind.
I felt a great rush of peacefulness, and some sadness.
The dogs, alarmed, had rushed out with me, and Lenore plopped down at my feet, and the border collies rushed frantically here and there, looking for the work that must always be there. I closed my eyes, and felt the wind washing over me, the sun on my face after that long and cold winter.
I wanted to cry, but did not. I popped the big lens on the camera.
Talk to me, I said. Talk to me.
