For some writers, scribbling is minimal-on the periphery of their work. In Holy Scribbling, the scribbles take center stage and become the means to the message. With sometimes quirky insight, Katherine Moore takes us to sacred windows that allow the spirituality of ordinary scenes to emerge. From the stark beauty of a "Mystic Dawn" to the serenity of "Simple Solitude" we experience the mysteries of nature, along with the routine demands of relationships and circumstances. Holy Scribbling is a personal book, but the images in these works expand into a universal understanding of everyman. In poetic form, a sense of reality is captured with a minimum of words. Paradoxically, it is her appreciation of words that enhances a deep spiritual sense of solitude and silence. As a contemplative commentary on glimpses of life, Holy Scribbling offers you the chance to see not only yourself, but also, possibly, God. "Take the journey with Katherine Moore through this meditative volume of verse, and you will experience more deeply that you are alive" -Jonathan Kelley, D.Min. LPC, director of the Presbyterian Counseling Center, Brunswick County, North Carolina "Katherine Moore's collection of poems is visceral and haunting, yet joyful. She reaches into her soul and shows us the frustrations and agonies of daily life, yet through it all she keeps a sense of wonder and delight. . . . Her poems will make you both laugh and cry" -Elsa Bonstein, columnist and poet

HOLY SCRIBBLING

LOOKING AT LIFE THROUGH A SACRED WINDOWBy Katherine Roberts Moore

Abbott Press

Copyright © 2012 Katherine Roberts Moore
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-0593-3

Contents

Acknowledgments........................ixIntroduction...........................xiWords..................................1Backyard Theology......................11Fragments..............................39Lament.................................51The Cell...............................67Darkness and Light.....................81Haiku..................................89Circles................................111

Chapter One

~ Words ~

We live in a "wordy" world. Media personalities pummel us daily with words that attempt to impress or manipulate. Everywhere, signs and screens and papers blast more words our way. Music lyrics stream continuously into our ears, rendering silence a near archaic experience.

Yet in spite of this, I love words! Words fascinate me. They intrigue me. But after awhile, I can hear no more. Words become excessive, tiresome. I run from them, struggling to hold the tension between words and silence, sounds and quiet.

And so, as I share my own words with you, I trust you will remember to stop from time to time and experience the power of the quiet.

    The Blank Page

    Clean and white it lays before me.

    Waiting.

    Open to newness—something not there before.

    Ready.

    Accepting all that is placed there.

    Gathering.

    Words and drawings
      and scribbles and musings.

    Fragments of life
      drizzled and poured
      onto the open space.

    The paper invites my heart.

    And I respond.


    Country Ride

    The empty paper stares at me,
    beckoning words from my heart
    that do not come.

    Sights and sounds of
    field and roadway bid me
    gaze from the moving window
    rather than attend to
    my written phrases.

    Gratitude comes easily today.
    Country roads and country music
    remind me of God's goodness
    and tell me about hearts touching hearts
    again and again.

    Today my car is my church, and
    I am bathed in an inexpressible
    worship where words cannot go.


    Writing Issues

    What is this writing about?

    Thoughts assail me with
    ideas and plans,
    problems and solutions.
    Fiercely I hurl the words onto paper,
    but who will read them?

    Thinking is troublesome.
    Too much of it debilitates,
    too little of it dulls.
    And all of it is lost in the vapor
    of the next thought.

    So I write and write,
    fearful of forgetting
    yet producing nothing.
    Words read by no one,
    thoughts going nowhere.

    Today I want to throw it all away
    and build a mountainous heap of
      discarded journals,
      scribbled-on paper,
      and worn-out pens.

    But I probably won't.


    Silence and Sound

    Slept too late.
    The noise has begun.
    I can't find the silence.
    I wait for your whisper,
    but I cannot hear it.
    Already busy,
    the world is too loud.
    The din of ringing and beeping
    and talking and bumping
    and roaring and whirring
    hides your sweet voice.
    Slowly I learn ...
    when I sleep too late,
    the silence escapes
    and sacred words are lost
    in the clatter.


    Another Loss

    They used to come.
    The words.
    Leaping through the wrinkles
      of my brain,
    Singing and prancing their way
      across my interior pages,
      seeking form.

    Nice words.
    Robust words.
    Gutsy, howly, growly words.
    Words like
      numinous and nuance,
      escarpment and esplanade,
      redolent and recondite,
      obdurate and obsequious.

    All tapping their rhythm upon
      my mental paper

    While rearranging themselves with
      meticulous precision,
      searching for perfection.

    But where are they now—my words?

    In a wild siege of boredom,
      they scurried off my page in a frenzy.
    Seeking adventures more lofty,
      I suppose.
    Now they randomly pirouette in
      other times and other places,
      leaving my poor mind void.

    Oh, come back! Come back!

    For what shall become of me
      now that my words have gone?


    Mystic Dawn

    In deep quiet
    Before the stirring of life,
    I lie in bed peering
    At the earliest hint of dawn—
    A mystical place where sleepy eyes
    Seek signs of morning and
    Shadowy fingers reach
    Into my heart to touch places
    Where I do not go
    In the daylight.

    The ache inside tells me of my loves.
    In my dreams I search for them.
    Always eluding me, I remain bereft.
    And I've used all the words—
    Words of longing and hurt and
    Yearning and tears.
    There they are, cast aside,
    All in a pile,
    Worn out from wear.

    Once they served me well, but
    I am tired of them now.
    No, I won't use them.
    Today I must find new words.
    But perhaps I shall keep this old pile
    In a corner somewhere ...
    Just in case.


    Word Power

    Talk. Talk. Talk.
    Words. Words. Words.
    Keep them flowing!
    Joke. Laugh. Entertain.
    Stay in charge.
    Hold the attention.
    No pauses. No breaks.
    No waiting. No silence.
    No listening.

    Funny how words
    Create distance,
    Shield from intimacy,
    Maintain control.

    We part,
    And still
    We are
    Empty.


    Nothing Left to Say

    There are no more words
      for the beautiful
    Just as there are no words left
      for things catastrophic.

    All the words have been used—
      over and over,
      stretched and shouted,
      underlined and emboldened
      until the hearer is weary of the
      deadening sound
      of sameness
      that never touches the
      truth of beauty
      or the horror of disaster
      or the pain of tragedy.

    Too many words
      hammer humanity,
      numbing the senses.

    And we stop listening.

~ Backyard Theology ~

Any window can be a sacred window. It isn't what one sees as much as how one looks at it. Observing life's comings and goings through a sacred lens discovers the "holy" in the stuff of ordinary living.

As I sit in my old kitchen, gazing from my sacred window once again, I am both startled and refreshed by this scrappy yard. The giant pecan tree, naked now save for the thick ivy covering trunk and limbs, stands with bare vines and tall cedar to allow glorious sunbeams to break through in scattered patches.

Suddenly, through the gray skies behind the pecan tree, there bursts a shining bold Light, clearing its path and resting squarely on my face. Illuminating me. Reassuring me. Healing body and soul.

And I know, O God, that you are One with our ragged world yet so far above it—immanent yet transcendent. Powerful theology discovered in my bedraggled backyard!

    Simple Solitude

    Just me this morning, Lord.
    All by myself.
    Why do I love it so,
    this sitting by my window
    that lets the tension fall
    from me like unlocked shackles?
    With visceral precision, my body
    loosens as I gaze across from
    tree to field to water.

    Though fleeting and unstable,
    the morning's contentment
    settles over me gently,
    and I give thanks
    to God for something
    so simple as this precious
    window-spot.


    Coffee and Prayer

    My cup is hot,
    wrapped with both hands,
    steeping in warmth.
    Aromas reach my chilly soul
    and all is good.

    Dark coffee.
    Bold.
    Rich.
    Pure.
    Just how I like it.
    Forever the perfect companion,
    whether in lively relationships
    or deepening solitude.

    Coffee is slow.
    One cannot hurry coffee.
    Its mystery must be ...
    sipped,
    savored,
    pondered,
    contemplated.

    Reminds me of God.


    Window Scenes

    Gazing through the dirty window,
    I strain to see the fuzzy images
    looking back at me.
    How blurred the landscape appears,
    dimmed by dried splotches of rain and dust
    collected on the glass.

    With squinting eyes, I wonder,
    "Could that be a bluebird?"
    But how would I know, for it appears
    to be the flat silhouette of a
    mere "gray" bird.

    Dingy clouds cover the sky—or
    perhaps I am peering at a clear
    blue heaven through a
    cloudy window.

    And my mind?
    I know now why my brain
    is full of foggy thoughts
    and indistinct images, for
    this is simply what happens
    when one looks at life
    through a dirty window.


    Watching Him

    He stands at the window, looking out at the world,
    quietly observing what most of us miss—
    a flutter of leaves from flitting warblers,
    an egret sailing through the morning mist.
    Loving the earth,
    loving the sea,
    he embraces each scrubby bush,
    each reed,
    each coastal tree.
    Lowliest creatures elicit a grin
    while he watches from the window.

    It is cold now.
    Inattentive eyes see all as dormant;
    yet, peering deeply, he uncovers a spark,
    a bud, a wiggle, a hinting breath of activity
    casually overlooked by those of us with
    less patience and less acuity.

    Is this his prayer,
    this silent seeing of quiet things?
    The hidden, the obscure, enriching his
    contemplation of humanity's place
    tucked inside the woven web of Creation?

    It is his pared-down way of watching and
    listening to life's rhythms that makes his
    gazing and reflecting seem limitless.

    And the window summons his prayer.


    Holy Rhythm

    Stand in the morning light,
    open to its warmth,
    open to its focused rays
    beaming into hearts
    every morning.

    Stand in the darkness of night,
    open to the vastness of sky,
    open to the shining stars dotting
    heavenly dark, bringing rest
    every night.

    Holy rhythms.
    Light-Dark-Light.
    Wake-Sleep-Wake.
    Life-Death-Life.


    Separation

    Brown and brittle oak branch
    Hangs by a single woody fiber,
    Broken off from its life source.
    No nourishment of food.
    No life-giving water.
    Disconnected.
    Dying.

    How like myself.
    Separated from your
    Life-giving food of love,
    Do I not also turn dry and brittle?
    Disconnected from my life source,
    Am I not just like the oak branch?

    For only a little while
    Can I hang by my thread
    Without your love,
    Without your completeness.
    For without being rooted and
    Grounded in the Whole,
    In the life-breath of your Being,
    I, too, die.


    Dead Tree Haunting

    What is it about the dead tree
    standing sleek and bare
    in the center of the field
    that captures me?

    Lone crooked branch
    still reaches outward,
    beckoning my soul
    to the mystery of solitude.

    A mingling of sorrow and beauty
    painting images in my mind
    of memories long forgotten
    brought to life by
    the dead tree.


    Broom Trees

    Little girl peering from her window
    Imagined the pine tree tops
    Were brooms turned upside down
    With thousands of soft bristles
    Sweeping clean the sky.

    Today, gazing upward to scan the
    Line of trees swaying about me,
    I am convinced that this is
    Still true.


    Serenity

    Quietness awakened me
    this morning as gentle mist
    hovered across the water and
    dawn's first light
    eased through the vapor,
    catching the droplets in a
    glowing web of softness.
    Silent.
    Pure.
    And today I live immersed in
    complete serenity.

Winds


Holding fast to their anchor
Tethered leaves tremble
As the winds blow and swirl.
God's breath?

Grounded beside the tree,
I, too, tremble with rushing
Winds of the Spirit.
God's breath.


    The Leaf

    Single maple leaf
    Sits on a layer of air.
    Hanging in the wind.
    Aloft and still.
    Solitary.
    Waiting for the
    Fall.


    Coastal Mystery

    Leaves rain down
    in crazy clouds
    as March wind gusts
    shake the live oak branches
    left nearly bare as they
    wait, only briefly, for
    new green to emerge.

    I watch the small gold leaves
    sail down, thinking,
    it is all backward
    how God mysteriously
    programs the salty-air oaks
    to think that fall
    comes in the spring!


    Rain and Coffee

    From my window, I watch the world.

    The rain has come again.
    Beating bullets against the house.
    Slugging stones on the roof.
    Another day of storm and gray.

    The rhythm of God's Creation—
      Day and night
      Wind and calm
      Heat and cold
      Sun and rain.

    All weathers pass this window.

    And the coffee brews with subtle dripping,
    A soothing backdrop to the wild rain.
    Its bold aroma surrounds me with warmth,
    And I am wrapped in the very fragrance of comfort.

    Coffee in hand, I stand and stare and sip.
    A brisk rush of contentment floods me
    As I sense my oneness with storm and all Creation.
    Such is the gift of hot coffee,
    And I revel in the intimacy.


    Winter Rain

    Cold raindrops form a linear stream
      running down each leaf
    splatting hard against the
      wooden porch floor
    while colorless gray enshrouds
      every piece of twig and tree
    as the landscape is saturated
      with a dismal attitude of despair.

    Brrr. It chills my bones.


    Snow-Tree

    Naked branch and limb
    reach to the sky,
    catching tiny flakes
    as they fall.
    Stark and gray,
    each bare twig
    is transformed
    into twists and lines
    coated with
    sugar-dust white.


    God and the Weatherman

    Does God laugh when the weatherman is wrong?
    Surely there is a heavenly grin—an indication of
    gentle amusement at our folly.
    How boldly human for us to analyze, to assess,
    to predict our days with assured certainty.
    And how fallible we are.
    Instruments and mechanisms
    of all styles and intentions
    pour forth buckets of information
    and we believe,
    only to be called back, over and over again,
    to the reality of our creating God.
    This God of all who shakes the skies and
    opens the clouds to send us rain
    when the weatherman and
    his myriad of radar devices
    clearly show sun.
    Wait ...
    Is that an omnipotent chuckle I hear?


    Litany of Trust

    When the sun blazes upon my shoulders,
    You, O God, are my shade.

    In the howling winds of terror and destruction,
    You, O God, are my anchor.

    As flooding torrents of rain pour over land and sea,
    You, O God, are my higher ground.

    When ice covers the earth in brutal chill,
    You, O God, are my warm flame.

    If the land shakes and moves from its foundations,
    You, O God, are my solid rock.

    When fire ravages homes and forests,
    You, O God, are my quenching rain.

    All is in you, my God.
    In all my fears,
    In all weathers,
    In all seasons,
    I place my trust in you.

    May I ever remember
    that I hide in the shadow
    of your wings, O God.

    You encircle me
    with your arms
    and I am not afraid.

    Secure in your love
    my soul is at rest.

    Amen.


    Morning Music

    Listen to the cacophony of dawn!

    I had quite forgotten how raucous,
    how exciting,
    how expectant
    are the sounds of early morn.

    All of God's creatures
    sing in a harmonious frenzy,
    preparing for their day.

    Melody and harmony,
    Solo and discord.
    Each note a part of a
    Masterful composition.

    Surely, this is the joy of the Lord!

    Shhhh.

    Just listen.


    Dragon Fly

    I see you,
    delicate creature
    with gossamer wings
    spread full,
    as you rest there
    on my window screen.

    Eye-to-eye
    we encounter
    one another
    while I imagine
    how it must be
    to peer into my
    human face
    just as I stare back
    into your great
    green eyes.


    The Bluebird Show

    The bluebird show takes place
    outside my window.
    Captured by the zipping and skittering,
    I sit and watch, transfixed,
    as lapis wings flit and
    dance across the narrow
    strip of yard.

    How many?
    I get lost in the counting.
    Six? Seven? Twelve?

    Tangerine breasts
    catch the sunlight,
    and with a succession of twirls,
    shining cobalt jackets
    dart gaily to the
    rhythm of the wind.

    In a bursting flurry of
    dashing spins and merriment,
    the dance ends
    as abruptly as it began.
    The performance is over.

    In awed silence,
    I am left gazing onto
    the empty stage.

    I stand and applaud.


    Fragrant Memories

    Lifting their white heads to catch
      the midday sun,
    Gardenias bloom outside
      my window,
    Releasing their delicate sweetness
      in every jostling breeze.
    I inhale the heady fragrance and close
      my eyes with
    Lovely memories of lost days of
      soft summer air
      and home.


    Waves

    salty waves thunder
    upon the sand
    as full-moon tide
    roars closer,
    bringing with it
    precious life and
    splintered shells
    in holy rhythms of
    living and dying,
    wrapping each gift
    in intricate beauty.


    Silver Crescendo

    Dark shadow glides just beneath
      the water's surface,
    Pacing itself in steady motion.

    Another creature,
      lurking deep,
    Makes his feisty move,
      seeking his dinner.

    Unheralded, the startled mass
      explodes
    To become a jumping eruption of
      popping silver.

    Fish! Leaping!
    Flying out of the water
      in frenzied escape.

    With a brilliant flash
    Life becomes a chase—
    Wild and glorious!

    And the fragile line marking
      life and death
    Startles me with Reality.


    Our Waiting God

    O God, you stand at the
    window of my heart,
    and you wait.

    As close as my very breath,
    You wait.

    When my heart is ...
      closed
      walled
      locked
    you will not enter.

    Blocked and rejected,
    uninvited or unwelcome,
    You will not come in.

    Oh, but you wait!
    Ceaselessly,
    you long for me.

    How near you are,
    even when my heart
    is tightly shut
    within me.

    And as you wait,
    you know that
    I will call to you again.

    One day.


    Finding God

    Hushhh ... Hushhh.
    Listen to the quiet.
    Soundless space.
    No drone of motor.
    No din of machinery.
    No blast of music.
    No singing creature.
    No spoken word.
    Stillness covers all, save the
    Single quaking leaf stirring gently
    And the solitary monarch that
    Glides in silence.
    Shhh.
    Do you hear it?
    Listen again.
    This is where God is today.


    Nighttime Peace

    Glimmer of shine pierces
    The black-night leaves.
    All is still.
    No movement.
    No breath of breeze.
    Only slim-line moon
    And a solitary star, a pin-dot of light,
    Peek behind the leafy boughs.

    How I love the night sky
    With its palest pinks and
    Lavenders lingering still
    In the western heavens.

    Cricket chorus shouts its music
    As I watch the falling darkness
    And stretch to glimpse
    The sliver of moon
    With its companion star
    Along their nighttime journey.

    The sky is so vast—and I?
    Barely a speck,
    Sitting in the stillness,
    In wonder,
    Here on the planet we call Earth.
    Simply looking.

    The world feels right this night.
    I reach out and kiss the moon!

~ Fragments ~

And the daughter lamented, "My life is a mess. I am constantly being interrupted in all things I intend to accomplish. I seem unable to follow through with any plans. I lose my direction. Nothing is completed!"

And the Father said, "My child, I am in the interruptions. Look for me there."

    Disorder


    swallowing my day,
    paper mountains greet me from
    every vacant space

    such a noble goal—
    to pare down the exploding
    debris that looms here

    window beckons me
    to stand and gaze as I run
    from my dreaded tasks

    surely I may die
    no further along than now,
    praying for mercy


    On Retirement

    a delicate line
    separates contentment
    from boredom.
    the space I sought
    between frenzy
    and quiet is a
    downward plunge.
    in the gap hangs
    only a void.
    when energies generated
    by deadlines and decisions,
    issues and commitments
    are no more,
    all is blank.
    where is my direction?
    my drive? ...
    dispersed and fizzled.
    and where are the friends?
    the colleagues? ...
    scattered and gone.
    and the downshift
    brings to me
    a restlessness
    that disallows peace.
    and in the uneasy space,
    I work to readjust.
    Again.


    On Needing Wisdom

    Lord, here I am again,
    Struggling to see more clearly.
    Ah, Lord, I have
    Too many ideas,
    Too many passions,
    Too many plans.
    And fatigue engulfs me!

    Perhaps if I spent more time
    In the follow-through,
    In the doing
    Rather than the brooding
    And the stewing,
    Exhaustion would not
    Oppress me.

    Grant me wisdom in my choosing
    So as not to wear myself out
    With selfish efforts to experience
    And participate in and
    Fix ...
    Everything.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from HOLY SCRIBBLINGby Katherine Roberts Moore Copyright © 2012 by Katherine Roberts Moore. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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