All posts by GretchenJoanna

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About GretchenJoanna

Orthodox Christian, widowed in 2015; mother, grandmother. Love to read, garden, cook, write letters and a hundred other home-making activities.

He was a divinely good person.

church, feasts, saints,

On the Feast of Saint Nicholas, I give you once more the words of Fr. Thomas Hopko from The Winter Pascha:

“The extraordinary thing about the image of St. Nicholas in the Church is that he is not known for anything extraordinary. He was not a theologian and never wrote a word, yet he is famous in the memory of believers as a zealot for orthodoxy, allegedly accosting the heretic Arius at the first ecumenical council in Nicaea for denying the divinity of God’s son. He was not an ascetic and did no outstanding feats of fasting and vigils, yet he is praised for his possession of the “fruit of the Holy Spirit…love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control” (Gal. 5:22-23). He was not a mystic in our present meaning of the term but he lived daily with the Lord and was godly in all his words and deeds. He was not a prophet in the technical sense, yet he proclaimed the Word of God, exposed the sins of the wicked, defended the rights of the oppressed and afflicted, and battled against every form of injustice with supernatural compassion and mercy. In a word, he was a good pastor, father, and bishop to his flock, known especially for his love and care for the poor. Most simply put, he was a divinely good person.”

Happy Saint Nicholas Day!

St. Nicholas Orthodox Church in San Anselmo, California

Reading a Wife

poetry, the language, writing, , , ,

READING A WIFE

A wife is not composed of words, so
Unlike a novel that takes till dawn
To devour she cannot be read
through in a night

Repeating the uneasy lines of a poem
Over and over, rereading again and again
would be different, too (though it probably looks the same)

Yesterday, while driving the car
In a break in the din
I heard for a moment the beat of a bird’s wings
Ah, I thought

That ‘Ah’ was just for one moment, but
It would need an eternity to comprehend, never mind
My wife, who is before me sleeping or awake

Is it arrogant to even want to read a person?
Not her expressions or gestures
But to want to read that person, my wife
Unable to be satisfied with just living together?

My wife speaking to me from across the table
My wife wordlessly tossing and turning in bed
The one there that seems like
Loyal ladies-in-waiting serving a wife I can’t see

In the breath inscribed in each sentence
Punctuated by daily reality
Its draft turns the pages of my wife

I wish to grasp not the look but the way of the words
In a quiet place far from both my wife and myself
And like a twig that smells the approach of snow in the air
I want to read my wife

-Yotsumoto Yasuhiro

Bedouin Woman by César Gemayel

Bearing that secret, ancient flame.

feasts, poetry, , , , , ,

ELIZABETH TO HER COUSIN

After Jacob of Serug

Blessed are you, O Maiden; blest
The fruit which dwells within your womb,
Beloved in that holy rest
Whose secret comes to sacred bloom.
And blessed is this virgin birth
Which shall uproot sin from the earth.

Who grants this favor to me now,
That you should come, O Blessed One,
Bearing the great who is made low?
By his own will this thing is done.
The mother of a king, and yet,
It’s at my wooden door we’ve met.

Let every mouth speak out your praise,
And all the seraphim stand shaken.
Your womb contains the brilliant rays
That from a living flame shall waken
This world, whose sleep in sin-black night
Gives way before new life and light.

The gardener who clears the thorns;
A lion’s cub whose jaws shall roar
Louder than all of Joshua’s horns,
And drive all craven wolves before:
Such is the sun that all shall see
Arise from you as from the sea.

But who am I that you should come
Bearing the one who made the world,
Who is its savior and its sum,
And yet within you now lies curled?
I am unfit, Ancient of Days,
To welcome you or speak your praise.

But, Lady blest and full of grace,
I see your beauty and rejoice;
The radiant flush upon your face,
A living water in your voice,
Disclosing what alone you know,
That light and word within you grow.

No angel spoke this truth to me,
But he who grows within me stirred
The moment that my eyes could see
You, still far off, and my ears heard
Your call, as down the hill you came,
Bearing that secret, ancient flame.

-James Matthew Wilson

 

I shift my attention to wisteria leaves.

beauty, my garden, , , ,

Most of the day I’ve been in a melancholy mood, except for the hour or so I was outside helping Alejandro pull the remaining leaves off the plum trees. We did this in preparation for applying the first dormant spray of the season, and I do love being in the garden, just soaking up the fresh smells and dampness. In the middle of the day, that is, when the chill doesn’t go straight to the bones.

I spent hours and hours out there this week, planting bulbs and annuals too late, and getting a little weary of the cold sogginess. But every time I would look up from the ground, there was the sky, and the varied colors of leaves drifting down from my crape myrtle, or the neighbor’s liquidamber. The whole thing overwhelms me with the beauty and sadness of the earth.

And today, it was the wisteria in my own garden that lifted my head and heart — it is a richer, deeper, brighter yellow-gold than I’ve ever noticed before. Truly, if cameras had never been invented, I would have had to learn to paint long ago.

Happy December, my Dear Readers all!