Hymns of the Morning

Hymns of praise to You, O Creator God

Hymns of rain pattering on new leaves this morning,
            of drips on the pond
            and wind in the boughs,
            the soft melodies of wood thrush and peewee
            and raucous cries of blue jay and nuthatch,
            of catbirds' murmuring musings and
            tanagers' buzzy cadence.

Hymns of trucks in the distance,
            their provision and the life within their cabs,
            of a husband's footsteps on old wooden floors
            and the teapot whistling in the kitchen,
            of neighboring roosters' early crowing
            and their hens' laying song.

Hymns of woodpecker's drilling
            and their young's insistent squawks,
            the whoosh of air beneath the vulture's wings
            and the twang of the green frog's call,
            of squirrels chattering
            and the vixen's scream.

Hymns of praise to You, O Creater God,
Hymns that tune my heart to You.

In the Shadows of the Pin Oak

Sitting on the porch this morning, which feels like it could be the first morning, I am gleeful in the coolness, the return of spring after a brief incursion of summer. Enfolded in scents of honeysuckle flowers just opening and multiflora rose just fading I relish the greeness of trees swaying so lithely and supple, surrendered to the movement of the wind. 

Cardinals, chickadees, titmice, woodpeckers and the occasional rose-breasted grosbeak eat at the feeders and in the distance the ephemeral notes of a north-bound Swainson's thrush resting in our woodlands for a while. The warbler migration is almost finished, but the residents are busy with nest building and egg laying, still singing their individual sweet songs. 

A typical, if glorious, spring day...green of all that grows, blue of sky, golden sunlight falling in swaths upon the grass...and yet full of mystery and presence of the unseen. When looking into the clear, bright air they are invisible, but when looking into the backdrop of the pin oak across the road, thousands of moving particles are revealed as they reflect the light..pollen, dust, the fluff of sycamore seeds, tiny gnats and unidentified insects flitting through the air, far too many to begin to count. Everywhere but unseen unless gazing in exactly the right spot.

Life is all around, always, revealed by the Light even in the dark places. We are invited. Look for it.

What Beckons?

Common grackles, like thousands of shimmering black ornaments on December-bare trees, move as one. Swirling, swooping en masse, from trees to ground and back again, their insistent cackling, crackling voices dominate the airways until...with the collective whooooosh of a multitude of wings, they are gone.

Seven woolly, wayward sheep, masters of independent intent, carefully pick their way through the whitened meadow, phantoms in the frosted, foggy field, almost indistinguishable from the tall, pale, frozen grassy hummocks.

Ice crystals glisten like twinkling stars on fallen beech leaves. Christmas ferns' fearless green growing among the browns of the forest floor. Busy, nimble squirrel feet barely touching the ground, noisily patter their way atop the crunchy remains of last year's oak, hickory and yellow poplar foliage.

Expected, but no less welcome, voices of the regulars call on a late December morning...tufted titmice, white breasted nuthatches, Carolina chickadees, white-throated sparrows, cardinals, Carolina wrens, blue-jays, flickers, red-bellied woodpeckers, and the occasional hermit thrush. All busily foraging and feeding, yet still filled with song and conversation.

What stops you in your tracks and draws you into stillness? What delights you? What beckons you into awe?
Pay attention...
For such is the invitation into God...

Autumn's Invitation

Wildly tossed in morning gales, 
encircled by autumn-tinted woodlands,
Indian grasses cavort in the meadow remnant,
backlit, as though touched by frost,
pearly seedheads, bowing and waving as I pass by.

Tinkling of chilly ground crickets
and hungry goldfinches seeking seed,
Cawing of crows, scolding jays,
Hidden white-throats rustling in the leaf layer,
Wind whispering through sleepy trees.

Autumn's invitation to pause, to breathe,
to ponder, to exult in this one moment I am given, 
in gratitude.

Regeneration

Is there any sound more welcome than the trilling of toads on this soft, damp, still-dark morning? Except, maybe, the peepers calling in the background, exuberant in the genesis of another spring, having survived the sudden freeze of last week….as did we all.

Or is it the cardinals’ spring whistle, beginning before first light, before all other birds, the solo that rises above the amphibian chorus, soon joined by the chickadees’ counter-melody, high-pitched, sweet notes sung before dawn?

Or, perhaps, the chattering of the red-wings’ congregation, at the feeders and in the bare trees surrounding the house, waiting, as they are for the signal that spurs them towards the marsh and this season’s new reproductive urges.

Tiny, winged, samara cover the red maples, splashes of crimson against the grey of the still-bare woodlands, having defied the recent killing freeze. We lost the magnolia blossoms to its chill, and the early-blooming fruit trees but, the maple flowers, and their pollen, somehow survived. Overhead, their seeds, as testimony to resilience, perhaps, now dance in the slightest breeze.

In the woodlands, I rejoice in the blooming toothwort and spring beauties. Shall I also welcome the subtle beauty of weeds in the grass and at the edges of my garden beds? Purple deadnettle and henbit, blue speedwell, and the white chickweed and hairy bittercress have vigorously sprung to life, laughing at the chagrin of gardeners who believe they own the plots they tend. What is the mysterious awakening mechanism that drives them, their seeds germinating in the dead of winter, plants that flourish in the cold, and now offer their nectar and pollen as one of the few available food sources for newly emerged and hungry bees? Who am I to deny their value?

Beneath what can seem like just another late-March day in the meandering procession towards the longed-for spring, today holds an invitation to gratitude and to wonder at each step of the new season's unfolding. It offers opportunity to step out of our "every day" lives and to sink into moments of noticing the life around us, and in so doing, perhaps, noticing the life within us, as well.

February's Invitation

Stillness at sunrise, winter's quiet breath,
rosy horizon and blanketing snow.
Winterberry brightening the season's grayness as

quince and magnolia buds burgeon bravely in the cold

Silence interrupted by the day's beginning...
conversational crows straggling in from their across-the-river roost.
Titmice' single note calls and a red-shouldered's cry,
woodpeckers drilling in the distance and goldfinch's

soft squeak on sycamore balls.

The world roils.
But here, sweet gums against the sky.
Peace...
Shall I not take it?

The Least of These

I have been thinking about juxtaposition, "the act or instance of placing side by side, especially for comparison or contrast", lately. Every day I sadly read of the incoming administration's new instances of assault on the land, disregard for people and utter disdain for decency and the dignity of life. But, every day, I also delight in walks through the woods, the birds at the feeders, the play of sunlight on holly leaves and the rustling of persistent beech leaves in the wind. On the one hand, discouragement at what feels like encroaching darkness, and on the other, gratitude for witnessing life and light, in all its seemingly simple day to day normalcy.  

Lately, I have also been pondering my place in this world and what my contributions to it have been and might be. I tend to measure myself against the efforts of the people who do "big things" for good which, of course, leaves me feeling considerably lacking and is a decidedly unhelpful attitude. Still, I long to make a difference...

 It was in answer to that longing that some well-known words and a new hedgerow planting intersected into the affirmation that my intentions and efforts are valuable, possibly life-changing. The hedgerow is a mix of black chokeberry and still-fruiting winterberry bushes, the latter being visited daily by a migrant hermit thrush from the north. It was while watching the thrush eat that Jesus' words came to me, "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in..." 

I realized that all the kindnesses that I extend, be it toward creatures who come to live out a part of their lives in the back yard, or fellow jury panelists with whom I recently spent a day, or a neighbor who needs a listening ear, or a roadside that needs to be cleared of the trash of too many careless passersby....all those kindnesses combine into opportunities for healing, healing for me, as well as others. It is in the doing what I can do, and the trusting to God what I cannot manage that will allow me to live, if not always at peace, at least with the gratitude that I have been able to give to the world what is mine to give, hopefully, for the blessing of all.

Transitions

He comes at evening, haltingly, tentatively, yet knowing the journey is worth the effort. Foraging is good beneath the feeders, but a turkey venturing into human territory must be wary. The hummingbirds are a study in contrast. Bold, daring, hardly hesitating in their approach, the ruby-throats are filling up at flowers and feeders before their own long journey south. Soon their little tummies will protrude and they will be gone.

It is seldom silent now. Snowy tree crickets, cone-head, bush and true katydids (plus others I do not know) fill the air with sound from dawn to dawn, different species singing at different times of day and night.  Of the birds, goldfinches are the most vocal. Recently fledged young beg incessantly, like the tinkling of tiny bells, from the sweet gum trees across the road. A few half-hearted calls from white-eyed vireos, Acadian flycatchers and eastern wood peewees punctuate the ever present residents' chorus. Chickadees chattering, titmice scolding, white-breasted nuthatches honking and cardinals chipping keep me company through the day.

Canada geese are feeding restlessly, leading their almost grown babies from field to field along the river. Soon the northern migrants will arrive, swelling the pressure on the recently harvested hay fields and farmers will begin estimating how many days of winter grazing will be lost.

Like moments of the water's stillness between the tide's going out and coming in, time feels like it has slowed down, almost to a stop during this transition time from late summer into autumn. Golden days invite me to rest into the rhythm of the earth, to witness the changes that provide for the life of the creatures around me, as they prepare for leaner days ahead.

Such a gift, to know something of the world around me, to be watchful and listening, attuned to the echoes of Creation...the gift of belonging.