And holy is your name.... This was Mary's Sunday. We heard the story of Gabriel's visit to her, and then the Magnificat, her song of praise and prophecy. The story was read by a young couple whose little girl died shortly after birth a year and a half ago and who are now awaiting the birth of their son. Darkness and light. . . .through all generations. . . Our benediction was the song My soul is filled with joy, #13 in Sing the Journey, the Magnifacat put to the music of the Irish traditional song Wild Mountain Thyme. Singly, in pairs, and then as a group of six, dancers presented the verses, and then returned to the same refrain. . . .Everlasting is your mercy. . . . . .to the people you have chosen. . . . . .and holy is your name.
After the five verses, the refrain is played over and over again. The six dancers did it together, and then with each repeat, another seven or so dancers stood up in the aisles and joined them. By the last time through, there were dancers spread through the whole congregation -- including a few who joined in on the spur of the moment. Linda, the choreographer, calls it her Mary's Song Flash Mob dance. It was a joy to be part of the flash mob. I wasn't too sure about it when we started rehearsing before the service and there were only about five of us there to be the "mob." But additional participants kept arriving as we rehearsed, and by the end, there were enough to have the aisles well-filled. Much sunlight throughout the day, and a lovely singing fire at Faith House Fellowship this evening, and some good quotes on light from Philip Newell -- but I'll save those for another day.
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I'm thinking of the intertwining of light and shadow again. Today there was retreat space set up at the meetinghouse, so that people could come as they were able, and spend time in Advent space. There were tables set up with supplies for folding origami cranes or working creatively with paper supplies or decorating candles with malleable colored beeswax. And there was a large spiral laid out on the floor, outlined with pine branches and tree stumps for setting candles on, with the path leading in to the glowing Christ candle at the center. We were invited to spend time in prayer or pondering questions such as: In what ways are the Darkness and Light interacting in you and in the world this Advent season? How have you seen darkness becoming the "cradle of the dawning"? Can you name the spots of light and the dark places of this past year? If we chose to do so, we could carry an unlit candle into the spiral, slowly, mindfully, prayerfully, light it at the Christ candle and then carry it out, placing it on one of the stumps. On the way in with my unlit candle, I noticed one golden origami crane catching the light as it hung on the mobile that has been made of many origami cranes folded in prayer for Heidi's healing. And I noticed the dance of the light and shadow of candles that others had left on the stumps of wood. I didn't have my camera along, so this is a re-creation at home. I looked down at flames that were flickering slightly in the movement of air in the room. Beneath them, the white candles glowed in their wooden holders. Beneath each holder there was a pool of light, dancing a bit as the flame flickered. And at the center of each pool of light, there was a dancing shadow, cast by the candle itself. In one case, the drips and decorations on the side of the candle were such that the cast shadow looked like a bird, moving gently in its pool of cast light. On the way out, my attention went to the flame I carried. When I held it at eye level, I could see the beautiful clear blue at the base, then the warm dancing light above. And at the center of the flame, a shadow that was part of the flame and so of light, and yet still a shadow, around and above the wick.With each step I took the flame bent and bowed regally, first to one side, then to the other. I soon had the verse from the old Shaker hymn singing through my head: When true simplicity is found to bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed, to turn, turn shall be our delight, till by turning, turning we come round right. How appropriate to accompany a spiral walk. And how fitting with the last questions we were given to ponder: Have any new insights emerged [as you walked the spiral]? Are you feeling called to any new action, to a shift in your current practices, or to letting something go? Before I entered the spiral, I had folded an origami crane of black paper shot with black threads that caught the light and shimmered. It seemed fitting for this season of ruminating on darkness and light. I left it on the art table. As I finished the spiral, I realized I wanted to fold another crane to go with it, one of some light colored paper. I shuffled through the papers that were there, and chose a light blue, sprinkled with lighter blue strands. It reminded me of the blue of the flame, and the blue light that Heidi has written about experiencing during her radiation treatment. I finished folding it, and reached across the table to put it beside the black crane -- and discovered someone had already folded a tiny blue crane and placed it lovingly on the wings of the larger black crane. Darkness and light. Dark paper with light threads, dancing candle shadows and flames, and a tiny blue bird of hope. I had a retreat day at the cottage at Pathways Retreat Center today, a good day of rest and reflection. The morning was gray and drippy, and could have been dismal, except that everywhere I looked, I saw beads of light. There was even color. The afternoon was drier and I was able to walk the small labyrinth. I came back to my snug cabin and Seeking with All My Heart by Paula D'Arcy, and found myself reading about her experience walking a labyrinth made with luminaries (candles in paper bags). She describes how she half-closed her eyes, so she was no longer aware of the others walking with her through the narrow rows of candles.
"There was only light. And suddenly I was nowhere, and I was everywhere. At the same moment. I simply was. And there was nothing more or less than now." She held that awareness as she refocused her eyes and started the journey back out, passing the people who followed her, this time meeting their eyes, holding their gaze. She realized that the labyrinth wasn't just a work of art, but a representation of something deeply true. "The path we each walk, the movement of the soul toward awakening, is ablaze with light. We never take a step apart from light. By light we are held and defined. But on the path itself, day to day, we seldom, if ever glimpse light. We're more likely to see difficulty, adversity and sorrow. We often feel alone, not held. There is no sense of a life-sustaining embrace. There is the sense that life is an incomprehensible puzzle, which often goes in a direction we would never have consciously chosen. Far from seeing light, we perceive darkness." She goes on to tell of meeting, years later, the nurse who had cared for her in intensive care in the days after a car accident that took the lives of her husband and daughter. She didn't recognize her, but the nurse knew who she was and told of how she had tended her and prayed for her, and hoped against hope that she'd make it -- praying that the flicker of light she saw in her would not go out. Driving home after the encounter, Paula was overwhelmed by "a realization that those days, for me, had appeared to be totally and utterly dark. And if my life at the time had been depicted as a journey within a labyrinth, I would have insisted that that particular section of the path was unlit. But that night, in a rare moment, I not only got to see that I was mistaken, I got to see the very embodiment of the path's light." Darkness and light. Walking in the light, whether we are able to perceive it or not. A wet December day makes me feel like curling up in an afghan, with a cup of hot tea and a good children's book. I did that last night with Moominland Midwinter, by Tove Jansson. It's the story of Moomintroll's extraordinary wakening from his winter hibernation and his discovery of the winter world in Finland. It's a fun little book, with some wise words on living in the moment and not longing for the summer that is past or the spring that is to come. It brightened my winter day. I pulled it off the shelf in part because earlier in the day I was reminded of one of the incidental characters in the story -- the little squirrel who thinks of himself as "the squirrel with the marvellous tail." The midmorning coffee klatch at the birdfeeder included the usual crowd of sparrows, a cardinal or two, and a couple of squirrels. They looked like they might well think of themselves as "the squirrel with the marvellous tail." And they were every bit as flighty as the book's squirrel, an absent-minded and foolish fellow who comes to a sad end, freezing to death when he meets the Lady of the Cold, in the deep midwinter freeze. Or does he? "[Moomintroll] hardly turned his head as a small squirrel jumped across his path. "Happy spring," said the squirrel, absent-mindedly. "Well, thanks," replied Moomintroll and continued on his way. But all at once he stopped short and stared at the squirrel. It had a big and bushy tail that shone red in the sunset. "Do people call you the squirrel with the marvellous tail?" Moomintroll asked slowly. "Of course," said the squirrel. "Is it you?" cried Moomintroll. "Is it really you? Who met the Lady of the Cold?" "I don't remember," said the squirrel. "You know, I'm not very bright at remembering things." And while Moomintroll has more questions, we're left with mystery. And a squirrel who thinks of himself as "the squirrel with the marvellous tail." And two more who may be curled up in a nest in the neighbor's maple tree right now, wrapped up in their tails, keeping warm. _The picture above is Henry Ossawa Tanner's 1898 painting of the Annunciation, the angel Gabriel's appearance to Mary. I find my gaze repeatedly returning to that angel of light, and to Mary's face and hands.
This morning I was working with the story of Gabriel's visit to Mary in Luke 1: 26 - 38, in preparation for some gatherings later this week, and my attention was caught by the word "overshadow" in verse 35. The power of the Most High will overshadow you... Overshadow: To cast a shadow over, to darken or obscure. The same word shows up in the various gospel accounts of the transfiguration, the glory that comes over Jesus on the mountain, as he talks with Moses and Elijah. A cloud -- or in Matthew's version, a bright cloud -- comes and overshadows the three disciples who are watching. This "bright cloud" is a reference to the Shekinah, the cloud that filled the temple when it was first built, which is experienced as both thick darkness and as the radiant glory of God, a sign of the in-dwelling of God in that place. So what kind of shadow does a bright cloud cast? What light shines when we reflect that radiant glory? Here's a mix of cloud and light and shadow and reflections, an image received at the end of October, near the Goshen dam. I put the ornaments on the tree today, beginning with these two -- the glass ball with the map of the world etched on, and the dove carrying an olive branch. It seems like the best place to start. The rest of the tree gets decked with stars, angels, and other things that belong on trees -- leaves, birds, a tree frog. Okay, I'm not so sure about the reindeer, but it's in there too. They catch the light in their own ways. A crystal apple from a visit to Denmark just after college, years ago, and stars and angels from many places, thanks to a tradition of buying a Christmas ornament from Ten Thousand Villages every year, another way of praying for peace on earth -- or at least, for fair trade and hope for the artisans who make the products.
"Joy is a candle of mystery and laughter, mystery of light that is born in the dark..." (from Hope is a candle by Richard Leach, #15 in Sing the Story)
It's the third Sunday of Advent, and my moments of light today are snippets here and there -- -- the light shining on Karen's head as she sang the solo during communion --light from the stained glass windows dancing colorfully above Wilma's head as she played the guitar -- Carmen's and my shared laughter as she stumbled over this line in her blessing for me: "May your mouth be filled with laughter ... (from Psalm 126) --candles, fire, and laughter at Faith House --a just past full moon seen through the branches of the neighbor's trees -- lights on the Christmas tree we put up yesterday -- the wonderful illustrations in Julia Vivas' book, The Nativity, especially the angel, with his colorful, tattered wings and his army boots ". . .laughter at hearing the voice of an angel, ever so near, casting out fear." (from Hope is a candle) One more quote from the article "Times of Abundance," and the spark of light and beauty in imperfection (see yesterday's blog for more on this): If you get just a few items from a local farmer, or even a few herbs from your windowsill, you create a personal connection to food and to the people and place it came from. The bottom line is that good food is food that connects you to the earth and to others -- it is a very real communion. I experience that communion on my weekly trips to Goshen's Farmers' Market, and at a weekly breakfast date at Rachel's Bread. Rachel grew up in Belgium and missed the bread and the ambiance of the bakeries there. She has created her own version here, in her bakery attached to the Farmers' Market -- definitely a spark of light in my week, both for the yummy food and for the fellowship as we visit with friends while we eat. And then there's the Farmers' Market in the same building. I take delight in buying veggies that have been grown nearby, by farmers I now know by name. At this time of the year, the variety isn't as colorful as in the supermarket, but it feels more connected to the season I'm experiencing. You can't get much more connected to the earth than the rugged root crops that are available these days. There's a subtle light even in dusty potato skins and dried flowers, and more light in the community that gathers to sell and to buy these goods.
This is a Japanese tea bowl from the exhibit we went to in Kalamazoo in mid-November. My eye was focusing on leaves of all kinds during that season of leaf transformation.Today it is fitting well with a paragraph I came across in a Christian Century article in the December 13th issue, "Times of Abundance", by Amy Frykholm. She interviewed Terra Brockman, an advocate for sustainable agriculture and founder of The Land Connection. The paragraph came in the midst of a discussion of people's reactions to "imperfect" fruits and vegetables:
I learned about the importance of imperfection when I lived in Japan. In the Japanese tea ceremony, you have to use imperfect clay bowls because the aging, cracked, asymmetrical bowls force you to see beyond the surface to the spark of light and beauty within. The spark points to perfection within imperfection. Food is not about some perfect size or color or presentation. It's about joining us to the earth, our fellow creatures, family, guests, and ultimately God. It's about life here and now, about seeing the spark of light and beauty in our world and our lives, even with all their imperfection and unpredictability. Amen -- it's like the broken and blessed pot I wrote of November 28, it's like all our lives. It's about seeing the spark of light and beauty in the midst of all the imperfection, unpredictability, and change. So here's a few more sparks of light, found in what at first glance was a gray, frozen, barren landscape. Yesterday one shimmer of light came with the play of light and shadow on this harvested field. First my eye was caught by the lines of the stubble and the flow of the land, and I recorded this scene just before going in to visit with a friend.
When I came out an hour or two later, the sky had changed and the play of light and shadow was more active, sweeping across the field so that the land itself seemed to shimmer. |
My approach to contemplative photography --
"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." Mary Oliver in "Sometimes" Archives
August 2020
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