All posts by Mary Herbert

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About Mary Herbert

I am a gentle listener, a woman of few words. My journey through life has been a spiritual one, as well as a physical one. My daughter, Katie, and I thought it would be interesting to combine some of our giftings/talents in a blog and see what happens. Let us know what you think!

Mantra

Poetry, Spiritual Direction, Uncategorized

I come into this room
I close the door.
Two beautiful practices,
Too difficult at times.
A way of presence,
To say that I am here, is
To come into this room.

I come into this room,
I close the door.
A way of holding back
The day already full. 
A way of intention,
A way of focus is
To gently close this door.

I come into this room
I close the door.
I open myself and
I take a breath.
For breath is sacred.
The interchange is noticed,
Between the body and the air,
Between the body and the soul.
As I open and release.

I come,
I close,
I breathe.
To sit,
To read,
To listen,
To notice,
To be,
To be with.
It is that simple,
It is that hard.
But, I have come into this room.
I have closed the door.
I am open.
I am here.

Periphery  

Poetry, Uncategorized,

I saw a flock of snow buntings,
Once.  Once, just barely.
How I saw it I don’t know.
White on snow.
It was a slight movement 
That caught my eye.
Then we were gone.
Well on our way.

Look straight ahead
As though you know what to expect,
And where you are going.
Stay your course
…if you must.
But be alert
For what’s to the side
For there the path may lie.

Sit by the light
Reading the book
Studying the words
…but watching the margins
For something not written 
…For some thought that
   …Flits across the page.
Think about it straight on
Make your list of right’s and wrong’s
But don’t forget or pass over
What is niggling on the edge.

Notice the wiggling bush
At the edge of the field
Or the way the grasses sway
Or the hush that descends….
Wait for what is to come.
Wait for the moment,
   for the movement,
     out in the periphery
          That you know you barely see…

And what of the margins
Out on the edge
   …of society?
The people,
Who roost upon the street
Or dine in the dumpster
And move so slowly, 
Like ghosts, 
They live without margin.
So look at your phone, 
And rush on  if you must…
But wonder, oh god, wonder what you miss
If unaware of the side,
As though you were blind.

And what of the times 
We shimmer inside.
Are strangely warmed
By a breeze so soft.
A breeze that holds an invitation
…To something new,
…To something generous
… And generative?
To a special grace?
An Epiphany road
Where we don’t walk alone?

And I hope, someday,
My margins widen,
Ever so slightly,
   Helping me to notice…
      And not ignore.
For I have stood on the rim, 
…and was invited in
          to see the subtleties
    Of Periphery.

_______________________________________

 

Stones

Poetry, Uncategorized

Stones that altars made.
Stones with names engraved.
Memorial stones 
That are a sign.
And those that form a line,
Boundary stones.
Building stones,
Precious stones.

And chiseled from the mountaintop,
Stone for tablet law.
And among the sheep,
Five round, smooth stone,
That are swung, then flung.

Stones that are not bread 
Stones for throwing 
Stones for stoning, 
Stones that could cry out. 

The singing stones
That felt the weight
Of colt and Jesus feet. 

Stones for rolling, 
And a cornerstone, 
That will make us stumble.

All for living stones,
Lively, living, precious, 
Temple Stones that do cry out 
And sing.

Waiting

Advent Devotional, Some Other Thoughts

It can be difficult.  Waiting for a minute, for the other shoe to drop, for a phone call, for the light to change, for morning to come, for a day.  For the train to pass, test results, lab results, waiting for a week.  For your ship to come in, for weather to change, for snow to melt, for fields to dry, for healing to come, for strength to return, waiting for a month.  For it to rain, for construction to finish, for the mail to come, for fields to ripen, for a healing regime to finish, waiting for nine months.  For nine months, through morning sickness, through body changes, and through emotional changes.  Through nine months of hope, from not seeing but seeing changes, to seeing.

Waiting can be difficult, can feel like darkness, but it is not empty.  It can feel lonely, and maybe that is the most difficult part of waiting….the sense of being alone.  Believing that there is no-one who has felt like this before, that there is no-one who understands the situation, that the decisions that must be made are yours alone to make.    

As we near the middle of Advent, the second week, I think of Mary and wonder what her waiting felt like, was filled with.  Certainly she had an angel’s words to carry her through what could have been anxious moments.  But, it was a person who helped her to wait.  She turned toward her relative, Elizabeth.  A person who was also receiving a gift of new life.  Someone who was willing to receive the help of another as well as give shelter to another.  It makes me wonder if Mary and Elizabeth might have had other things in common, such as feeling rejected.  One for being pregnant without a husband, and one enduring a lifetime of being barren.  Wasn’t it wonderful for both of them to be on the inside of the conversation, instead of outside?  The commonality of companionship where preparation can be shared and enjoyed because you are with another, receiving the help that we need when we believe without seeing.

It is hard not to form expectations while we wait, but there are gifts in waiting even though they might be hard to find.  I think that waiting can deepen our development into more mature beings.  Waiting allows us to figure out why we are reacting the way we are, to continue with those reactions, or to make adjustments.  It may also give us a gift of focus.  Allowing us to see what is truly important to us and maybe helping us to even uncover our deepest desires so we can change course.  

So what do we do while we wait?  Might we not create a new Advent practice to more fully understand Mary’s experience of waiting?  Could there possibly be an invitation to be intentional?  Sitting at a long red light, being alert to those who wait with us?  To wonder about their lives and what they are leaving or going to?  To make a type of practice that we do with our children when we sit at the red light?  Can we discover ways to be mindful, to breathe deeply, to exhale fully as we wait?  Maybe we notice and turn toward those who we are with, or who are with us and appreciate them more fully.  Could we find ways to be more alert for possible encounters with a loving mystery?  Is there a way to welcome the waiting?

“I wait for the Lord,
My soul waits,
And in his word I hope;
My soul waits for the Lord
More than those who watch for the morning
More than those who watch for the morning.
Psalm 130:5-6

How Can Hope be Sewn so Late

Poetry, Uncategorized

This poem could be about mending clothes or it could be about our divided country, or our broken environment…so like fabric that has been torn.  I have a lot of concerns about the upcoming election and our environment.  I don’t feel as though I have the wisdom to “do” anything or much, and I wonder if we can afford to “go to bed”, or to let only the politicians find a solution?  What would happen if we each looked into our own “basket” and did a little mending?

______________________

Who will sit in stillness
When all the lights are dimmed?
Though tired, who will pick the needle up
And lay the fabric right
To patch or darn or mend?
   Who will say, “Do it now”?

My grandmother sat late at night
Silence all around.
Pulling threads with calloused fingers,
Adding her strength to fabric,
So clothes could still be worn.
   Who will say, “I will help”?

Who will stitch the patches now,
Where fabric’s weak and torn by rough duress?
Or seams that parted by weakened thread?
Who will stitch because of love
for person or the craft?
   Who will see the “us” in “them”?
   Who will say, “I forgive”?

If only the stitch was made
When fabric first was torn.
But now the basket’s full
And first tear forgotten how.
   Who will say, “Reconcile”?

We must pick up the thread and needle,
Not for stitching quilt or embroidery
Whose stitch is made for beauty.
With thread so thick with color
But made of thinnest wool.
   Who will say, “Bring the light”?

How can this repair be done
On fabric that has hardened?
We each must bring a light and
Sit in stillness,
With thick thread,
whose color has no arrogance or ego.
Or how can hope be sewn so late?

Who will say, “Do it now”?
   Who will say, “I will help”?
      Who will see the “us” in “them”?

Who will say, “I forgive”?
   Who will say, “Reconcile”?
      Who will say, “Bring the light”?