evenings and mornings

the african violet is blooming again. three pink flowers, and hiding under their petals, five unopened buds. all straining toward the light on that ledge in the kitchen that looks out into the back yard, which parades its own simple fertility. looking out the window, and watching the light wane, i am tempted go out and steal a handful of the freshly mown lawn just so i can keep smelling it.

evening begins to arrive. the evenings meander in this late spring; they are full of cricket noises, drips from our upstairs neighbor's air conditioner, cicadas. there are not silences in the city nights.

a season of blooms straining toward the light. a season of drinking in--of watching the fullness--so that there are no such thing as restless hours.

a friend told me that he used to mistake drama for something profound. the chaos and passion seem mysterious, but we feel foolish when we realize that we are scurrying in senseless circles; that we are saying nothing new; that the words and patterns we tinker with are insipid and lacking imagination.

sometimes it is a surprise when we remember that He created us to be people of visions and dreams in our sleep, and in our waking. that in the here and now, there is possibility for what could and should, and will eventually, be.

****

as evening falls i go out walking into the sliver-mooned night, my mind thirsty and searching: needing to know that i am resting in God's palm--with the indigo sky and the brightening stars. i go out into the fading day looking for the new words, asking for the promised illumination. i listen and watch. this and every night threaten to pass by without my noticing, threaten to sneak away from me in a moment of distraction if i don't choose to take notice.

the words begin to come as i walk. the night, the feeling in my feet, the smell on the wind--make me think of bread with honey, make me think of memories of things that make you cry in a good way. but sometimes the truth of the words that come cause me to strain against their bitterness; i dislike their flavor. i find myself choosing an unnecessary silence. but i am no longer surprised by my own reticence--my soul's choosing to see only what it wants to see and hear only what it wants to hear. are we all quiet rebels and a stubborn pessimists in times like these, or is it just me?

*****

when dawn comes again, i strain toward the light like the african violets. strain to hear his voice as it comes whispering in over the waters, over the hills of the park, over the sleeping raccoons with their bandit masks and over the trees in their watch keeping.

he calls me to wake, calls all of this to wake. calls each created one and thing to its purpose. to be called by our true names is love. to hear his voice is the profound illumination, is the beginning of walking in the light. someone once said "only God can give a man this--his own name." as i begin hear mine, faintly, i remember again that he does not choose unnecessary silence. i remember again that we are to seek, to ask, to knock, to taste and see, to get up and walk. so today, i open my eyes to the light, and i strain toward it.