Sabbath # 55

My husband takes his breakfast plate

and places it gently in the sink.

A small act, clearing the table.

He has many such rituals: closing the blinds,

emptying the trash from each room on Saturdays,

carrying his papers collected on the dining table to his study,

matching his unmated socks, sleeping

with covers tucked under his chin.

We are still newly married. Almost one year.

Only this morning I referred to our house as home,

The Presbyterian Church our closest neighbor.

Before sleep he often fingers my hair, lightly.

Some sort of unspoken blessing

to see us through the night.

Sabbath 360: Chincoteague Island

We walk the circle, the cycle.

A detour to the beach

where a prayer tree embedded

with shells, stands in the sand.

Amen. An Omen.

Dusk not dust.

Egrets not swans.

Two bald eagles.

Not one hour but two.

Walking seperate

but together.

Not alone but alone.

Not ending but beginning.

A cycle, a circle.

Sun setting not rising.

Quiet, not talking.

Waiting for the risen moon.

Sabbath #52

This week, a miasma. Locked out and locked in. Even the labyrinth shortened it’s circuit and I ended with a shortened walk not even making it to the center before I was shown the way out. Shown the way out. Early.  This morning I read: The soul suffers from a thousand suspicions… Even our own natures can sometimes fool us… When I am in this state, stillness doesn’t work. I need movement. Walking. So I walked the beach. I walked past herons, egrets, geese, mallards, a few sand fiddlers. I walked around the brown marsh, pine trees laden with cones. The sun was not shinning. The wind hard. Still I wore dark glasses.Wanted muteness. No transformation, no discovery. Only walking and the blinking of eyes.