Stations of the Cross
We sat on the church pew that Saturday
Night, praying the stations of the cross.
Fourteen places of pain, pain
Prayed and prayed and prayed.
Our voices antiphonal as we listened
Then spoke, then listened, then
Spoke, praying in sound and silence,
While He prayed in and for us, the pain
Prayed and praying.
On Sunday night the pain was in your eyes,
Your face a station of the cross. And I
Helpless before the pain, dumbly facing
The pain I caused. Black diagonals slanted
Off your cheekbones, furrowing tears.
The love I thought so pure caused
This pain. And you
Became—Christ to me.
The empty woods are a tomb
For burial: bare
Oaks and fog-misted
Hemlocks. kinglets here and there
Embroider the silence
With scarlet-silk sounds.
We enter our Monday
Sabbath. The silence strips us
Piece by piece of guilt
And pride and shame. By noon
We’re empty and bare
As the woods, washed
For burial. How long ’til
Dogwoods clothe our nakedness,
Warblers sing our resurrection?
Excerpt From: Eugene H. Peterson. “Holy Luck.” RosettaBooks, 2012. iBooks.
"When you work in form, be it a sonnet or villanelle or whatever, the form is there and you have to fill it."
"Life, with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a sonnet: You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself."
"Above all do not lose your desire to walk. Everyday I walk myself into a state of well being and walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. Thus if one keeps on walking everything will be all right."
"Long ago,” he said, “long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more."
"Quantum theory provides us with a striking illustration of the fact that we can fully understand a connection though we can only speak of it in images and parables."