I began this blog nine months ago partially in response to the news of Heidi's cancer (see the first entry Watching for Light, on 9-29). With Heidi's death Sunday, I have been going through the photos I've taken these past nine months, looking for ones that speak to me of Heidi.
There are none of Heidi herself. I have been taking very few photos of people, since it hasn't seemed right to post those without asking permission and that added an extra layer of work to a blog entry. So even though interactions with people are often the source for sparks of light in a day for me, I have not emphasized that here. Instead I have focused on nature, and on objects that in some way show a spark of light, either literally or metaphorically. Sometimes it is a physical object that illustrates an interaction or an event that was a spark of light. With the latter, I often have told a little about the event. I decided to put together a slideshow of photos that speak to me of Heidi -- sometimes due to comments that she sent me, or because the object pictured is from an event related to Heidi, or simply because the photo seems to fit in some way today. I put this series of photos together, but instead of doing a slideshow here, which may take too long for some computers to download, I have divided it into five segments, one for each day until Heidi's memorial service Saturday, beginning today.
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A lovely 24 hour retreat at the Hermitage last night and today, a gathering of spiritual directors for three sessions led by Marlene Kropf on Into the Silence. And last night we participated in the Hermitage's monthly Taize service. Except for the sessions with Marlene and the worship services, our time was spent in silence. Silence in terms of speech with other humans, that is. I spent an hour last evening, and another this morning, wandering through the woods and fields. It was far from silent. The birds and frogs were greeting this warm spring weather with loud hosannas. I heard, and in many cases, saw chickadees, hairy (or possibly downy) woodpeckers, a red-bellied woodpecker, crows, redwing blackbirds, robins, cardinals, mourning doves, a rooster, nuthatches, and sandhill cranes. A single crane flew low over the retreat center this morning, not far from the bench where I was sitting and watching birds at the feeder. I'd like to share some of the sounds I heard -- the flutter of bird wings at the feeders, or the clatter of the sandhill cranes, or the loud chorus of spring peepers on a nearby pond, but there seems to be some hitch in loading that sort of file. So here instead is a memento of something else I enjoyed - being able to spot last year's bird nests in briar patches and bare branches. I came back home to more warm temperatures, and a tornado watch -- it must be spring. But this same turmoil also makes for some magnificent clouds. I glanced out just before sunset and then had to go outside and watch this light show sail past to the north of us.
Epiphany was January 6, but I'm still pondering it and probably will continue to do so, because watching for sparks of light is an Epiphany practice.
In a short reflection piece for Alive Now! called "Looking for Christ in the Boring," Sarah Parsons gives the short version of one of her "ordinary, boring days" and then retells it, with an eye for the Christ moments she encountered. She writes: These Christ-sightings are an Epiphany message for me. Christmas says Christ is here, born into the world. Epiphany says it's up to us to find him, and it may not be easy. We may have to walk a long road, follow strange guidance, and encounter Herod-like dangers. . .When I expect Christ to enter my day with lots of fanfare and, at the end of the day, bemoan that 'nothing happened,' I wonder if I am getting Christ wrong somehow. Christ originally entered the world in pretty ordinary human style, even more humbly than most humans do." Our invitation is to stay awake, pay attention, notice the ways that God is present in the place where we are, in all its ordinariness. In what started out as a gray Indiana day, my attention was caught by the changes in the sky, from the midday sun beginning to break through the clouds in the picture above, making me think of a dark-winged angel, to the blue skies and fleecy skies of the later afternoon, catching the light of the setting sun. There were other moments of light as well, of encounter and relationship, but those are not always mine to share. Read Sarah's full article for her examples of ways she encountered the light of Christ in her boring day, once she opened her eyes to look. The clouds cleared enough in the late afternoon that we were able to catch some glimpses of the last sunset of 2011, seen at various points on campus -- glimpses of light through all the paraphernalia of the ordinary. And to close off 2011, this closing blessing from Philip Newell's Celtic Treasure:
The blessings of heaven, the blessings of earth, the blessings of sea and of sky. On those we love this day and on every human family the gifts of heaven, the gifts of earth, the gifts of sea and of sky. A day full of sunshine, and enough warmth to melt the water in the birdbath on the south of the house, filling it with light. Perhaps this sparrow is also collecting sparks of light. When I was a seminary student in the 90's, I regularly drove the back roads between Goshen and Elkhart, and loved watching the change of seasons. I had an errand in Elkhart this afternoon and took the old familiar route, under a sun-washed sky. The trees are mostly bare and brown now, and the fields are tawny with corn stubble, and dry grasses, catching the light. It was barely 5:30 when I got back to Goshen, but the sun was dropping quickly. I'd hoped to find more scenes with sun and dry grass on campus, but traffic was backed up waiting for a train, so I recorded the sun-dappled sky instead.
I spent four days on the road this week, traveling anywhere from four to eight hours each day. There were many moments of light, but I collected those images in my memory banks, rather than with the camera -- interactions of clouds and light, and of light and shadow on rolling hills and fall scenes, as well as many good conversations with my traveling companions.
One day we traveled during the “golden hour,” that hour loved by photographers when the sun’s rays are low across the landscape. Our golden hour lit the golden leaves still on many trees. Other days were cloudier, with the sun’s rays breaking through open patches in the clouds, rimming the edges with light, and sending shafts down to earth. When the cloud bank thickened, we were left with rolling Pennsylvania hills, covered with a gray-brown afghan of bare trees, interspersed with an occasional bright yellow or red tree, still proudly displaying its leaves. Yesterday it rained all morning as I traveled between Columbus and Fort Wayne. The clouds were soggy and leaking, but there was a golden undertone – russet fields of drying soybeans, tawny cornfields, thickets of trees with wet black trunks vivid against a backdrop of yellow leaves. After Fort Wayne, the cloud cover began breaking up, so there were dramatic cloud configurations mixed with sun highlighting fields and woods. It reminded me of travels in Big Sky country in Alberta, with majestic clouds rather than our more usual gray blanket. I tried to capture a bit of the drama at a stoplight, and by pulling off a time or two – this only hints at the beauty, because it proved quite challenging to find a good combination of dramatic clouds, shafts of sunshine hitting fall colors and a safe place to pull off the road. Perhaps it can remind you of your own dramatic memories of cloud and light. I nearly didn’t go out for a walk this morning. I didn’t have a walking partner and it looked cold and gray. But I wanted the exercise, so I went. Just before I left the house, I saw a little blue in the sky, so I grabbed my camera. Good thing! The sky was amazing, full of fast moving clouds lit by the rising sun, and with fascinating shadows cast by other clouds. And always changing. It wasn’t the most aerobic walk I’ve ever had, because I kept stopping to take photos. The slide show below is in chronological order, over about a twenty minute period. If you are familiar with the Goshen College campus you may be able to tell when I'm facing east and when it's west. When you see the branch of maple leaves, you've been through the whole cycle. |
My approach to contemplative photography --
"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." Mary Oliver in "Sometimes" Archives
August 2020
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