God in the Light
The sun falls just so on the iron teapot
and the four fragile teacups.
For the moment they are all you see
in a room Victorian stuffed with treasures
In that moment the world ceases to exist,
a single focus of beauty,
your own private sanctuary,
God in the light, one that needs no church,
a place for you to go
in the midst of your own darknesses,
a gentle reminder that life is not darkness at all,
but something beautiful and precious,
even if unlike a historic time before
it is no longer a thing that simply happens
but a thing you must claim.
And you do. You let your eyes linger,
trace the lines of the saucers,
imagine, even before you touch them,
their delicate texture, glass smooth
so unlike where you have traveled.
You identify more with the teapot,
rough. made from abuse of the base metal,
melted, cast and made into something
if not beautiful, at least useful.
This is the world. The real world.
Beauty and baseness. Fragile and strong.
white and black. Never as simple
as you would wish for. Always, always,
waiting for the light.
About this poem.
Spawned by a conversation last night with an almost stranger. We often lie to ourselves, not because we mean to, but because the thought of the long journey back from brokenness is daunting, sometimes too daunting to even begin.
If you have ever visited a true Victorian home you know. They are so chock-a-block with things that it is as if they were in a competition to see who could stuff the most in a space, which is not far from true. The idea was that where ever they eye lands, it would find something delightful to see. Sometimes it is hard to know what you are supposed to look at!