Tag Archives: seasons

At the dark dream of the year.

Nativity, poetry, , , , ,

I am learning to live, glory to God — though I’d never thought of it just that way until reading this poem. Its allusions to giving birth I can relate to, though I’m thankful I was able to accomplish the material form of that work when I was in the “glory of the flesh,” young and strong. Now that I am in the autumn of my life, now is when as a widow I have to rise to the less tangible demands, which before I had thought of more as a re-creation than a rebirth.

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It used to be that January was the dark dream of the year for me, but judging from the last few weeks, I think that in the years to come the ramp-up to Christmas might prove to be the season when it’s hardest to stay tuned to Christ’s birth in me, as He,

At the iron senseless time, comes
To force the glory into frozen veins…

Maybe it’s a stretch to apply these metaphors to my situation. But all the traditions of getting ready for Christmas — the planning for gifts, the shopping and cooking and decorating, Christmas caroling, all in a context of wood fires and sweeping of leaves and walks on brisk mornings — I have to learn to live on my own now. “Everything changes,” and I have been born into a new and strange existence. The natural impulse is to wish to sleep ever and to dream of springtimes past.

But as Christ is born in me moment by moment, I’m the farthest possible from “on my own.” If I could live in this reality, truly live in Him, instead of in the unreality of memories that are phantoms (human beings themselves can never fall into the category of Memories), it would be a constant breaking out in a glorious freedom that encompasses calm and warmth and joy, the fullness of God. I’m in the process — I am being born, ever so slowly:

To bear new life or learn to live is an exacting joy:
The whole self must waken; you cannot predict the way
It will happen, or master the responses beforehand.
For any birth makes an inconvenient demand…

I feel that I could feed off this rich poem for the next several months! It is a great gift to me; I hope you enjoy it, too. May your Advent waiting be fruitful.

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CHRISTMAS AND COMMON BIRTH

Christmas declares the glory of the flesh:
And therefore a European might wish
To celebrate it not at midwinter but in spring,
When physical life is strong,
When the consent to live is forced even on the young,
Juice is in the soil, the leaf, the vein,
Sugar flows to movement in limbs and brain.
Also before a birth, nourishing the child
We turn again to the earth
With unusual longing—to what is rich, wild,
Substantial: scents that have been stored and strengthened
In apple lofts, the underwash of woods, and in barns;
Drawn through the lengthened root; pungent in cones
(While the fir wood stands waiting; the beech wood aspiring,
Each in a different silence), and breaking out in spring
With scent sight sound indivisible in song.

Yet if you think again
It is good that Christmas comes at the dark dream of the year
That might wish to sleep ever.
For birth is awaking, birth is effort and pain;
And now at midwinter are the hints, inklings
(Sodden primrose, honeysuckle greening)
That sleep must be broken.
To bear new life or learn to live is an exacting joy:
The whole self must waken; you cannot predict the way
It will happen, or master the responses beforehand.
For any birth makes an inconvenient demand;
Like all holy things
It is frequently a nuisance, and its needs never end;
Freedom it brings: We should welcome release
From its long merciless rehearsal of peace.

So Christ comes
At the iron senseless time, comes
To force the glory into frozen veins:
His warmth wakes
Green life glazed in the pool, wakes
All calm and crystal trance with the living pains.

And each year
In seasonal growth is good — year
That lacking love is a stale story at best
By God’s birth
Our common birth is holy; birth
Is all at Christmas time and wholly blest.

-Anne Ridler

 

(Bottom photo by Pippin)

All nature stretches…

housework, my garden, nature, quotes, , ,

We have rain, thank the Lord. My newly planted kale starts (sprouted and nurtured igl-kale-p1050630n the greenhouse!) are very happy with the weather. I’ve been busy battening down the hatches, which includes battling with mice and rats who found my garage a cozy place to set up housekeeping for the winter. I’m thankful for them at this point, because they have forced me to clean the garage from top to bottom. Dear little things – and I’m trying not to be sarcastic – I know they are doing what is normal and right for them.

As the earthly light dims, here in the Northern Hemisphere, I feel the reality of God’s never-waning Light. Wherever you live, may you be nurtured by His gifts this moment and every day.

Every creature has in it the instinct to be as true as possible to what God created it to be. Even plants have this directive in them. All nature stretches toward the nurture it requires for its fulfillment – the “daily bread,” so-to-speak, that it needs for its survival… We have, every one of us, been planted facing the earthly darkness of sin and death. This business of making our way upward and into the daylight, to blossom forth as the individuals God made us to be – this is the enlightened life to which our inborn instinct calls us… The Lord Jesus Christ is always reaching even into the darkest places on earth and inside our souls to draw us into a blessed life. As the Apostle Peter wrote, “He has called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.” (1 Peter 2:9) Likewise the Prophet Isaiah said, “Upon those who sat in the dark region and shadow of death, the light has shined.” (Matthew 4:16, Isaiah 9:2)

~Dee Pennock, God’s Path to Sanity

Grasshopper Poetry

nature, poetry, , ,

On the Grasshopper and the Cricket

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

-John Keats

I am home again from visiting my children. I can relate to the grasshopper a little, as I rest at ease in the pleasant warmth of my town.  Normally I complain about the lack of summery evenings here, but at least most of the days I can bake a little in my garden without wearing a jacket.

At noon today when I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge the water itself was not to be seen below, the fog was so thick on San Francisco Bay. But this evening at Vespers everyone was dressed all summery, and several neighbors have parties in their back yards tonight, and the voices coming over the fences are telling of fun.

Here is a grasshopper making his sound.

I hope you also are not done with your seasonal delights. Chirp on!

seed and harvest

my garden, nature, ,

We had a day of rain this week, and the earth put forth its smells of life and death. In the front yard the heads of dill hung heavy over the African daisies and verbena. I was glad I’d just collected some dill seeds the day before when they were still dry. I expect to see lots of little dill sprouts here next spring from what I didn’t collect.GL P1010651

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These trailing orange zinnias are the result of seeds dropping to the ground from last year’s blooms. This year I deliberately collected some of them, too, in hopes of having them in my new back yard garden as well.

 

 

 

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The butternut squash vines keep traveling toward the street, and I occasionally steer them to the side. I think they hold enough big fruits to keep me happy through the winter. But I pulled up the basil plants, which I had utterly failed to make use of this summer. I’m hoping to plant some winter greens where they were, so I looked through my seed boxes to see what was handy.

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Not much but old, old seeds. The rocket (arugula) seed is from my own garden almost 20 years ago. But sometimes they have life in them, no? So I found a flat in the garage and planted thickly in rows to test them. The rain fell on them, the sun is shining on them where they sit out in the sea of dirt/mud, itself still not improved upon. Now we’ll see if anything happens. I’m pretty sure something will.

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