What To Do?

Should we not accept the refugee?

Give him shelter,

Give her sustenance to suckle the child,

Grieve with them

That the journey back

To their beloved land

May be long and arduous?

For are we not, after all, like them?

Do not some of us know their pain, if we will admit it?

I know in my heart

I am a refugee in this land

Even among the people of my birth.

I long for a place far from this plane

(Or is it right beside me, 

Unseen by human eyes?)

A place where light is brilliant and good

Without a sun,

Where tears and evil cannot exist.

The place from where I came,

Although seen only through mind’s eye

Or star-studded dreams.

I am driven with every step to return there.

Yes, we are the same, they and I,

All refugees, ever stepping over broken, bleeding

Pieces of life’s beauty,

Desperately trying to navigate this world’s chaos,

Longing for what cannot be ours right now.

I will reach out with love, comfort, help,

And I only hope they will do the same for me –

All of us on a journey home.

The Seeker

I went out searching for myself,

No map, no scope, no plan.

You'll know it when you see it, 

So I heard

From learned women and men.

In the church and in my books,

In my pastimes gay fulfilling,

The search was fruitless and in vain.

Nowhere could I find

The thing called "me."

And then I came upon it

A clap of thunder in my brain.

I am nothing and I'm everything

Depending on the second ticking by.

For I am a channel of His Spirit

No life I have but His.

O, ye little children,

'Tis a mystery so profound

That this poor feeble mind

Can't tell it to ye sound.

The Sacred Holes

The mist closes in;

It is suffocating.

I can’t hear God –

Like static on a faltering radio,

His voice comes and goes.

I can’t make out the words.

Where did I go wrong?

Why is He distant?

My sin is ever before me.

Unforgiveness for myself clothes me.

Perhaps He suffocates, too,

In that atmosphere.

Yet, even in the darkness

I hear Him bid me walk with Him,

Promising to teach me many things.

I think—why?

I am not a wonderful person.

And I know instantly

That those words have no meaning to Him,

And should not for me.

So I take His hand, my Lover’s hand,

And walk through the darkness,

Through the darkening fog

That stifles.

Through the wreckage of my life 

At my feet.

Over and over

I pick up those broken pieces,

Desperately trying to puzzle out

How they go together

Into the coherent whole

That has never been

Except in the mind of God.

The best I can do is a ragged fit.

Rarely do the jagged shards

Seamlessly join.

Yet, I continue, doggedly.

And I am tired, so tired, 

And discouraged.

The thought breaks upon me

In the sadness of the wee hours:

What if I quit?

What if I just leave

The gaping, ugly holes

In me?

What if I just leave

The broken fragments of myself 

On the ground?

The sight would be horrific,

Would it not?

Then He speaks.

“Leave the sacred holes—

The better for healing to flow from you

To others.

When time is full, 

I will heal them.”

And I feel the gentle stirring 

Of His power, of hope.

And the faintest ray of light

Breaks from within me,

Through the holes,

Slicing through the fog

To show me the Way.

The Golden Orb

I dreamed,

Dreamed I was

In a lush meadow

Almost buried

In tall wheat-like grass.

I could see majestic

Snow-capped mountains

In the distance

And a beautiful wood close by.

Butterflies, intricately dressed

In fantastic designs

Fluttered around me,

And small creatures,

Perhaps lady-bugs,

Walked over me,

Begging me to get up.

But I did not.

I did not care

About the loveliness around me

Or the hope of adventure

To the far mountains.

I was tired,

Tired and lonely.

Had been for a very long time,

My entire life.

Such a long trek to get here

And no one to share it

With me.

Beauty is not near as beauteous

Without another heart

With whom to share it.

Suddenly, in the mist

I spied a small, golden orb

Approaching in the sky above.

Amazed, I watched

As it drew near

Growing larger as it did so.

A soft, gentle light pulsated around it,

And I was comforted --

I don’t know why.

It remained suspended

Above me

For long moments,

And I sensed it said to me,

“I love you dearly.”

Yet, I knew such things

Do not speak.

This had to be a dream.

I was gaining strength

All the while

And knew

I would be able to get up soon

To move on

And again try to enjoy

The gorgeous world around me

Alone.

I still wished desperately

For another like me

To go with me.

But the landscape

Was bare of humans

And had been 

For the many years of my travel.

Now I stood

And looked closer

Through the golden light

Into the orb.

Shocked I was

To see a man

Gazing at me

From within,

A man with the kindest eyes

I had ever known.

They seemed 

To dance with mirth

While inviting me

To come close.

Much like a frightened animal,

I cautiously stepped forward,

On the mark to run

If danger rose.

He spoke,

And the soothing vibration

Melted my heart.

“You are my beloved.

Come with me,

And we will live in this bubble 

Of love and grace

With the Father

And the Son

And the Holy Spirit

Forever.”

Eyes streaming,

Heart overflowing,

I responded with a wordless “yes,”

And dissolved into the orb,

Into him,

Forever blessed.

Suddenly, the meadow was empty,

All was drenched in that glistening, 

Sparkling, golden hue.

And the lady-bugs,

Tinged with that lovely light,

Danced in delight with us.

The Embrace

God leaks out of everything, you know.

Sometimes it is from the small, 

Almost mundane 

Minutia of life.

The vibrant energy,

The vibrating joy

Is everywhere

If we pay attention.

Yet, sometimes that Presence

Does not leak.

It explodes, dazzles,

It knocks one down

With beauty

With fullness

With love.

It is a gripping embrace

From which one cannot escape.

Nor does one want to,

For it is gentle

And beautiful

And kind.

Tears flow,

Many tears

For it is here

One knows

That all life dwells

All love dwells.

The joyous fullness

Demands a response.

One cannot remain neutral

In this embrace.

Whatever it takes

That’s what one will give

To stay here.

For there is a price

A dear price.

One must come naked 

Into this embrace

With the Light

The Holy One.

The baggage of a life

Must be left

On the roadside.

Only then can one remain

In the ecstasy of love

In the Light.

Tank’s Death

Sitting outside in the cool morning

Looking at the roof

That our Mexican friends

So excellently put on.

Thinking about my sorrowful trip

Beginning in a few minutes.

Thinking about beloved Tank

Thinking about beloved Turner,

And how sad it all is.

I gaze at the poplar

Whose leaves are beginning to turn

A brilliant yellow.

My eyes travel to the red maple,

Just beginning to glow red.

How beautiful they are

In the throes of death.

I realize anew that

That there is a season for dying

Just as there is for living.

Then the mockingbird,

Perched on the new roof,

Begins singing to me

A raucous song, seeming to say, 

“I salute the morning!

I salute life!

I salute death!

I salute God,

Who governs all.”

And then God speaks:

“Tank will cease to exist

As a dog,

But his spirit remains.

Tank is coming back to me.

Do not cry—

There is no pain.

He will chase squirrels 

On my Holy Mountain.

When he catches them,

They will all have tea

And fruit from trees

That never die.

Tank never dies either.

My form will change

And another beloved 

Will come into your life,

Perhaps animal

Perhaps human,

Another who will teach you 

More things, just as Tank taught you,

About love, about life, 

About yourself, about others.

I am in all, I AM all

The mockingbird knows these things,

The trees know these things,

The rocks know these things.

Now you must know them

And not despair.

Tank’s spirit

Will still be with you.

“I love you, Turner,”

Says Yahweh God.

Silence Bonds Us All

Silence bonds us all here.

It is the great equalizer,

Bringing us to our knees

Before God.

Clink of silverware,

Scrape of knives,

Food masticated,

The sounds

Of  the created

Being fed.

A humbling thing it is.

No zippy comments,

No quaint remarks,

No quick rejoinders

To keep the false fronts up.

Just they and I

In our nakedness.

Compassion flows in me

For myself

And my companions

In this place today.

We are beautiful

Stripped down,

Without the need

To impress or compete.

Clothed only in thankfulness

For gift of food and life

This day.

Protector of the Treasure

I cradle this gentle essence, 

This innocence, 

This beauteous creature of God

Who holds such limitless possibilities.

This fragile being carrying divinity within,

From which the fire of heaven glows.

This one so tender, 

So open, 

So willing to trust.

Yes, I cradle her with supreme love and delight.

Think you that I speak of a newborn babe, 

Come fresh into this sphere?

Nay, I do not.

This old soul speaks of herself

Newly finding the treasure within

A frame over six decades on this sod.

Where I Am From

This poem is the result of an exercise done at an enneagram seminar January 8-11, 2015, with a template devised by writer and teacher George Ella Lyon.

I didn’t want to share the poem then, and at first I didn’t want to add it to this website because I thought it was too negative.  But my inner observer caught me being an 8 (The Boss) and again trying to do God’s job for Him.   I always tell myself not to be arrogant, not to think that I always know what God wants.  I finally realized that I was not listening to that good advice.  God then said to me, “I am very big and can take care of myself and everyone who reads it.  Share the poem as it is.”  I said ok.  But eightness goes deep, and we don’t give up without a fight.  I said to Him, “You know, this exercise has been so beneficial.  These mostly negative words do not tell the whole story of where I am from; in fact, it has been so good to bring up other more positive memories from my blocked childhood.  How about I rewrite it and use those?  That sounds like a reasonable idea, doesn’t it?”  Absolute silence.  “Well, doesn’t it?”  Now only two words.  “Trust Me.”

So, begrudgingly, I offer you the original.  

Where I Am From

I am from a thousand chicken coops,

From John Deere tractors and Chevy trucks.

I am from Mississippi Delta cotton fields,

A pure white blanket, endlessly gorgeous

And soft as down to my skin

On the ride to the gin.

I am from mimosa and evergreen trees,

Tangled honeysuckle on the riverbank, sweet to my lips,

And the mourning dove in the dense thicket

Whose plaintive coo can even now, half a century later,

Instantly summon a nameless, unquenchable sadness

And put me back on that riverbank.

I am from loud, mean voices

And haughty, critical eyes and thieves of a child’s identity.

From Jack and Mary Ruth

And a slew of other upstanding Barneses and Gaithers 

All the way back to Scotland and England, even France.

I am from the “We’re from excellent stock”

And “Let’s look good at all costs.”

From “Because I said so”

And “Shut up you frasling idiots!”

I am from Presbyterian fire and brimstone, predestinated pulpits,

From a scrapbook full of certificates 

For memorizing what seems half the Bible

And a gold cross for reciting all of my catechism at age 7.

I’m from Clarksdale and New Africa Road and the Sunflower River bank,

From fried chicken in the Sunbeam cooker

And mustard greens out of the garden.

From the rusted farm implements we dug up at the barn 

And called buried treasure.

From the playhouse Daddy built for us

And the bruises from his cruel, capricious belt that found all of us way too much, 

Until he took his life when I was 16.  

I was relieved.

From the cakes and pies Mother taught me to make,

Eaten with the proud Strasbourg silver on Wedgewood china. 

From the houses where my sister and I became maids so very young

After Mother came home from the partial lobotomy changed forever.

I am from a filing cabinet full of yellowed photos

And moldy slides,

Tattered remains of a billion scattered moments

Imprinted on my ragged spirit over my journey here.

For long years, it’s been my sad shrine, my fractured identity, 

My address of rage

On this foreign, faraway sod,

This often unsafe place.

But, of late, I have packed up and moved,

Have left this cramped and suffocating place,

That causes me 

To strike out at you in hostility.

To protect myself from you and your probable threat

That causes me to try to control you

To compete with you to be the best, thus validating my existence.

To have the last word 

To fight for justice

Both of which I never got when young and tender.

Yes, I’ve left it all

And moved closer to Home.

Closer to Source.

Back to where I’m really from.

Back to where I really belong.

Back to who I really am.

It is so very good.

Rebecca Barnes Hobbs

Enneagram 8

Vast Love

The vast Love swells all around me

Washing in huge waves over the deck rails

Flooding the inner cabin of my soul

Threatening to overturn my fragile vessel

On the high seas of life.

How much more can I stand

Of this beautiful sweetness,

This connection with Source,

This unending longing for union

That makes me want to laugh and cry

At the same time?

This Love knows me

And loves knowing me

And makes me love

Everyone

Everything

And even myself.

Words are such traitors;

All of them pale beside 

This force, 

This palpable reality,

This Being.

I surrender to it

Trusting I will not die

In its aweful beauty.

The Wooing

I have been a fortress,

Strong and nearly impenetrable.

Very few interlopers

Have scaled my walls

To gain access to the courtyard.

Even then, the doors

To my inner sanctum

Have stayed securely fastened.

The lock is broken

By no one.

Even God.

I am safe within my walls,

That little one 

Who was so wounded.

The little furry creatures

And my beautiful plants

Keep me company.  

They cannot speak

And that is good.

Human words often

Frighten, anger me.

I don’t miss my kind.

Many projects

Keep my mind and hands

Busy in the silence.

They give me satisfaction

While humans only angst.

Yet, I must say lately

A puzzling presence

With no body

Seems to have invaded

My inner sanctum.

I did not lift the latch,

And I cannot keep it out.

Nor would I want to.

It comes and goes as it wants,

And, against my will, I am

Drawn into its comforting,

Kind and peaceful folds.

It assures me that

All will be well

All will be well

Without uttering a sound.

And, lo, I believe it.

I catch myself

Waiting, waiting

For its return

And ruing its departure.

I first was sure

Some angelic being

Had lost its way

Traversing the skies

Back to heaven.

Now I think, against all reason,

My Creator has come to call,

Beckoning me sweetly

To set aside 

My lonely projects

My fearful hermitry

My refusal to connect, to feel

And work with Him

On my soul.

Not a pleasant thought,

For I fear there is much pain to face.

But I cannot refuse

This gentle, kind Spirit. 

He woos me

And I say yes.

The Beauty of Art

A new day

Is upon me

I feel excitement near

So many ways 

God has

To live through me.

The muse will come

And speak to me

Become my voice, 

My message,

Pouring forth

With passion and beauty.

The music in my heart

Will find a way out

On notes

So pure and clear.

And hands will dance

Across the keys

In merry abandon,

Dragging my racing heart

Through every rhythm.

And paradise it would be

For me.

Art in so many forms

Will find its way

Through me

The God in me

Will splash 

His shimmering bands of light

On canvas, paper, stone

Who cares?

I will speak 

Of the knowings

He places in my soul.  

And I will not be afraid

Anymore.

The Healing

Shattered shards of beauty

Weep silently at the rending

Then gush great fountains of tears

For the wounds made by

Hammers of youth, of family, of circumstance

Which broke the luminous mold.

But, lo, He is bringing the jagged pieces,

Still pulsing with divine light,

Together.

They tremble, first touching,

Then pull away in fear.

What will it be like to be whole?

To show forth the Light

As was meant from ages long past?

Perhaps the energy will be too great--

Perhaps, coalescing, it will explode.

The thing of beauty is too wonderful to behold.

How much easier to gaze upon

The broken remnants!

But slowly, irresistibly, they come together

In Him.

I am finally who I was meant to be — the created.

And I am not afraid to look.

The Prophet

I am His prophet

Truth-teller

Never forgetting

Whose I am,

Eschewing all

That keeps me from

The joy

Of that knowing.

For all my days

I never knew

Such cauldrons burned below

In me.

Or that I had a mind so sharp

That I could make

Truth known.

I lived in fear

Peering out

From my self-made prison.

Doubting any talent

Any ken

And waiting to be damned.

Now, I know

I am a channel sure

For others of His blessing,

Changing every second

With His mind and bidding.

Born upon the flowing,

Effortless, at ease.

No need to row against a current

Or even steer.

Peace

Sadness

Alarm

Guilt

The day's first rays peek over the horizon

Soon the trees won't be able to hide the orb's scorching missiles.

Autumn in Mississippi.

Yet,  I can't enjoy the coolness, the stillness, the beauty, the waiting

For God to speak.

The other voices, the ones inside me, clamor too much for attention --

Reminding me of all I have not done and all I need to do, including write this poem.

For time, they tell me, is racing by at a shocking rate

And there is so much to accomplish.

Restless,

My heart beats faster, I am slightly panicked.

I have asked God in the past why He will not give me a steady supply of that peace that comes sometimes, 

The peace that none of those voices can reach.

That renders them mute and helpless, that obliterates them.

All is lost except the KNOWING that all is well, all is well, and all manner of things are well.

No longer do I beg God. I know that the peace-- God--  resides right next to the voices-- within me.

It is always ready for access, if I choose.

But I must be quiet and enter His world.

It is a mystery.

I will feel better having written this, having DONE something.

But it would be better had I done nothing.....and found that elusive peace.

Found God, in me.

God’s Measure

How fragile

Really

This diamond 

In the dust.

How easily broken

When tortured to fit

The tiny confines

Of expectations.

We struggle

Don’t we

Pitifully

To measure up

To succeed,

Using anyone’s 

Measuring stick

Except God’s.

He has erased

All the numbers 

On his.

Truly sad

To see

The shimmering

Bits of ourselves

In pieces

On the floor.

It need not be so.

Dawn

My favorite time of day

The first blushes of dawn

Peek over the horizon.

At times the fingers of

Yellow, azure, and rose

Intertwine so riotously

That the whole sky fairly shouts,

"God is great and greatly to be praised!"

Other times, like today,

Their voices blend quietly

Into one, whispering,

"Jesus loves you, you know."

In this quiet hour, just a space away

From my night of dreams,

Of escape

From the rigors of life,

My heart can breathe

Can still beat slowly.

The spectres of the day's demons

Have yet to materialize.

I can rest in the knowledge

That God has my back

That He delights in me

And I can even count some ways.

I wait and listen in the stillness

In the beauty

For His voice to come,

Ever painting lovely pictures

Of the endless opportunities

For life in Him

To unfold

Even in the often bleakness

Of this world.

And I pray yet again,

As the dawn's shy colors

Give way to the sun's

Bright march upward in the morning sky,

And the day's challenges approach,

"Lord, give me courage

For what comes today.

Help my heart not skitter

In fright at even simple things

That threaten to undo my peace of mind.

Cover me, protect me

From fearful perceptions

That cause me not to enjoy your

Creation and your people.

Cause me to see you in everything."

Now I go, centered

At least for now,

Watching, listening

In my heart

To see the lighted path

To hear the lighted path

Until I sit in this place tomorrow

Co-Creators

I co create with God in every second,

His power, His mind 

Somehow meshing with my own.

I wait for the knowing

For the certainty that, yes, this is what we want.

Claire

 I came to you

In Claire

I will come again

In another.

You were kind,

An excellent master

Of My manifestation.

You will be rewarded

For your steadfastness

In My creation.

Go now

And grieve

But do not waste time

In despair.

I am ever new,

Ever changing,

Ever creating

Joyfully!

I am Claire

And Claire is I.

Her essence

Will always be alive

And you will see her again.

She has taught

You much from Me,

And she has

More to teach.

Love is all.

You have loved 

Her here.

I love her

From all time.

A poem written for a dear friend whose precious elderly cat died.

Breaking Out

I’m breaking out --

Taking You at your word.

You asked, 

“Why do you sit

In this prison cell,

When I’ve unlocked the door

And cut your bonds?

In an instant I awoke

Spied the bars

Felt the shackles chafe

Against my wrists

And knew for the first time

The lies that had kept me prisoner.

The Light proved all

To be illusions, imposters,

Cruelly promising a full heart

But bringing only joyless sorrow--

When I had felt hopeless 

Because I could not have

What I wanted.

When I had felt useless

Because I could not accomplish

What I wanted.

When I had felt powerless

Because I could not control 

What I wanted.

Now the door

Indeed stands ajar,

And the chains lay lifeless

On the floor, no longer attached

To me.

All I have to do 

Is move.

But my feet are so heavy,

It is too hard!

Suddenly a hand 

Appears before my face

And I grab hold.

Joyful energy courses

Through my veins

Giving my feet 

Courage to move.

Here I come!

Into your Love, your Light!!!