Category: creation

The Purple Flush of November Skies

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Than these November skies
Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;
Into their grey the subtle spies
Of colour creep,
Changing that high austerity to delight,
Till ev’n the leaden interfolds are bright.
And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers
Ere a thin flushing cloud again
Shuts up that loveliness, or shares.
The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as
Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,
Holding in bright caprice their rain.
And when of colours none,
Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,
Is truly seen, —
In all the myriad grey,
In silver height and dusky deep, remain
The loveliest,
Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.
~John Freeman “November Skies”

November is usually a barren landscape peasant-bare and farmer-plain. Even so, this austere month is sometimes offset by a royal light show in the skies with golden and purple hues painted by the rising and setting sun.

The sky has subtlety and nuance, not unlike what we see in a beloved and aging face. Indeed, a remembered beauty becomes liminal beyond the myriad gray. The horizon’s folds, lines and wrinkles glow with lambent light and depth.

Despite these darkening days, our sun is never vanquished. May we also be illuminated like these incredible skies, our grayness enrobed in royal golds and purples.

Fingerprints of Radiance

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And when light
comes from nowhere I can see,
when my soul is clothed in
golden bandages, ribbons of grace,
how can I tell you? Or even tell myself
so I can write it down? No words
are bright enough to catch
those fingerprints of radiance
that flicker on my wall.
~Luci Shaw from “I Say Light, Thinking” in Harvesting Fog

That afternoon, the air’s large hand
took hold of their backyard
apricot tree, the one that
had fruited, bountifully, a lush yield
in late summer, caught it in a downdraft
of chill, shook it lightly, again, again,
loosening each leaf from its
thumb of stem.
For two days I watched
the leaves’ pale, ground-ward drift,
each leaf singly, in its
gentle shedding, among all
the glints of gold,
each crumpled flick of fiber
from its stem’s thumb
a departure, a declaration.
An announcement, God saying,
gently, Thank You for
a lovely job. Now,
time to let go.
~Luci Shaw “Loewy’s Apricot Tree, Fall 2022”

Here God lives, burrowing among
the petals, cross-
pollinating. Here is Christ’s mind
juiced, joined, fleshed, celled.

Here is the clash,
the roil, an invasion, not gentle
as dew; the rose is unfurled
violently until the scent explodes
and detonates in the air

And oh, it trembles—
thousands of seeds ripen in it as
it reels in the wind.
~Luci Shaw from “Flower Head” from Polishing the Petoskey Stone

I awake with my mind as askew as my hair,
brushing away the cobwebs of dreams,
smoothing down worries ever present,
curling the whiff of memories long forgotten.

And I realize these same molecules transmitting my thoughts
also carried Christ’s while He walked this earth;
the earthbound thoughts of God Himself,
borne by His integration of chemistry with ions,
in millions of electrical explosions per second.

My own mind trembles with the thought of it:

here God lives and shines His Light,
here He leaves His radiant fingerprints,
here He thinks in Words I understand,
here He loves, catching me when I let go…

Seize Each Day Gently

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Certain I can’t carry
another sadness,
I step outside
and let the shine
of the mid-morning sun
stroke my cheek
like a lover.
And the air has a strange
bright citrus tang.
I inhale it
again and again.
Whatever it means
to be alive,
it has something
to do with this—
scent of leaf
and spruce and shadow.
The astonishing warmth
of a late October day.
The weight
of loving another,
that weight
without which
I would be nothing.
~Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer “Whatever It Means” from The Wonderment: Poems

Night and day
seize the day, also the night —
a handful of water to grasp.
The moon shines off the mountain
snow where grizzlies look for a place
for the winter’s sleep and birth.
I just ate the year’s last tomato
in the year’s fatal whirl.
This is mid-October, apple time.
I picked them for years.
One Mcintosh yielded sixty bushels.

Fifty years later we hold each other looking
out the windows at birds, making dinner,
a life to live day after day, a life of
dogs and children and the far wide country
out by rivers, rumpled by mountains.
So far the days keep coming.
Seize the day gently as if you loved her.
~Jim Harrison, from “Carpe Diem” from Dead Man’s Float

What prayer or magic spell or luck
leaves us breathless, thunder struck
just from looking in each other’s eyes
across the breakfast table? Surprise
of love comes as a kind of Divine Grace,
as if I’d never seen your face
before and now am stunned that you adore
the likes of me; whatever for
I do not know but now you’re stuck
and seem enamored of my face, its every ruck
and deep crevasse your sheer delight; it defies
all reason. Yet this spell causes us to rise
and with no word we tenderly embrace.
The sweetest feelings rush to fill the space
as if God came in through an open door
and we are nothing like we were before.
~Red Hawk “The Transformation” from #45 – Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

Over forty-five years later,
the days keep coming,
a life lived together
day after day after day.

I try not to take a single one for granted,
each morning
a gift to be seized gently,
embraced with reverent gratitude.

There is so much to cling to,
as if this were the only day,
the only night,
knowing it can never come again.

There is so much that has passed,
like a blink –
we wonder where time disappears to,
where it hides after it disappears over the horizon.

There is so much to remember
and never forget.
There is so much yet to come
that is unknowable.

So I seize each day,
oh so gently,
like a lover.

Calling Out to Others

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geese113162
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A psalm of geese
labours overland

cajoling each other
near half…

The din grew immense.
No need to look up.

All you had to do
was sit in the sound

and put it down
as best you could…

It’s not a lonesome sound
but a panic,

a calling out to the others
to see if they’re there;
~Dermot Healy from A Fool’s Errand

geese913
geese113165

We are here to witness the creation and abet it.
We are here to notice each thing so each thing gets noticed.
Together we notice not only each mountain shadow
and each stone on the beach but, especially,
we notice the beautiful faces and complex natures of each other.
We are here to bring to consciousness the beauty and power
that are around us and to praise the people who are here with us.
We witness our generation and our times.
We watch the weather.
Otherwise, creation would be playing to an empty house.
~Annie Dillard from The Meaning of Life edited by David Friend

geese1119152

Over the past week, the cacophony from the constant calling of migrating geese has been deafening at times. They pass overhead by the hundreds on their way to their winter homes, sometimes landing in nearby harvested cornfields for a snack.

Soon they are on their way again. Their voices call out, commanding my full attention during the brief time they are here:
going home, going home, I am going home.

I can’t help but notice; they are calling out to anyone who will listen.

It reminds me of my past doctoring work in my clinic; at times I felt overwhelmed by the amount of “noticing” I needed to do as part of my job. Each patient – and there were so many – deserved my full attention for the few minutes we are together.

I would start my clinical evaluation the moment I walked into the exam room, taking in all the complex verbal and non-verbal clues sometimes offered by another human being.

How and why are they reaching out to me? What do they want and need me to notice and understand? I must listen carefully.

I become audience and a witness; even more, I must understand it in order to best assist them. I must rise to the occasion of taking in another person, offering them the gift of being noticed and being there for them, just them.

The doctoring work I did became its own kind of love: the patient became the entire focus for a few moments. I was grateful to be watching and listening.

As my patients called out to me, on their own life journey, may they never have felt they were playing to an empty house.

geesesouth
geese11516

Peeling Back the Veil

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In the season leaves should love,
since it gives them leave to move
through the wind, towards the ground
they were watching while they hung,
legend says there is a seam
stitching darkness like a name.

Now when dying grasses veil
earth from the sky in one last pale
wave, as autumn dies to bring
winter back, and then the spring,
we who die ourselves can peel
back another kind of veil

that hangs among us like thick smoke.
Tonight at last I feel it shake.
I feel the nights stretching away
thousands long behind the days
till they reach the darkness where
all of me is ancestor.
~Annie Finch, from “Samhain” in Eve

Let’s go our old way
by the stream, and kick the leaves
as we always did, to make
the rhythm of breaking waves.

This day draws no breath –
shows no colour anywhere
except for the leaves – in their death
brilliant as never before.

Ah, but you were always leaf-light.
And you so seldom talk
as we go. But there at my side
through the bright leaves you walk.

And yet – touch my hand
that I may be quite without fear,
for it seems as if a mist descends,
and the leaves where you walk do not stir.
~Francis Bellerby from “All Souls’ Day”

And blessèd are the ones we overlook;
The faithful servers on the coffee rota,
The ones who hold no candle, bell or book
But keep the books and tally up the quota,

The gentle souls who come to ‘do the flowers’,
The quiet ones who organise the fete,
Church sitters who give up their weekday hours,
Doorkeepers who may open heaven’s gate.

God knows the depths that often go unspoken
Amongst the shy, the quiet, and the kind,
Or the slow healing of a heart long broken
Placing each flower so for a year’s mind.

Invisible on earth, without a voice,
In heaven their angels glory and rejoice.
~Malcolm Guite “The Last Beattitude”

There is no denying I am composed of all of the thousands of my ancestors, carrying their DNA in every cell of my body. Their traits and characteristics pulse continuously in my blood even when at times I wish they didn’t.

On All Souls’ Day, we remember those from whom we come — all those spirited ghosts within our cells who shake and rattle a bit louder this time of year in the foggy darkness.

I wave at them warily from my perch in the 21st century.

I come from somber folk. That explains a lot.

I feel great kinship to the peasant farmers I descend from though I wish I could turn off the genes that lead me to eat too much, and worry too much and my tendency toward the melancholy rather than the jocular. Somehow I have suppressed the tendency to drink too much and curse too much. I do come from a long line of believers in ghosts, so these days of Samhain and All Hallows’ tend to open those creaky doors of shivers and chills, so I avoid anything even remotely scary. It only encourages those more tenuous strands of my DNA.

I am indeed made up of all-ancestor bits and pieces, and can’t deny it.

There is some comfort in realizing there is nothing really brand new about me, so I try not to make a fool of myself on behalf of the hosts of others sitting tidily wrapped up in my nuclei. There is additional comfort knowing a small part of me will continue in my descendants, who will ponder their family tree wondering which great-great-great-great grandparent passed down which annoying characteristic.

I wave hopefully from the 21st century to those generations to come, to remind them not to forget those of us who came before. If there are spirits that come to visit on Samhain, I promise to be a friendly ghost.

The Soul Creeps Out of the Tree

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Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.

And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.
~Louise Glück “All Hallows”

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear…

…So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow from “Haunted Houses”

Most of the apples have already fallen.
The sunflowers turn into dusty spiked balls.
But what if my land is the land of the living?
The bird from the dust takes flight
Then turns multiple—

A handful of birds rising in the dead sky
Opened to receive them.
But my loves for now are here and living, and I want more of them.
Like the bird on the ground I pick what I need from the dust.
~Lindsay Turner from Halloween

The old trees on this farm have souls,
bearing fruit for all to enjoy,
the deer, the raccoons, the birds, our family.

Rarely, when one topples in a windstorm,
its 100-plus years of fruitfulness abruptly ended,
I sense its soul’s return to the dust beneath,
sinking back to the roots
which held firm through many storms,
its hollow trunk now a telescope to the beyond.

Goodbye, sweet broken soul.
To dust we someday return
until called back to fruitfulness…

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
~ Maya Angelou from “When Great Trees Fall”

A Latticework of Bones

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octevening297
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And then in the falling comes a rising,
as of the bass coming up for autumn’s last insects
struggling amid the mosaic of leaves on the lake’s surface.
We express it as the season of lacking, but what is this nakedness
— the unharvested corn frost-shriveled but still a little golden
under the diffuse light of a foggy sky,
the pin oak’s newly stark web of barbs, the woodbine’s vines
shriven of their scarlet and left askew in the air
like the tangle of threads on the wall’s side
of the castle tapestry—what is it but greater intimacy,
the world slackening its grip on the veils, letting them slump
to the floor in a heap of sodden colors, and saying,
this is me, this is my skeletal muscle,
my latticework of bones, my barren winter skin,
this is it and if you love me, know that this is what you love.
~Laura Fargas “October Struck” from Animal of the Sixth Day

octevening293

Something about the emerging nakedness of autumn reassures;
we are loved even when stripped down to our bones.

While making quite a show of shedding our coverings,
our bits and pieces fluttering down to rejoin the soil,
what is left is meager lattice.

But when the light is just right,
we simmer gold,
illuminated and illuminating,
even if barely there.

octevening291
octevening2914

Recognizing How Generous the Ground

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Once again, the field rehearses how to die.
Some of the grass turns golden first. Some
simply fades into brown. Just this morning,
I, too, lay in corpse pose, practicing
how to let myself be totally held by the earth
without striving, how to meet the day
without rushing off to do the next necessary
or beautiful thing. Soon, the grass will bend
or break, molder or disintegrate. Every year,
the same lesson in how to join the darkness,
how to be unmade, how quietly
we might lean into the uncertainty,
how generous the ground.
~Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer “Shavasana”

The grasses are collapsing,
withering to the ground,
all spent after a season of flourishing.
The next wind and rain storm will finish the job.
Stems and leaves become rich compost
in the seasons that follow,
a generous bed for future seeds.

We expect this fading away.

I know it doesn’t mean the end –
there is still vitality lying dormant,
hidden away, waiting for the right moment
to re-emerge, resurrect and live again.

I know this too about myself.
The dying-time-of-year doesn’t get easier.
It seems more real-time, vivid, and personal.
Colors fade, leaves wrinkle and dry,
fruit falls unconsumed and softened.

Our beauty, so evident only a short time ago,
thrives inward, silently germinating,
ready to rise again when called forth.

The World Persists in its Beauty

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Though he was ill and in pain,
in disobedience to the instruction he
would have received if he had asked,
the old man got up from his bed,
dressed, and went to the barn.
The bare branches of winter had emerged
through the last leaf-colors of fall,
the loveliest of all, browns and yellows
delicate and nameless in the gray light
and the sifting rain. He put feed
in the troughs for eighteen ewe lambs,
sent the dog for them, and she
brought them. They came eager
to their feed, and he who felt
their hunger was by their feeding
eased. From no place in the time
of present places, within no boundary
nameable in human thought,
they had gathered once again,
the shepherd, his sheep, and his dog
with all the known and the unknown
round about to the heavens’ limit.
Was this his stubbornness or bravado?
No. Only an ordinary act
of profoundest intimacy in a day
that might have been better. Still
the world persisted in its beauty,
he in his gratitude, and for this
he had most earnestly prayed.
~Wendell Berry “XI”

He (the professor) asked what I made
of the other students (at Oxford) so I told him.
They were okay, but they were all very similar…
they’d never failed at anything or been nobodies,
and they thought they would always win.
But this isn’t most people’s experience of life.

He asked me what could be done about it.
I told him the answer was to send them all out for a year
to do some dead-end job
like working in a chicken processing plant
or spreading muck with a tractor.
It would do more good than a gap year in Peru. 

He laughed and thought this was tremendously witty.
It wasn’t meant to be funny.
~James Rebanks from The Shepherd’s Life:Modern Dispatches from an Ancient Landscape
(or how a sheep farmer succeeds at Oxford and then goes back to the farm)

For over forty years, I have spent about an hour a day shoveling manure out of our horse stalls and I’m a better person for it.

Wheeled to a mountainous pile in our barnyard, this daily collection of manure happily composts year round, becoming rich fertilizer in a matter of months through a crucible-like heating process of organic chemistry, bacteria and earthworms. Nothing mankind has achieved quite matches the drama of useless and basically disgusting stuff transforming into the essential elements needed for productive growth and survival.

Our government certainly hasn’t discovered the secret. This is a metaphor I can <ahem> happily muck about in.

I’m in awe, every day, at being part of this process — in many ways a far more tangible improvement to the world than anything else I manage to accomplish every day. The horses, major contributors that they are, act underwhelmed by my enthusiasm. I guess some miracles are relative, depending on one’s perspective, but if the horses understood that the grass they contentedly eat in the pasture, or the hay they munch on during the winter months, was grown thanks to their carefully recycled waste products, they might be more impressed.

Their nonchalance about the daily mucking routine is understandable. If they are outside, they probably don’t notice their beds are clean when they return to the stalls at night. If they are inside during the heavy rain days, they feel duty-bound to be in my face as I move about their stall, toting my pitchfork and pushing a wheelbarrow. I’m a source of constant amusement as they nose my jacket pockets for treats that I never carry, as they beg for scratches on their unreachable itchy spots, and as they attempt to overturn an almost full load, just to see balls of manure roll to all corners of the stall like breaking a rack of billiard balls in a game of pool.

Good thing I’m a patient person always seeking an object lesson in whatever I see or do ~ mucking out stalls every day helps me tolerate the proverbial muck I encounter in the news. And spending an hour a day getting dirty in the real stuff somehow makes the virtual manure less noxious.

Indeed, everyone should be mucking out, especially during election season, as I think the world would generally be a better place.

Swift Elation with a Sense of Sadness

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Then summer fades and passes and October comes.
We’ll smell smoke then,
and feel an unexpected sharpness,
a thrill of nervousness,
swift elation,
a sense of sadness and departure.
~ Thomas Wolfe

Such days of autumnal decline hold a strange mystery which adds to the gravity of all our moods.
~Charles Nodier

I was drinking in the surroundings:
air so crisp you could snap it with your fingers
and greens in every lush shade imaginable
offset by autumnal flashes of red and yellow.
~Wendy Delsol

October feels bittersweet, heralding the inevitable slow down to winter stillness.

The garden is put to bed, lawnmowers stored away, horses fluffy with winter fur coats, pruning shears not yet sharpened for the winter work of refinement and shaping.

Yet the air sparkles, sharp-edged in the lungs.

I am never ready for this crush of dark hours descending so quickly. Yet it comes with the promise of light and growth to come.

And so we feast on October while pondering what comes next.