What the Pictures Don't Depict

 

                                                                                                     Gary Melchers

Most of the Nativity scenes we have come to know,
those pictures of Mary looking rested,
confident and clean,
serene and smiling,
looking comfortable...
They don't depict the weariness,
the immobilizing exhaustion of
hard labor,
nor the
all-consuming effort
it takes
to push a baby out into this world,
nor the blood and
amniotic fluid,
nor the expelled placenta 
that needed to be cleaned up
after the birth.

Those scenes the artists render of
spotless robes and a 
tidy stable (or cave) with cozy light...
They don't depict the manure on the floor,
nor livestock urinating into their bedding,
as livestock are prone to do,
nor the interior's darkness illumined only
by candle light,
nor the fear of being stepped on
during and after
giving birth.
Surely there were mice in the straw.
Were there rats?
Did Mary nervously notice 
every sound of scurrying
around her? 
How did she ever sleep?

Of course the baby would be laid 
in the feeding trough.
Where else?
Set up off the floor, the safest
and cleanest spot
available.
Were there cows?
If so, perhaps they
ambled over
to the manger,
as cows are prone to do,
to sniff, and lick,
and welcome Jesus
as the new baby in their midst.
Did Joseph's role include
keeping
a wary eye on
the attending animals'
curious attention
to his
newly-born son?

This historic birth was
far more miraculous than we,
in our day and age, 
might readily imagine.
Jesus survived.
So did Mary.
And all the detail not depicted
in the artists' renditions
makes Mary 
one of us.

And makes Jesus, whom she bore
by the sweat of her brow,
one of us.
One with us.
Emmanuel.

Dawning

 

Frozen ground and frozen fingers
fumbling with latches
that secure barn doors
against the night,
sluggish opening
to the day
still shrouded
in darkness.

Frozen, nervous,
on high alert,
they assess the danger
of an unseen threat
beyond the fence line,
measuring their safety
inside a boundary
long ago erected
for their
protection.

Frozen water in the buckets,
frozen longings
in the soul,
desperate to know what
is real,
to see beyond the murkiness
of the what-if,
to know the safety
of an eternal
enfolding,
unfolding,
grace.

Yet, into the grip
of the unknown,
into the immobility
of our fear,
into our frenzied
effort to escape
the dark,
eventually,
finally,
always, 
the dawn.

Beneath the Surface (or the Mystery of Advent)

Into the soil's depths, 
in this darkening season,
I planted.
It would feel 
like betrayal to some...
unfair,
heartless,
masochistic maybe,
planting just before 
the earth
hardens.

What ancient alchemy
is this?
What madness?
Foolishly,
determinedly,
clinging to the 
prospect
of life and
a far-off
harvest,
trusting, without proof,
an invisible
promise.

Unseen,
slowly,
beneath the surface,
roots develop
and,
when
it is time,
tiny shoots emerge
into confirmation
that
my waiting was not 
in vain, 
after all.

Advent in the garlic bed.

November Woods

 These are not my words, but a poem I have gone back to every November since 1979, when November meant the beginning of the hot, often dry, season in Botswana.

November Woods

Lovely are the silent woods,

on grey November days.

When the leaves fall red and gold, 

upon the quiet ways.

From massive beech, majestic oak

and birches white and slim,

Like the pillared aisles of a cathedral,

vast and dim.

Drifting mist, like smoking incense,

hangs upon the air.

Along the paths where birds once sang,

the trees stand stripped and bare.

Making Gothic arches with their

branches interlaced,

And window-framing vistas,

richly wrought and finely traced.

It is good to be in such a place,

on such a day.

Problems vanish from the mind

and sorrow steals away.

In the woods of grey November,

silent and austere, 

Nature gives her benediction to

the passing year.

                                                      Patience Strong
                                                     (British Poet)

Letting Go

I am thinking about trees this morning,

about the grace with which they
accept the season,

the what-is that is right now.

They do not wrestle,

(as do I)

with deciding when to relinquish 

that which has served them 

so well, 

but does so
no
longer.

As the cold comes calling,

and the daylengths shorten,

(as I clutch and cling
to the light)

as their metabolism slows
and the autumn winds batter,

they silently
surrender
that which
they
cannot
keep.

And here is their 

sustaining secret.

Their letting go
(so difficult for humans)

provides the blanket
that feeds their roots
and dormant buds

that become the promise
of new growth
when their sap awakens,
and rises
once again,

pushing forth new leaves,
and new life,

into the spring
of the
coming
year.

Offerings

Sometimes words are not sufficient to capture the gifts

       of the season, nor the gratitude. These are my offerings.

 May they inspire you to notice the holiness of your moments on this cool, damp autumn day.

                                           Fruit and flowers

              Sages for the hummingbirds who have now moved on.

         Old outbuildings that now shelter our goats and chickens.

             The woods across the road whose color changes every day.

Subtle hues of the penstemon who will soon begin

                                 their long winter's nap.

      And a yard that, though past its blooming peak, is

   ripening seeds for all who will seek refuge

in the months to come.

May we each know the blessing of offering ourselves, each in our own unique way, to a world that so badly needs beauty and kindness in these troubled days.

Welcoming the Stranger

They passed through silently,

stealthily,

foraging for nourishment,
not knowing

I was watching.

On their way to Cuba, to Haiti and the Dominican Republic,

to Belize, to Honduras and Nicaragua,

and the mountains of Mexico,

days and days will they travel the skies,
feeding and sleeping 

in hopes of safety, 
against all odds, 

in hopes of arriving.

That they alight here at all is

a mutual gift, 

for them, sustenance among 
the flowers and the old apple tree,

for me,
the sheer delight of their
presence. 

I will never wing my way to
their destinations

and yet,
still,
I participate in

their journeys

in the planting,
in the loving,

in the gratitude.

 

Call to Prayer

Is there a more compelling call
to prayer
than the Carolina wren's insistent
song, echoing from the apple tree?

Or the vastness of Orion
and Cassiopeia and Gemini
hanging together
in the darkness at 5 am?

Or the windflower wand's 
gentle movement in the
invisible breeze as the
day begins?

Or the ruby-throats' frenzied flight,
restlessly, collectively,
heeding the summons
south?

Is there be a more compelling call
to prayer
than the Mystery that surrounds
us, every day,
every moment
of our lives?

In The Fullness of Time

 Sharing these thoughts is difficult in these days of ecological and man-made ruin. And yet, at the same time it feels right to acknowledge and be grateful that, in this small corner of the world, the land and its creatures continue on, for now, unimpeded. 

The chattering is non-stop,
recently fledged house wrens
congregating in the bushes,
asking their many questions
of the world.
The crickets' and katydids' song, 
emanating from the trees and old
fields that surround the house,
is constant, too,
enfolding,
like the Presence of God,
which, of course, it is.

Catbirds, readying to go,
gorge on the pokeberries
and this morning an unexpected
white-eyed vireo,
on his way to somewhere,
forages in the old apple tree,
gleaning from what this piece
of his world has
to offer.

Hummingbirds are on the jewelweed, 
their tiny tummies laying down the
fat that will fuel their long, 
upcoming journey
and
newly emerged Monarch's,
sipping from phlox and zinnias, 
prepare for a pilgrimage
that will take them
far into the
unknown.

All of us,
the wild things and I,
are waiting for what comes next.
And each of us,
the wild things and I,
are sustained
and supported
by the late-summer abundance
that has come
in the fullness
of time.

Worship Without Words

I have joined them here this morning, 
the annual cicadas in the woods 
across the street. Worship has
no words here,
no shoulds,
only the ongoing
crescendo and decrescendo
of gratitude for life.
And for place.
Beneath the thrumming of cicadas and
the chipping of catbird young,
the woods are still, 
expectant,
waiting.

It is written that the Spirit moves
where it will,
like the wind winding
through the shadows
where I sit.
This moment, the Spirit 
has come,
blessing the ordinary life
of all who live among
the trees,
blessing the communion
between them and
the Eternal
and me.

 

On the Day Smoke Hid the Eastern Sky

My attention was captured by the catbird splashing in the birdbath underneath the old apple tree,

and moved to the ruby-throat stealing from spider webs strung between branches,

and on to the Carolina and house wrens busily chattering congenially as they plucked miniscule insects from the underside of leaves and twigs.

Bumblebees, lazily awakened from their slumber on the cleome, 

      fed on phlox and cardinal flower

and anise hyssop.

          Hummingbird moths sipped from the monarda,

    

 

while green frogs in the pond and blue jays in the Norway spruce

beat out a staccato rhythm in their high and low pitches, 

the percussive melody of non-human hymns. 

All is worship on this strange, still and hazy morning.

Into the Silence

 

Season of surprising silence
when the air is still, as if
holding its breath,
when the cavorting of spring morphs into
the slow maturing of summer,

when the early and almost-forgotten
display of spring bulbs and
woodland ephemerals is becoming
the not-yet-flashy August garden,
and
the trees' and shrubs' exuberant
new growth settles into the barely discernable
process of ripening nuts and berries,

when, in the vegetable patch, the early lettuces,
spinach and peas have given way to
the not-yet-bearing tomatoes, peppers and beans
and 
the cacophony of enthusiastic avian mating song 
has become the stealthy movement of parents
going about their, day in and day out, 
never ending
feeding of nestlings 
not yet fledged.

I wait so long for spring and
once more it has come and gone.
And now?
I wait.
In this silent seasonal
liminal space
between promise and fulfillment
again
I wait for all that
comes next. 

And somehow, the waiting
becomes watching and 
the watching becomes participating,
and the participating becomes embracing
the holy space of belonging to all the
world around me.
It is enough. 

 

Of Strawberries and the Wood Thrush Song

Early June, and the strawberries are
bursting with flavor...
plump,
juicy, 
and sweet,
recalling the 
memories of every strawberry
I have ever eaten.
Each one at their succulent
peak for a day,
before the process of
decomposition begins,
still edible, certainly,
but no longer
exactly perfect.

Early June, and the wood thrush
bestows his
long-awaited, 
ethereal,
haunting melody
upon all who have ears.
Soon, however, when this year's
breeding is complete, his
voice will still, and in
silence will he forage and
flit through the trees.
In three months, he
will be gone.

Bees on the foxgloves,
newly-fledged chickadees chattering in the apple tree,
fragrance of mown hay and the mock orange,
bluebird sipping from the ant moat on the hummingbird feeder,
simple, simple noticings that ground my days.

Into what is this moment inviting you?
Be open.
Pay attention.
The Holy is beckoning.

                                                                        

Emergence

 

As the cicadas blindly make their

way through the soil

that bore them,

and last winter's buds burst

into white lace on the fringetree,

the juneberries that were flowers

a few weeks ago plump and color,

soon to ripen.

As tadpoles are growing legs

and losing tails,

and the newly hatched bluebirds

are on their way to becoming fledglings,

the tiny balls of fluff, tucked

safely into the straw mulch of

the vegetable garden, are looking

more and more like the rabbits they

have always been.

As cotyledons pierce the

the seed coat and emerge in 

the dark of night,

and snakes writhe to shed the
skin that confines them, 

caterpillars, unimaginably, dissolve
themselves into the newness

of butterflies.

I trust the ways of 

metamorphosis but

what about me?

I know the restlessness that

precedes birthing in the wild ones.

"Am I not also wild?"

"Trust the process," he said.

Who and into what am I on my way

to becoming? 

Who and into what, are you?

* Dedicated with thanksgiving to Glenn, Jo Ann, Doreen, Susan, Daniel, Glenda, Janet and Charlotte.

Now and Not Yet

Through the long, barren winter
I waited...wearied in the waiting,
truth be told, trying to believe
the promised green
would come again.
And flowers. And warblers'
song.

I bent over woodland floor
and garden beds, nudging aside
last year's leaves and stalks,
probing for the evidence
that was supposed to
be there.

And the day came that I rejoiced,
was giddy, in fact, at the all but invisible 
new shoots, seen only by those
whose patience is wearing 
thin. And I thought I
was content.

This morning I walked the woodland
realizing that my longing is not
assuaged, after all. 
Dwarf ginseng, trout-lilies
and spring beauties abound,
all in bud, but none open.
The brown-thrasher has begun
his glad singing, but I
hear no warblers. 
I am still
waiting.

And yet, the promise unfolds in
its own time.
Between hope and surety,
between wanting and waiting,
between desire and fulfillment,
in the mystery of this moment
I am embraced. It is 
enough. 

Now and not yet.

Anima

 

Anima, Latin for 
soul.

What if you entered into the
knowing in the eye of the ancient
she-elephant, or the curious 
gaze of the old draft mare,
or the joyous welcome offered
by your neighbor's young
golden retriever ?

What if you opened yourself to
the soft lowing of cow to new calf, or
the saucy glance of a frenzied chipmunk
as it races by, or the buzzing presence of
the wild bees that flock to a garden's
abundance?

What if you wondered at the evidences
of the Great Soul, who weaves
all that is together
into relationship,
into communion,
into a common, gathered,
embrace?

What if you accepted the invitation?

Anima, another word for
soul.

Unstoppable

In the season of still-deep-winter
have you noticed
the wild things drawn
beyond this moment?

The juncos have begun trilling
from the treetops,
their restless hearts gladly
anticipating the prospect of moving on,
moving back.
And a single robin whinnies
in the damp woods across the road,
not yet singing, but heeding the
the pull towards longer days and
the hormonal shift
that awaits.
As do the bluebirds,
chortling their sweet notes,
flirting and pairing up,
preparations beginning,
the future on 
their minds.

Snow still lies heavy
on the land
and yet, the inexorable
movement towards spring
has begun, unfolding in
its own time, 
unstoppable,
untamable,
holy.

Have you noticed?

On This Frozen Ash Wednesday Morning

 

They are both calling, a 
duet of sorts, two species
in conversation. Or perhaps three,
my own soul responding 
as I enter in, as I breathe a sigh
of relief at their song
on this grey and
frozen morning, before 
the next round of snow.

Communion between cardinal
and wren. Between them and me.
Between God and them and me
and all that is on this
bright and frozen morning,
before the next
round of snow.

Of Skunk Cabbages and Cardinals (or Hope in the Bleak Late Winter)

They have emerged, unlikely
harbingers of spring's coming
glory, their
inobtrusive mottled
heads rising through the
frozen muck melted by the
heat of their own bodies.
In the days ahead,
at just the right moment,
their humanly unappreciated scent
will draw first-of-the-year
flies and beetles
to feast on their, as-yet-undeveloped,
pollen.

He sings this morning, an exuberant  
rhythmic, clear whistle  
not heard since last spring, 
when he was courting.
February is too early for courting
and yet, in the now,
as the sun rises higher and
the daylight lengthens,
he tunes his voice and
his hopes towards
what is to
come. 

As do I.