Author Archive: Davyne Verstandig

Objections of a white privileged woman

These days I hear the wild fury of fear
a maelstrom of swirling doubts
hurling into a circus of confusion and lies

be powerful
object

object to politics of “us and them”

object to what or who feeds fear
fear feeds impotence
shrinks a person

object to racism breeding despair,

object to despair feeding violence

object to gender discrimination
sexism
Islamophobia
xenophobia
religious intolerance

object to the loss of freedom of choice
object to the loss of our freedom to worship who or what we choose

time to object, to risk, resist, be powerful, give voice

Hope without action is silent
Hope with action may change everything

A letter written

There are many letters that never get written and letters that don’t get sent. This morning in the four o’clock time which is holy and expansive, I write to you.

When I read you are with me. When I see bare branches, feed the birds, watch ripples on the lake, smell wood smoke, tilt my face towards the sun, watch light move through the woods empty of leaves, hear the pop of a fire, close my eyes, breathe- you are with me.

You are in the turn of the pages, in the ink, in the dream, the closed musings in silent morning darkness, you are in the unspoken words, you hear what I cannot say, you understand when there are no words, you are with me on the other side moving back and forth between one kind of time and another – as I move into quiet which is not silent, you are with me as light beckons me into day and darkness into evening.

I am blessed knowing you all these years, having you with me, along side me, inside and above me – having you wherever I am across time and the boundaries of place – here with me.

new year’s rumination 2016

solitude beckons when the world renders me wearysnow falling on ocean

 

solitude is not loneliness but a reprieve from what clings to me

I rise   a fugitive from a peopled life

 

snow falling

 

I do not want to die alone

sometimes only silence can tell a story

 

s n o w i n g

 

ink and paper, stick and sand, a finger writing in dust

writing * deliverance from isolation

this is what I know of love