Honest Woman

You cannot make it of me,
Nor I of myself, contort and strain
Against my true nature, my brand.
An honest woman cannot be made,

Only broken, confronted, surrendered,
Only by way of bowing down whole self
Reserving nothing, hiding nothing,
That I might find refuge in the cleft.

Refuge from? Self-destruction,
The dishonesty lurking there
Behind seductive corners, beckoning
To taste and glut and evolve

Into a would-be goddess
Whose distempered appetite
Makes her demands for more, ever more,
Forever dissatisfied, forever dishonest.

My heart unkempt, and perhaps hair, too,
I come not strutting but prostrate,
Heart bowed, soul desperate, hands outstretched
To a king, a savior, the only true Maker of honest things.

Plus Lent*

Lent-time hunger
is stirred and swells up
from spirit famine;
leaves chocolate decadence
on thirsting tongue.

“Slow, slower!” cries the soul,
yearning to feast
on eternity’s cadences
of mystery birthed in cosmic
knowledge, known colloquially as, faith.

*pronounced "ploo lahn”, means “slower” in French.

Orient

They say
that there is no need to orient,
to posture, to approach,
to follow or obey;
to prepare a soul

for that homestretch movement
into light and majesty’s domain.

The sacredness of things, they say,
is outdated and overrated,
thumbed down and ignored.

To truly be is to not try;
to become is to bend
self-will, our greatest demigod
into a posture of ignorance,
an irredeemable sin
in a sinless realm.

But I? I am a seeker,
humble sojourner,
knocker, pleader, bent-knee
crawler, prostrate thinker,
prayer-practitioner, reasoning-user;

faith-sword wielding, a counter-rebel
in a rebel’s world; living on the breath
of One from another realm,
following a sacred, incandescent star
in a starless philosopher’s gloaming darkness;

depth-plunging, truth excavator,
a slum-treading soldier sent
to counteract the ugliness
of popularity’s deceptions;

a righteousness slave
to pound the drums of freedom,
to walk in time, preparing a way
to the hallelujah chorus;

no lone crusader,
but one of many, marshaling
one another, our reverent rhythm warring

to push back the heavy veil,
to bring dawn breaking in
a wartime crescendo,
a battle cry of life and sanctification,
then-

Victory will emerge
in a global resurrection
and a universal song.

Selah.

Someone Said

Truth like rain had fallen
iced and hard.
Perhaps it had blistered
'haps it did burn.

Perhaps that apple
that had fallen
'haps it merely
had a worm.

And perhaps the evil
is only imaginary
the darkness, light tricks,
pain: kindness misconstrued.

Perhaps the demons
merely angels
'haps that God
merely delusion

Someone said.
Someone said!
T'was swiftly and oh so well-spoken
Only, I wonder, only, I hesitate,

For the orators and philosophers
who applaud god-forgetting
and intellect strutting
seem themselves to have forgotten

That someone's
perhaps troubled now,
'haps less than happy now,
for that someone happens to be dead.

Wintering

Seasonally peppering us with her bland white pigments,
Winter creeps up in bare-bone whispers and the bleak absence
of things once known and felt and pulsing through like hot blood,
to say only, "Perhaps, though, not?"

Her mood is tempestuous and capable, a white-washed threat,
but it is her quiet, too, that frightens and resonates.

In this ice-prismed uneasiness is her ability to freeze time,
to render earth bare and brittle, cold and un-moving,
urging us to authenticate and to prove truths taken for granted,
in the mist of amnesia fogging up our soul's summer light.

And so we fall back on memories and monuments and monumental holidays
of sacred rememberings and the hurried ignoring, a pretentious ignorance.
We exhume a grace that is grated, shredded, and grating on our nerves
until we are left to pick up the tissue paper and truth in its smallest fragments:
Pieces of peace-less crude elements, until we turn to one another in urgent tones,
to say, "These? Only these forms left of the promise and the magic and the grandeur?"

Here we are left with Winter's mandatory pause- that authoritative opaqueness,
a revolving kind of numb to enforce her agenda, talons sheathed but stretching
in cool white feathered clouds, to say: Just think. Just wait. Just pause.

Slower, more slowly, the frills shrink away in her unrelenting gaze
to lay humanity bare in humility and our squeamish self-reflection
until we see- finally see, really see, the light resonating, engulfing,
surrounding, in a majestic and cosmic, ethereal pursuit.

And the spin and the dance and the motion of truth's scarlet story
thrums us back into the arms of resurrection life once more.

Apple Spies

The drumming up of little feet
moving of chairs made complete
with water rushing
giggles hushing

Mother waits, unperturbed.

The opening and closing of doors
wind in their hair, mud on the floors
climbing the trees
"Quietly, please!"

Mother requests, unconcerned.

Later confessions reveal
organic apples they would steal
and delight in their prize
apple skins on their eyes

Mother listens, not surprised.

For secretly, Mother always knew,
just what her littles were trying to do,
and quietly delights in their schemes, and sighs,
for Mother secretly loves her Apple Spies. 

The Week the Kitchen Light Went Out

There we all were, getting ready for Christmas, taking pictures of kids in plaid, setting them up so that they looked like they were reading Charles Dickens, mentally preparing to start panicking about last minute gifts and missing mailing addresses. You know, traditions. All things were going well on the Wittman Homestead. 

And then the week hit in full force. Teething issues, health issues, behavioral issues, scheduling issues, lack of sleep, lack of sanity. To top the week off...the kitchen light went out. I did a lot of baking in the dark. 

Baking...ahh, the joy of baking. 

Pure joy, goodness, meditation, therapy...only, now I couldn't see anything. This took my scatter-brained tendencies to a whole new level. I couldn't find anything, I couldn't think straight. Suddenly, the world was cold. My world. My carefully tucked away world in my cozy little brick home...was dark, empty, dismal, cold. And did I mention cold? 

I started re-evaluating my life. I got a haircut. I planned out an entire winter wardrobe of sweatpants and hooded sweatshirts. It's fine. It's normal, I said to myself. I kept baking. I turned on worship music. I pressed on, but it was pretty darn miserable. 

The thing about light is that it's pretty important. It affects your mood, your energy, your perspective. You start to forget things. Important things. Things like French conjugations, to set the oven timer, or to feed your children dinner. 

The lights are on now- VERY BRIGHT LIGHTS. My world is back on its axis. We ate all the blueberry coffee cake. There are a few sticky buns left. It was a rough week. 

Looking back, the kitchen light was only actually out for two days. But spiritually, my kitchen light was off all week. Do you know what I mean? I didn't realize it was spiritual warfare until the lights kicked back on. And then I thought, "Oh! That's it!" And it seemed so obvious. Light flooded my horizon, even after nightfall. 

Is your kitchen light off? Are you even aware that it is not just an electrical issue, but a metaphor? I wasn't. I am now. It might have helped to notice the difference, though. I might have worked harder at pushing back that darkness. I might have assaulted it. 

I just thought I'd ask in case you are having a lights-off week. A trip to Lowe's might help. A lot of prayer, worship, and scripture might make all the difference in the world.

Sincerely,

Natasha