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.

 

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.