Chatter into Worship and Wonder

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25^th, 26^th, 27^th—maybe it will

take all 12 days of Christmas to move me

to compose poems again.  I sit home daily

focusing on white space, and thinking

of anything but creativity.

I‘ve journaled and prayed—much too private

to share in poems.  My vigil for ideas

I can test into truths continues.

Past experience supports me now:

If I don’t give up, wonders will arrive.

Right, God?  Right, Friends?  Today, sunlight 
trickles through curtains to puddle in our circle

and shadow surrounds us.  Not unusual,

but now it recalls the advent candles

we lit all December leading up to

Immanuel.  We sang Mary songs.

Pregnancy and birth preoccupy me.

They stopped with me.  I have a mother, but

gave birth to no one.  But mothering yes,

classroom by classroom (and cat after cat).

I notice what I’m thinking.  Bemused, but

not amused.  The sunlight draws attention.

I put my hands in it as if I could

cup it and draw it to my heart today.

Later, I’ll walk.  Now, I imagine weight

in light and weightlessness in shadow.

I lean back.  Hands rest in the solid light

on corduroy pants on knees.  Elbows drop.

Shoulders relax. I feel the energy

of those sitting right and left of me now.

I wonder who they are, so look.  Aha.

I know you, friends.  What do you see with your

eyes tightly shut? I wonder, and close mine

as well.  Aha.  I know this comfortable space.

I let my eyelids rest, closed loosely, as

loose as a dry clothesline, as loose as my

limbs.  I check, then release calves and ankles,

loosen thighs and sit in the straight-up balance

that eases effort.  And releases me

from thinking, from "I" in shadow and light.

I'm lucky to have this quiet.

Wonder scans this possibility in

war zones, in earthquakes, in rubble, in fear.

Wonder walks me from home with nothing in

my pack, just life—lucky—lucky to be.

Listen to how wonder grows and know 
the message, today's wisdom:

how to grow wonder and ideas under

duress, how to amplify voices 
in shadow and in light.

My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.
If you quote, credit this page.
© 2019 Susan L. Chast