Psalm 1

My Own

Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.

Blessed silence.
Blessed solitude.
That wraps around her like an old family heirloom quilt.
Something that matters.
Something that is real.
The separateness is real, too.
As real as the sun.

But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his law doth he meditate day and night.

Moon and stars
That want nothing to do with the day.
That express themselves only when shrouded.
Against a backdrop of nothing, they are.
And share nothing with the rest of the universe.
Separate from the busyness below.
Not part of the time for growing.
But for sitting still.
And watching.
And waiting.

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

Stillness that drinks deep from constant motion.
A perfect expression of what she truly is not.

A seeming.
She is made up of motion.
Yet she moves not.
She flourishes only because she allows what she truly is
To be seen.

The ungoldly are not so; but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.

Loose leaves.
Not like those that hold fast to their limb.
The breeze fools them into thinking they are in a dance.
While, instead, they are being swept away.
Like the woman with her broom
On her doorstep
Ridding herself of dust and cobwebs.

Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.

She cleans her house before her beloved arrives,
Pulling out the heavy furniture from the walls.
Scrubbing even the corners.
There is no need for there to be any mold or dust
Or bits of things broken off from their whole.
She will be seen for who she is,
Apart from the clutter that has nestled all around her
Over the years.

For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous; but the way of the ungodly shall perish.

The breeze is finished with its task of ridding
And returns to her
To let her get her fill of its warmth,
Of understanding.
Truth roots her deep,
Connects her to what is above
And what is below.
The dust is now gone.
Her house is now clean.


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