What the Pictures Don't Depict

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,
nor the interior's darkness illumined only
by candle light,
nor the possibility 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?
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.

Hidden Gifts

Today has not been the loveliest of days.
Freezing rain, sleet and slippery slush
coat every visible surface and do not invite
the lingering contemplation of 
surrounding fields.
And yet...
How could I not notice the sheen
on the twigs,

their interlacing design
and the beauty so often obscured
by the humdrum everyday.

And by what I expect to see.

Christmas cactuses don't look like much

when they aren't blooming,
(which is most of the year.)
Just a tangle of dull green, toothed
fleshy leaves, almost not
worth a second glance.
And yet...
during this darkling season of cold,
of shorter days and longer nights 
they suddenly surprise
with buds and blooms.

Patience comes hard in these bleak days
of grays and browns.
And yet...
there lurks, 
or beckons,
the always-present invitation towards 

the goodness that was poured into
the world at its beginning. 

And into all of us
at ours.

Detritus

Castoffs,
no longer wanted, 
abandoned, discarded,
littering the forest floor. 
One can step on them without
even noticing,
without valuing, or honoring,
or savoring
their former lives.
Bits of shell and seeds, an acorn cap, 
dried leaves and withering berries,
a hodgepodge of evidence
that life and purpose thrived here,
a season ago.

Now, 
amid what was scattered,
a promise of 
nothing wasted. 
The makings of a whole new woodland
lie dormant,
resting, waiting 
to sprout and grow.
New from the old,
refashioned from the 
detritus of what was, 
once upon a time. 

Incense

 

Following my nose this time of year, I 
participate in the ongoing,
sometimes melancholy,
annual transition.

Familiar scents of fallen leaves and the crumbly
duff they are becoming, 
of damp earth and mists 
that drift across the fields like
apparitions, 
of yellow chrysanthemums, still blooming,
and ripened apples in the nearby orchards.

Pungent fragrance of sluggish black-swallowtail caterpillars
still clinging to the parsley, and 
the dried basil I have yet to cut down,
of garlic cloves now buried in the soft soil, and 
drooping marigolds, and the spent tomato plants
I brush against as I pass
through the muted vegetable patch.
Another harvest complete.

At this sacred moment,
at the turning of the season,
this nostalgic incense holds the memories
of every autumn I have ever known.

Who am I to complain at the passing of

autumn's glory? 
Let me behold and
enter willingly,
gladly,
gratefully,
into the 
Sabbath of the land.

Autumn Budding

 

Pale green against the twigs
and fading summer leaves, 
they hang as an enigma,
as a deposit on what will emerge
months from now,
on the other side of winter.

Young catkins protecting tiny
grains of ripening pollen
growing deep within,
holding on by strength of stem 
and will,
soon buffeted by cold and 
winter's worst, withered
grueling days of getting by
while the darkling world is frozen.

And what of us? 
Like catkins,
battered by grief and confusion,
we deepen into the fruit of
what we are becoming.
Like a pregnant mama's experience of
awkward bodily disruptions,
punctuated by exhaustion,
discomfort, uncertainty...
uncomfortable growth
that supports the newness she will bear.
We will bear.

Next summer, there will be hazelnuts.

The Autumn Garden (or Why I Plant)

We are in the thick of the autumn migration now. Warblers, flycatchers, other insect eating birds, raptors, hummingbirds, dragonflies, Monarchs are all making their way hundreds or even thousands of miles south to warmth and food as our northern regions freeze over, even as our native bee species continue feeding and reproducing while there is still time.

They come through, and sometimes pause, in our yard, finding an abundance of nectar and pollen, seeds, berries and insects and shelter to fuel them for the next leg of their journey.

This, above all other reasons, is why I plant. The hedgerow and gardens that surround our house I plant for beauty, of course, but even more, for a short while, to be a part of the lives of these small, courageous, holy creatures that fleetingly share my space.

Through these pictures, I invite you to share in it too.

 

 

The Voice of God

Until this morning, I have never equated
the overly-enthusiastic crowing of our neighbor's rooster,
who lives just beyond our bedroom window,
with the voice of God. 
Heard from a distance, he might sound charming,
quaint, nostalgic even, like some far-off
church bell calling the faithful to meeting.

Up close, he is loud. And insistent.
And, after living near him for so long, 
I can recognize his voice among the throng
of other roosters in the area.
Until this morning, I have never equated
his raucous, before-the-dawn, persistent,
rooster song with a call to Morning Prayer.
Nor, as he mysteriously begins again
a couple of hours before dusk, 
as an invitation to Compline. 

In the spring, his calling drowns out
the early morning birdsong I strain to hear
and, as the late-summer's soft droning
of crickets and katydids fills the background,
his crowing dominates the airways.
Morning in and evening out, in all seasons
and through all sorts of weather,
his voice opens and closes each and every day.
And, just as reliably, as I journey through each of these days,
he often interrupts the flow of my thoughts with
with his vigorous, punctuated reminders of his presence,
assuring me, sometimes inconveniently,
that whether he is vocalizing or not, 
he is always there,
always present,
unseen, perhaps, but
always hovering in the background. 

I have never thought of the rooster's crowing
as the voice of God.
Now I know better.

Slowly Silent Ripening

 

I feel it every day now.
Not just the summer heat,
or the oppressive humidity,
but the season's slowing down,
of life, almost imperceptibly,
maturing around me,
the inner preparation 
for changes to come, and
the goodbyes soon to
be said.

The Joe-pye blooms in a
profusion of abundance by the pond,
the mountain mint sways
with the buzzing of busy bees,
and the garden is 
a joyous, jostling, crowded exuberance
of late summer flowers. 
No order I have imposed survives
this season.

Baby birds fill the yard these days,
scratching through the mulch,
darting between shrubs and
foraging through the plant stalks, 
learning to fend for
themselves, 
the most important work of
their lives. 

Singing summer crickets and katydids
provide the soundtrack of
my days and nights,
and barn swallows gather on
the telephone wire from which they launch
into a frenzy of feeding and fattening.
Ruby-throats zip about
on their annual,
energetically-determined
journey south and 
peewees sing their plaintive song
from the nearby woodland.
Soon they will all be gone.

In tidal rivers there is a moment
between the turning of the tides,
a moment of complete stillness
in which no water moves, 
as if the river holds its breath,
gathering itself for what comes 
next, for the movement that
is about to begin. 

So it feels in late summer, 
the time of slowly silent ripening 
and preparation for what is 
to come.
And, in this season,
what, I wonder,
is the slowly
silent ripening
in me?

Companionship

The lightening bugs are rising tonight.
Effortlessly they lift 
and glide
into the darkness,
unmindful of
human ways.
Inhabiting the same space,
we live a world apart. 

Crickets and katydids 
have begun to sing. 
With no thought of me, still
they live their lives entwined with mine. 
As does the dragonfly, buzzing
past my shoulder in the dusky twilight,
hunting insects in the garden.

Do wild things know when
they are welcome?
In return for sustenance
they offer me 
their presence. 
Companionship
mutually gifted,
mutually blessed.

I Began The Day With the Oriole's Song

I began the day with the oriole's song
sung from the treetops,
a piercing, exuberant whistle of gladness
at the prospect of being alive and
the promise of procreation and
the glory of this moment.

And with the catbird's soft murmuring 
from the back thicket, sung by 
a jaunty fellow whose
quiet, if persistent,
friendly prattle
will accompany me
through my day.

And with the hummingbird's bold chatter
that warns off friend and foe alike,
whose tiny stature is
simply a disguise
for the fierce and untamable spirit
that lives within.

But it is the wood thrush,
that mystic of the woodlands, 
whose lilting, numinous invitation
beckons,
and calls me into silence and
into the wildness of
wordless prayer, into
simply being with
and being in
the unseen, 
always present,
Presence
of God.

With the Wild Ones

On this Easter day, as others flock
to churches and organ music or
brass ensembles proclaiming
the resurrection of Jesus,
I am drawn to quiet,
to the woodlands and
the silence of all but birdsong and
the wind in the trees and
the running stream's murmuring 
over rocks.
Here I can kneel and give thanks for 
the carpet of these tiny ones on the forest floor -
spring beauties and dwarf ginseng and 
trout lily, blooming where nobody sees 
or appreciates them. Except me.
And God.

I wonder at the garden 
where Jesus was laid.
Was it as lovely and
as peaceful as here,
where I walk with Him
this morning?
In this this time-created garden
not made with human hands,
we sit together,
He and I,
and with the wild ones 
we enjoy our own
quietly exuberant
celebration 
of Easter.

Obscure Promises

I am thinking about promises.
about the hidden promises
right in front of us
that go unnoticed,
unrecognized...
like the salamanders' egg masses
that resemble fluffy cotton balls,
or the grey and fuzzy magnolia
buds, more reminiscent of
baby mice than the fragrant pink
blossoms they will become.

I am thinking about the tiny embryos within
the Jacob's Ladder's seeds
that will sprout
and carpet the garden 
this spring, and about
fallen leaves
that break down into fertility 
and about
last year's dry and standing
stems left by a lazy,
(or was it a caring) gardener,
hollow stalks to incubate
a new generation of mason bees.

And what of us? What of
those buried sprouts of our 
true selves, those
obscure promises
implanted in our making, 
patiently waiting to be born,
or reborn,
as we participate in 
our becoming?

Noticings of our outer and
our inner world.
Glimpses of God's glory.
Invitations all.

Resilience

I'm not sure I know what resilience is.
Not experientially, anyway.

I know of wood frogs who hibernate
in the leaf layer, whose
blood is like anti-freeze and 
whose bodies freeze and thaw
through the winter.
I know of woodland depressions,
bowls in the earth
who want to be ponds but 
must be patient
and wait
for winter's ice to melt 
into the water that fills them,
only to become dry land again 
when their work is done.

Contrary to what Jesus is said to have said,
seeds do not die when they fall to the ground.
Rather, embryos within fully alive,
they lie helpless and inert,
pummeled by rain and abrasion until
slowly they soften and sprout and
open to the world.
As do desert plants who live
so long dormant,
out of sight and forgotten,
until awakened by showers,
they burst into bloom,
set their seed,
and return to silent slumber
once again. 

I know of skunk cabbage,
warmed from within,
melting through the frozen muck
and emerging in late winter,
as though it cannot stand the
darkness a moment longer.
And snow geese and tundra swans,
and humans with hearts on fire,
who press on through the long unknown
to the land that calls
them home.

I don't know what resilience is.
Not experientially, anyway.
But, from those who have no choice,
I learn.

The Building of a Garden

It is sacred work,
the building of a garden,
bowing in gratitude for the soil
and asking, "How may I
join you in the incubating
of new life?"

I hauled rocks from the tree line,
no less a holy task,
rocks to line my garden beds.
From the old piles, carefully
I lifted and then replaced those
that were the roof of
a chipmunk's home.
Many roofs sheltered many
tunnels but some were
as yet unused,
rocks enough to share.

Now the beds have rounded edges,
like the shape of a womb, holding
possibility for what is yet to come,
a different kind of pregnancy.
Now I wait,
trusting,
knowing,
that what grows in the darkness
will be revealed
in time.

Sacred work.
Sacred waiting.
One in the same.

Old Eternal Rocks

 

"The stable earth, the old salt sea,
around the old eternal rocks." *

Eternal rocks.
Forged at the beginning of time. 
Now my rocks,
these ever-present impediments
lurking under grass and soil,
pesky, heavy, nuisances
that impede my digging,
dulling my spade and bending
the fence posts, thwarting
my desire for seamless effort,
for moving ahead without interruption.

These rocks I unthinkingly toss aside
adding to piles at the edge 
of the woods.
Piles begun centuries 
before when plows cut the earth behind
the horses who dragged them, 
and later, tractors.
The farmers' present
now the past. 

Eternal, enduring rocks,
tellers of ancient stories I cannot read,
tales of mystery,
of hidden history written
in the depths as 
the earth was forming, 
recently recognized,
carefully placed,
incorporated into the landscape of now,
and seen with
new eyes.

*Quote at top from St. Patrick's Breastplate.

The Herald on St Brigid's Day

He commences in mid-winter, 
when the landscape is frozen and
blanketed with snow
and the ice that does not crack
beneath my feet.
There have been other murmurings,
muffled whisperings and chip notes
from white-throats and 
song sparrows,
the short-lived, rollicking chorus
of the Carolina wren,
a snatch of the towhee's song,
as if he had forgotten himself and 
absentmindedly spoken
aloud.

On warmer days
house finches trot out their first phrases,
and the cardinal in the arborvitae
tentatively tunes up his whistle but,
as the next storm descends,
expectations recede and
their voices still.
It is not yet time.

Still, there are those who
carry hope, who,
even as snow swirls and
the temperatures plummet,
have begun the song that,
is now unquenchable. 
Tufted titmice, those jaunty, bright-eyed,
grey little beings who
flit after one another through the woodlands,
are enthusiastically
thinking spring thoughts
on these frigid,
though lengthening,
days.

For those who have ears,
their simple notes bless
our winter weariness
with an absolute
annual promise.
No matter how seemingly far off,
the earth will soften
once again
and spring will
slowly,
stealthily,
almost invisibly,
begin.

Who knows?
Perhaps,
it already
has.

February 1st is the feast day of St Brigid, Ireland's beloved saint, which coincides with the festival of Imbolc, the beginning of spring in the ancient Irish calendar.

With God in the Goat Pen

On this frozen Sunday morning,
I communed
with Aidan,
and Caedmon,
and Ninian,
not the saints of ancient Ireland and Scotland,
but my goats,
who like their namesakes,
also arise before
dawn
and set themselves to
their daily
even
in the harshness of January.

And why not? 
God is present
in their
bright eyes
and nuzzling muzzles, 
in their soft greetings
and the expectant gaze
that invites,
and expects,
my response.

Amid the simple practices,
carrying water and replenishing hay, 
scooping droppings
and filling feeders,
these most mundane,
most holy,
of tasks,
the grand God of the Universe
comes close and sits 
among us as we
attentively,
gratefully, 
joyfully,
begin our day
together.

Candles in the Darkness

So brave they seem,
each standing 
alone,
stalwart,
fending off the 
darkness
that presses in,
and the
cold.

Single flames
flickering,
moving with
the rhythm 
of those who
gather round,
needing,
longing for
the light
they cannot,
themselves, 
create.

Brave may we be,
each standing
alone
or together,
grateful,
befriending, 
welcoming the
Light
we've been given,
passing on the gift,
the warmth
bestowed
in these dark times,
and cold.

Sleeping

 

Tread softly on the sleeping ground,
where roots and rhizomes 
grow in secret,
unimpaired
beneath the frost,
where corms and pupae
snuggly rest
and wait
until the appointed
time
to wake
and stretch
upwards, 
onward,
through softening soil,
towards the
light.

Awaken gently to sleeping dreams
that linger in
your soul
as you go about 
the minutes and hours
of your days,
beckoning,
whispering 
of all that might,
at the appointed
time,
stretch
upwards, 
onward,
unbound,
towards the 
light.