This was written for Thanksgiving 2020, during a spike in the pandemic. That day had become, perhaps, a focal point for the change and losses of that year so far, and this piece is meant to reflect that reality, and to point beyond as well. It’s more of a personal reflection piece than a worship or liturgy piece.
The poem in its entirety is below:
Kaleidoscope
The kaleidoscope turns, its brightly colored broken fragments jumble, zoom in,
tumble, and return to something else.
The picture is a mystery.
Keep turning:
the only way to finally see the picture.
Pattern-less, broken,
with a hint of beauty yet to come;
a speck of beauty in each ragged piece now.
I can’t control, only form what is there,
make beauty from what is there.
I can’t control, but there is power nonetheless, in what and how I create.
There is power in beauty.
And I can only speak for myself.
I cannot tell others how to make their own design from their own pain.
Nor do I wish to do so.
But just to say, take this offering from my hands, to soothe, or challenge, or dare,
and know you are not alone.