Some of us
give up hope
when the seasons begin
to change.  When life
becomes difficult,
it's so easy to
only see the world
as harsh and unforgiving;
only see the rain
on the window pane;
only see the leaves
dead on the ground;
only see all the things
we could never
repair or replace
despite all our effort.

Behold, sometimes
it takes a death
to bring a resurrection.
Sometimes
it takes fertilizer
for us to grow.
Sometimes
it takes months
of cloudy skies
for us to fully appreciate
the sunshine.

So do not
only see the depravity,
see the goodness.
Do not
only see everything
you've lost, look
around and be thankful.

Behind those clouds
is a sunny day;
within that fertilizer
is a root system
becoming healthy;
and in that darkened
grave is a heart
beating back to life.

Bend down today
in humble submission,
in groveling forgiveness,
and wash the feet
of another.

Partner with your savior,
recognize the filth
of your own sin,
and wash the feet
of another.

Become acquainted
with the essence
of your existence
by washing the feet
of another.

Esteem one higher
than yourself,
meet that lowest place,
and wash the feet
of another.

You will find
how you too will
become clean when
you wash the feet
of another.

So do not tarry,
no, now, today
bend down
and wash the feet
of another.

You're just like
good decaf coffee
because I can
enjoy all of you,
every nuance and
subtlety without
the fear of
getting too wired,
too anxious from
the stimulus.
No, there's
no regret in
enjoying you.

Orsemas Caldwell
was a curious old man
who lived deep
within Elderwood forest.
Everyday he'd gather
branches and boughs
to cook his dinner
and warm himself
inside the drafty,
dusty cabin
he called his home.

I clearly remember
the night he invited
my wife and I over
for biscuits and tea.
We left our car
at the entrance
of the single-file
footpaths that led
into the darkened
shroud and stillness
of his forest.

We sat at an ancient
wooden table covered
with the inscriptions
of hundreds of writings
from decades past.
I remember his wrinkled
trembling hands as they
set down the tea
he had dried for us,
I believe it was chamomile
with a hint of lavender.

We talked about a great
many things, but nothing
made his eyes light up
like when he told us
about his wife, Percilla.
They were ministers
at the old baptist church
until they retired to their cabin
in Elderwood forest.
Young lovers again, they'd
lay under the trees and laugh.

He showed us her picture
and smiled remembering.
I could hear in his voice
the sweetness of their love
and a longing for reunion.
I don't remember much more
than his words that echoed
in my head as we drove
back to our modern day
amenities, holding
one another's hands:

'Don't let one thing
come between you.
You are one flesh,
you are not two.
Don't let children,
or money, ambition,
or your vocation
come between you
and the one God gave you.'
This is the memory of
Orsemas Caldwell.

I looked in despair
at the fallen red
pine needles resting
on the ground;
not because
they were there,
as some would say,
representing a death,
but because
something in me
could not see
something grander
in them.

"Whats anxiety like?"





Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe.