Every one of us is a saint

More on the icons. More on you. More on me. More on us.

Every one of us

Is a saint

Broken

Discarded

Maybe

Perhaps

We have been treated

As leftover wood

Until even one person arrives

Sees the gold

Even the possibility

Of gold

Within us

Writes our life

On wood

In gold

Perhaps a dragon

Under our feet,

Sword in hand

Kindly victory

In our eyes

Yes

Everyone is a saint

Every one of us

A reclaimed piece of wood

Perhaps reclaimed

Again and again.

Every one of us.

Biggest difficulty

I had a series of dreams last night.  Interspersed were periods of wakefulness during which I worried about how I would drink my coffee this morning.  Yes, really.  I awakened to find the Sunday story from inwardoutward.org.  A reflection on the broken pieces.  Somehow just what I needed to hear.

The biggest difficulty

This morning

Is a lack of milk or cream

For my coffee.

So I eat yogurt

In tandem

With sips of coffee.

Now I will go to church

To hear about                    

The feeding of the five thousand,

The twelve baskets

Of broken pieces

Left over.

Broken shells

I think the sand and shells are the last piece of me to inhabit the office.  Thank you, Ginga.  Now I think it*s completely set for whoever comes in or goes out the door.

Years ago a friend

I have never met,

Mailed me a box

Of white South Carolina sand

In a zip-lock bag.

Tucked next to the sand

Was another bag filled

With shells she had collected

On the beach.

One or two shells are whole.

Most are broken.

I have always liked the broken ones

Best.

This week I brought the sand and shells

To my office.

They live in a clear glass

Soufflé dish

Under the lamp

Next to the entrance.

Now I see them

When I come

And go.

I am reminded

Of ocean and sand and shells,

And friends,

Even the ones I have never met

Face-to-face.

In the sometimes bleak steppes of Illinois

I am reminded of the ocean.

I see the sand and shells

When I come,

When I go.

Still I like the broken ones

Best.

Wealth of broken pieces

I set out to write something about putting together a mosaic, and found that I am in the place of contemplating which pieces belong.  I*ve been here before, many times.  It seems this is a time of waiting to know what fits, which are the pieces that belong.  Of course I thought I knew this already.  No.  Darn it all.

Early on

When the Whole

I thought I*d begun

Broke into smaller pieces

I found it all

Shattered into possibility.

The Whole somehow

Had to include

Stray bits from the wayside

Polished pebbles out of the riverbed

Shards of broken glass from the street

Chunks of rock.

I knew I would never get back

To the original picture.

Indeed

I never knew original

Anyway.

Here I am

Later on

The Whole broken

Into smaller pieces again.

There is a wealth

Of broken pieces:

Polished pebbles smooth to the touch;

Shards of colored glass

I hold up to the light;

Chunks of rock I can sit on

While I wait,

While I figure where and if

They fit.

Here I am again:

More pieces,

A veritable wealth

Of broken pieces.