I've got some photos of light despite the gray skies and rain today, but I'm also seeking light. Or rather, enlightenment. A day or so ago I brought in the rosebud that had made it through several frosts. It's opening slowly and doing much better than the bud that I brought in earlier, which has stopped opening. Here's the question -- looking at the rosebud, I realized it had green leaves. Yes, with burgundy stems and edges, but definitely green. This photo is of leaves that are still out in the herb bed, reflecting light in raindrops, a photo I recorded this afternoon. These are the same rose leaves that I photographed back in September, the ones that inspired this prayer practice of looking for moments of light. At that point the leaves were burgundy. You can see them in the banner at the top of this page, and in this photo from September. So I'm confused. These rose leaves were green in the summer, turned burgundy, and then turned green again. Is this normal? Unusual? This rose bush has been just outside my backdoor for about 23 years. Has this been happening every year, and I've been oblivious? Mysteries, mysteries.
To end, one more rose bud picture (from September), catching the light in multiple ways.
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Assembly participants contributed scraps of cloth from many places to make a comforter for Heidi, our co-pastor who is living with cancer. Heidi has lived many places over the years, and so have people from the congregation. So there is cloth from Africa and Japan, and the Philippines, and other places. And there are many prayers that came with the cloth, and that continue to wrap Heidi and Mitch and the boys. And a moment of light from later in the day.... Sunday evenings, John and I attend Faith House Fellowship, a small house church that meets in the downtown house that serves as Faith Mennonite Church's office and gathering space. Tonight was the first time for a fire this fall -- light that we regularly enjoy when we gather for worship in winter's darkness. I spent the day at Pathways Retreat Center for a day of Gestalt Pastoral Training. The yellow maples glowed outside, and juncos flitted around finding food not too far from the building. There were many moments of light inside as well, ones that I'll come back to in memory, but those are private for the people involved, so instead I'll share a visual. This one fits in well with this past month's themes of light and darkness, and with the past week's recurring theme of leaves. It caught my eye from across the room. We ended with a song that has become part of our closing ritual and that done with hand movements created by the Assembly dance group, helps us to embody and celebrate what happens with Gestalt Pastoral Care:
God to enfold you. Christ to uphold you. Spirit to keep you in heaven's sight. So may God grace you, heal and embrace you, lead you through darkness into the light. John Bell and Graham Maule, Iona Community May you also be enfolded, upheld, kept, graced,healed, embraced, and may God lead you through darkness into the light. from Leaves (in Journeying in Place by Gunilla Norris) “There are so many of them. Piles of them. I take pleasure in their abundance. More saints than you could ever dream of. Each one singular. Each one itself. Yellow, red, orange, parchment. They sail down in the autumn air like fearless sky divers. They are so trusting – letting go completely. Not questioning as I do…Will it be safe? Will I understand? Will it hurt?...stalling, qualifying, questioning, instead of releasing and taking to the air." ". . . After that the big sugar maple begins. It stands in perfect glory for about a week. Then one windless night I sense that it sighs deeply somewhere inside its gnarled trunk and says, “Enough.” The next day I see a waterfall of leaves. They fall, no, cascade down, rustling, pouring, to pool upon the ground like a large, golden puddle. Yellow earth-light illumines my face." "I have felt that glow before. On her last night my mother was aglow like that. She was radiant. Neither of us knew it was her last night. Standing in the kitchen she blazed like the maple tree and I said to her, “Mother, you are so beautiful.” She smiled and nodded. “I have the glory in me,” she said. Then quietly during the night, something in her declared, “Enough,” and she shed her body. She let go. It was utterly clean. Only light remained."
Today I'm noticing how much light flowers and leaves hold, even on a gray, overcast day. Like this petunia. Yes, there's light reflected in the drops left by the afternoon drizzle, but there is also a deep, rich purple light at its center, a dazzling darkness. And there's the blaze of maple leaves. I went on to pick up a handful, all variations of reds and yellows, a brief fall brightness. And the glow of another maple leaf, perched on the ruddy gloss of holly. And the kousa dogwood in our backyard glowed with its own inner light. It's enough to make you want to burst into song...
There's a fire in the bush a burning..... Yesterday was a time for being aware of light in mundane places and on dimmer days. The sun hadn't risen yet when we went past these maples on the bike path south of the college, but they glowed with an inner light. I'd have like to see them blaze with full sun, but didn't have time to return later in the day. Dawn came as we headed back north. Here's a series entitled "Dawn over the Industrial Park." It got cloudier as the day went on, and I got to feeling rather seedy. This dandelion enjoying Tuesday's light is also seedy, but how beautiful. I woke up this morning realizing that I'd gotten sidetracked last night and despite good intentions to protect the remaining outdoor rosebud, it hadn't happened. Still, it seems to have survived the frost. Not bad for the first day of November. Out of curiosity, I checked the fountains in front of the music building late this afternoon, and they were running. Not only that, the drops were catching the light. It's next to impossible to catch the dancing of the water with a still photo, though, and it's in the dance and the play of the droplets that I saw sparks of light. This may look like an ice sculpture, but it's not that cold yet, not here anyway. It is the first of November, though, and so All Saints day, the day we remember those who have gone before us into the adventure of death, yet who remain with us in the great circle of saints, past, present and future. At an All Saints vesper service this evening, we lit candles and wrote names on paper leaves, and remembered our loved ones, our ordinary saints. Another moment of light.
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My approach to contemplative photography --
"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." Mary Oliver in "Sometimes" Archives
August 2020
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