Our congregation had its annual retreat at Camp Friedenswald this weekend. The trees in southern Michigan were at their peak of color and I spent much of the weekend wandering around taking photos of light shining through leaves. I’ll save some of that light and color for posting on the next rainy day – memories are a good source for sparks of light in the midst of dreariness, thank Heaven. John and I went back to Goshen last night for a gathering with friends and returned just before sunrise this morning, in time to spend a peaceful hour watching the gradually increasing light in the fen, and listening to the calls of killdeer, geese, and redwing blackbirds. Looking over the fen, just before sunrise About an hour later, when the sun has risen far enough over the hills behind us for the light to reach the fen. It was a restful gift of slowly increasing light and birds singing praise, a good base for learning soon afterwards that tragedy has again touched the congregation. The father of one of our members, and a colleague of the many members who work at Goshen College, Jim Miller, was stabbed and killed by an intruder in the early morning hours. His wife was also injured and is in the hospital.
Darkness and light. Death and life. How can this be? During the worship service, after the children left for Sunday School and the details we knew were shared, after one of the pastors led in prayer and we sat together in silence holding the family in God’s Light and wrestling with the chaos, the worship leader stood and in heartfelt Hebrew cried, “Eli, eli, lema sabachthani?" "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" he translated, drawing on Jesus’ words from the cross. “How can this be?“ And yet, he went on, it is. And so is the bright sunshine, and the colorful leaves, and this group of people gathered together, giving thanks to God. Life and death. Lament and praise. Back home again, I found this prayer from Philip Newell’s Celtic Treasure: O God of light, from whom all life flows, may we glimpse the shinings of your presence in all things. In the darknesses of our world, in places of fear and terrible wrong, and in the darknesses of our own lives, in times of confusion and doubt, may we glimpse the shinings of your life-giving presence. Amen and amen.
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We’re having beautiful sunny days this week and there are plenty of sparks of light to capture. It’s hard to choose just one, and why should I? Better to collect all that I can. I feel a bit like a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter, or (a more attractive thought) Leo Lionni’s Frederick, gathering sunrays and colors and words for the cold gray winter days. Here’s dawn sun on morning mist, from the bike path near campus. And the bright combo of maple leaves and morning sunlight, blazing unexpectedly above mundane cars and parking lot. And these sparkling dewdrops weren’t on the grass by my doorstep, but close enough – they were in the prairie plantings on the Goshen College campus just across the road. Mid-afternoon sunlight streaming into my spiritual direction room.... John and I biked out the Pumpkinvine trail for a picnic supper. In the marsh/lake beside the trail we saw three large herons – though they seemed a bit large for herons. And then they started clacking. Sandhill cranes! (I 'm guessing) And a flash of light as one spread his wings and danced. And as we biked home, evening light and fall leaves, bright reds and yellows. There you go, Frederick! Early this morning I read Heidi's Caringbridge blog for the past two days, which held a mix of the hard times of radiation treatment and celebrating life in the moment. I headed out for my usual walk, carrying my camera, just as the sun was coming up. Here it is again, that combination of light and dark that so often appear together when I become aware of a spark of light, that moment which in some way causes my heart to sing. As I walked on, it occurred to me that those moments often cluster in transition times. Early morning and late afternoon light create more interesting photos than the full light of day; the change of seasons brings new color; life’s transitions often make us more acutely aware of the gifts of the present. A fall leaf is beautiful, and bittersweet, and precious because it is both. Returning home, I started noticing a scattering of diamond bright light sparking from the short green grass – morning sunlight hitting the dew on the grass blades. I didn’t bother pulling the camera out. I took delight in the light, but knew I didn’t have the photographic skills to capture it.
I came in to read today’s email and found this Word for the Day from gratefulness.org, a quote from Bengali poet and Nobel winner for literature, Rabindranath Tagore: For many years, at great cost, I traveled through many countries, saw the high mountains, the oceans. The only things I did not see were the sparkling dewdrops in the grass just outside my door. I had to go back out and commemorate my grass diamonds, whether or not the photo did justice to it. If you look closely below, you’ll find dewdrops, but the flashes of fire are missing. You’ll have to go out and look for them in the dewdrops in the grass outside your own door. What other sparks of light will you find as you look around your everyday life? One spark of light flew by too quickly for a photo today. I was standing in the parking lot outside of the farmer's market and looked up just in time to see a flash of late afternoon sunlight on the glossy black plumage of a crow flapping its way south.
Oddly, I notice that it takes effort to notice the sparks of light after a few days of sunshine. With so much light streaming down, I start taking it for granted. I need to store up more sunlit images for the cloudy gray days that will be coming to northern Indiana all too soon. Here's the one photo I did take -- sun on the grasses beside the parking lot. This past weekend I was at a workshop/retreat at a cabin on Lake Shavehead, in Michigan. After a week of rain, two days of sunshine were a delight. Both mornings began with a luminous sky, glowing steam wafting off the lake, and then the dancing sparkles of sunshine on the water. But my 'sparks of light' for the weekend came a little later in the day. On Saturday my eye was caught by the interplay of light and shadow as the sun hit this old canning jar. And my second 'spark of light' was the interactions of this group of Gestalt Pastoral Care trainees. It is our second year together, and this was the first meeting of the fall. Our sessions are always a mix of hard work and often tears, liberally seasoned with grace and healing laughter -- another interplay of light and shadow. It was good to be together again.
I am wondering about the way my understanding of 'spark of light' seems to have something to do with this interplay of shadow and light -- something to notice and to reflect on further as I seek sparks of light this week. |
My approach to contemplative photography --
"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." Mary Oliver in "Sometimes" Archives
August 2020
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