Shattered

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As through a long-abandoned half-standing house
only someone lost could find,

which, with its paneless windows and sagging crossbeams,
its hundred crevices in which a hundred creatures hoard and nest,

seems both ghost of the life that happened there
and living spirit of this wasted place,

wind seeks and sings every wound in the wood
that is open enough to receive it,

shatter me God into my thousand sounds.

~Christian Wiman “Small Prayer in a Hard Wind”

 

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same abandoned school house near Rapalje, Montana a few years later, photo by Joel DeWaard

 

 

May I,
though sagging and graying,
leaning perilously,
be porous enough
to allow life’s daily gusts
blow through me
without being pushed over
in a heap.

Then the wind,
filling my every crack
and defect,
may cause me to sing.

Someday when I shatter,
collapsing into pieces,
it will be amidst
a mosaic of praises.

 

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photo by Joel DeWaard

 

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photo by Joel DeWaard

The Black Walnut

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My mother and I debate:
we could sell
the black walnut tree
to the lumberman,
and pay off the mortgage.
Likely some storm anyway
will churn down its dark boughs,
smashing the house. We talk
slowly, two women trying
in a difficult time to be wise.
Roots in the cellar drains,
I say, and she replies
that the leaves are getting heavier
every year, and the fruit
harder to gather away.
But something brighter than money
moves in our blood – an edge
sharp and quick as a trowel
that wants us to dig and sow.
So we talk, but we don’t do
anything.

What my mother and I both know
is that we’d crawl with shame
in the emptiness we’d made
in our own and our fathers’ backyard.
So the black walnut tree
swings through another year
of sun and leaping winds,
of leaves and bounding fruit,
and, month after month, the whip-
crack of the mortgage.
~Mary Oliver from “The Black Walnut Tree” from Twelve Moons

 

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photo by Dan Gibson

 

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We bought this old farm twenty five years ago:
the Lawrence family “Walnut Hill Farm”~
a front yard lined with several tall black walnut trees
brought as seedlings in a suitcase from Ohio
in the ought-1900’s.

These trees thrived for 80 years on this hilltop farm
overlooking the Canadian mountains to the north,
the Nooksack River valley to the west,
the Cascade peaks to the east,
each prolific in leaves
and prodigious in fruit.

The first year we were here,
a windstorm took one tree down.
A neighbor offered
to mill the twisted trunk for shares
so the fallen tree became planks
of fine grained chocolate hued lumber.

This old tree lines our kitchen cupboards,
a daily reminder of an immortality
living on in a legacy left behind~
sturdy while imperfect,
so beautiful to the eye and the heart.

 

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Taking Aim

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photo by Josh Scholten

Aim for the chopping block. If you aim for the wood, you will have nothing. Aim past the wood, aim through the wood; aim for the chopping block.
~Annie Dillard from The Writing Life

Over four years ago, I decided to aim for the block daily on this website of reflections, as if words were wood and pictures were kindling.  I started storing up the wood of words and pictures, chopping away every day in case I’ll need this storehouse of fuel in the future.

I have ended up with a quite a pile of almost 2000 blog posts strewn about my feet due to my random chopping.  I’ve been drenched in sweat at times, and garnered my share of splinters, but I’m readying the pile for when the weather gets cold and the nights long.

It is not that the world needs another blog post or another book — I just need to keep aiming, keep chopping and keep my eye on the block, cutting through and past the wood.  This is something I do because I feel better when I do it, like the redemption of aching muscles after a hard work out.

My ax needs constant sharpening and I keep my aim focused.   The days are shortening.