The Opening of Eyes
That day I saw beneath dark clouds
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.
It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing
speaking out loud in the clear air.
It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.
— David Whyte
from Songs for Coming Home
©1984 Many Rivers Press
I sit very still and silent on this early Advent morning as light enters for a new day, casting shadow art on the wall that shifts and changes like rippling water – for me an illustration of the intersection of art and faith. I think of the ways God lets us know He is with us.
“In the small, silent places within us is another voice, one that beckons us into the foolishness of faith, that points our gaze to the birds and the flowers, that, in unguarded moments lets our muscles relax, and our hearts lean into loved ones, in unexpected whispers we hear it, calling us to remember your promises, your grace, your faithfulness, and suddenly, we discover that it is enough. Amen” John Van De Laar
When I read the poem below, I thought of all the sweet, familiar traditions we share as a family that help us focus on Christmas truth – the hanging of the green, happy Christmas colors, twinkling lights reflected in the children’s eyes, candlelight and firelight, stars and tiny manger scenes – all celebrating “This most tremendous tale of all, Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue, A Baby in an ox’s stall, ,The Maker of the stars and sea, Become a Child on earth for me..”
The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.
The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
‘The church looks nice’ on Christmas Day.
Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says ‘Merry Christmas to you all’.
And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.
And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children’s hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say ‘Come!’
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.
And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,
A Baby in an ox’s stall ?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me ?
And is it true ? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,
No love that in a family dwells,
No caroling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare —
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.
Christmas, John Betjeman, Poet Laureate of U.K. 1972 until his death in 1984
In three more days, we can say that Fall has arrived because the calendar page turns and there it is. But I can feel it coming from a long way before. The leaves on our South Texas trees may not sport the vivid varieties of scarlet and orange and gold which we see in climates that have more distinct season changes, but there are hints. Crepe myrtle leaves begin to look different in morning light, even before they get touched with red. Other leaves just begin to drop. Mornings have the slightest hint of cool, and the light changes. I begin to look forward to baking more and spending more time on the back porch. I check the supplies of cinnamon and nutmeg and maple syrup. There are whispers of Autumn everywhere this week.
a pumpkin appears by my front door
I slice apples for dipping in caramel
the ginger cat waits patiently
“To learn something new, take the path that you took yesterday”. ~John Burrough
vine greens and reaches
early light dawns and dapples
new morning new mercy
Morning Glory opens
grace glows in star gift
wrapped in blue tissue
“It is a bold and colossal claim that we put forward – that the whole of life is sacramental, that there are innumerable ‘means of grace’ by which God is revealed and communicated – through nature and through human fellowship and through a thousand things that may become the ‘outward and visible sign’ of ‘an inward and spiritual grace’.”
~ A. Barrett Brown
Photo by Madelyn Claire Parker, age 7
“There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.”
– Francis Bacon
Reflection
unexpected image
changing with the hours
curled around cobalt sphere
reflecting creation without straight lines
Stones and Feathers 