I have successfully kept one of my New Year’s resolutions to my birthday. It feels good. I describe the resolution in this video I shot for Circle of Hope’s midweek reflection #sundaysarenotenough.

WORD-ing makes things more real. It makes my insides more real to me. It makes me more of who I am, and better, it makes me more of who I want to be. My imagination shapes my direction, which points my present. George MacDonald is my literary and spiritual hero. I call him my grandfather, so my New Year’s resolution was to spend the year WORD-ing with him.

Each morning (or afternoon or evening) I write the words of the seven line poem he wrote for every day of the year and published in a collection called A Book of Strife in the Form of a Diary of an Old Soul.  Then I reflect on what the poem says to me, or just try to give shape to what is happening inside of me or in the life of my community.

George MacDonald’s WORD-ing

Here’s an example from February 19, 2021

Here’s what Grandfather  MacDonald said that day

Lord, in thy spirit’s hurricane, I pray,
Strip my soul naked—dress it then thy way.
Change for me all my rags to cloth of gold.
Who would not poverty for riches yield?
A hovel sell to buy a treasure-field?
Who would a mess of porridge careful hold
Against the universe’s birthright old?

My WORD-ing

And here’s what I had to say. You might notice that the two do not have much to do with each other, but the rhymes and the bowl borne food. Yeah, that’s how it is. This was about feeling kind of sleepy and struggling to remember my dreams in hopes that they were theophanic. It was also about being hungry and wanting to be satisfied by something other than food, as the MacDonald poem clearly suggest — so I guess there is a real connection. You can listen to me read my poem on my soundcloud where I have recorded all the poems that appear on this blog.

February 19 

Still hoping breakfast breaks benighted limbs
So locked in an unconscious grapple hold —
A wrestling rest with someone — could be him
Who wrenched the hip of Jacob so it’s told;
If only trust for dreams uncontrolled
Could pierce the soul of my confusing, dim
And dumb born dawn, here in my breakfast bowl.

I wrote this poem before breakfast but made sure that my breakfast was out of a bowl. It was a grapefruit. Thanks for reading. Maybe you’re inspired.