Category: wonder

It’s Half Past October

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

What can l say, now that summer’s gone,
with the weight of its heat,
its thick blanket of humidity,
the cacophony of zinnias, marigolds, salvia?
Now the sky is clear blue and cloudless,
that sure one-note that can only mean October.
You’re gone.
The leaves turn gold in the calendar’s rotisserie,
giving up their green, and the burning bushes
have ignited, struck their book of matches.
It’s enough to make the heart break, isn’t it?
We keep going down the one road, there’s no turning back.
~Barbara Crooker “Now” from Small Rain

…the golden hour of the clock of the year.
Flowers that were once bright as a box of crayons
are now seed heads and thistle down.
All the feathery grasses shine in the slanted light.
…time to draw the drapes against the wind,
time to hunker down.
Summer’s fruits are preserved in syrup,
but nothing can stopper time.
No way to seal it in wax or amber;
it slides though our hands like a rope of silk.
~Barbara Crooker from “And Now it’s October” from Small Rain.

It’s half-past October, the woods
are on fire, blue skies stretch
all the way to heaven. Of course,
we know that winter is coming, its thin
winding sheets and its hard narrow bed.
But right now, the season’s fermented
to fullness…
~Barbara Crooker from “Reel” in The Book of Kells

Another October. The maples have done their slick trick
of turning yellow almost overnight; summer’s hazy skies
are cobalt blue. I want to praise things
that cannot last. The scarlet and orange leaves
are already gone, blown down by a cold rain,
crushed and trampled. They rise again in leaf meal
and wood smoke.
I want to praise everything brief and finite.
night falls swiftly, tucking us in her black velvet robe,
the stitches showing through, all those little lights,
our little lives, rising and falling.
~Barbara Crooker from “Equinox”

This slow fading away of October
renders us transient ourselves-

only visitors here,
no laying down claims,
simply passing through
enjoying the scenery,
knowing this too won’t last…

Yet it is sweet
~let me say it again~
oh so sweet
while we’re here.

So Easy to Love

barnstormingblogLeave a comment
ahmama
fogtree
mud36141

It’s easy to love a deer
But try to care about bugs and scrawny trees
Love the puddle of lukewarm water
From last week’s rain.
Leave the mountains alone for now.
Also the clear lakes surrounded by pines.
People are lined up to admire them.
Get close to the things that slide away in the dark.
Be grateful even for the boredom
That sometimes seems to involve the whole world.
Think of the frost
That will crack our bones eventually.
~Tom Hennen “Love for Other Things”

shuksan9271821

My only purpose this moment
is looking at a lizard.
Does he know he’s not alone?

He breathes with tiny push-ups,
his skin all hairline caverns
soaking up the sun.

I doubt, alive, I’m liable to get
closer to timelessness than this,
looking at a little lizard breathing.
~Barry Spacks “Looking at a Lizard” from Shaping Water

Oh, it is easy to love the beautiful things of God’s creation~
we drive long hours to stand in awe,
gaping at mountains and valleys and waterfalls
and kaleidoscopes of color

so if God decides He wants a slug or lizard or bug
and allows drought and mud and frost
and ice storms and hurricanes
then I guess, if He so chooses,
He could look at each of us and say
I need one of you too.

frostydandy1
newyearsice
wwudeer1

A Life-Cherishing Force

barnstormingblog1 Comment

Poetry is a life-cherishing force.
For poems are not words, after all,
but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost,
something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.
~Mary Oliver from A Poetry Handbook

…I want to write with quiet hands. I
want to write while crossing the fields that are
fresh with daisies and everlasting and the
ordinary grass. I want to make poems while thinking of
the bread of heaven and the
cup of astonishment; let them be
songs in which nothing is neglected,
not a hope, not a promise. I want to make poems
that look into the earth and the heavens
and see the unseeable. I want them to honor
both the heart of faith, and the light of the world;
the gladness that says, without any words, everything.
~Mary Oliver from “Everything” from New and Selected Poems: Volume Two

Poetry may make us from time to time
a little more aware
of the deeper, unnamed feelings
which form the substratum of our being,
to which we rarely penetrate;
for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
—T.S. Eliot from The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism

Much of the time, on the surface, we appear a tangled mess –
a jumble of unarticulated feelings and desires, needs and wants.

Deeper down, there is a hungry soul in a place that can’t be seen.

We rarely dip in there; it can be a sore spot we are tempted to touch
but avoid doing so because of its tenderness.

The bright light of a few well chosen words can ring us like a bell;
we are struck dumb finding such clarion clarity comes
to a place so well hidden.

A rope of words drops to lift up the lost and sad and empty –
a reminder mere words can rescue and revive.

A Mosaic of Four Seasons

barnstormingblog1 Comment
Autumn

Winter is an etching,
spring a watercolor,
summer an oil painting
and autumn a mosaic of them all.
~Stanley Horowitz, a poem in Readers’ Digest Nov. 1983

Winter
Winter

L’Inverno (Winter)
Opus 8, No. 4, in F minor

I. Allegro non molto–
Frozen and trembling in the icy snow,
In the severe blast of the horrible wind,
As we run, we constantly stamp our feet,
And our teeth chatter in the cold.
II. Largo–
To spend happy and quiet days near the fire,
While, outside, the rain soaks hundreds.
III. Allegro–
We walk on the ice with slow steps,
And tread carefully, for fear of falling.
Symphony, If we go quickly, we slip and fall to the ground.
Again we run on the ice,
Until it cracks and opens.
We hear, from closed doors,
Sirocco, Boreas, and all the winds in battle.
This is winter, but it brings joy.
~Vivaldi (Winter poem)

Spring
Spring
Spring
Spring

La Primavera (Spring)
Opus 8, No. 1, in E Major

I. Allegro–
Festive Spring has arrived,
The birds salute it with their happy song.
And the brooks, caressed by little Zephyrs,
Flow with a sweet murmur.
The sky is covered with a black mantle,
And thunder, and lightning, announce a storm.
When they are silent, the birds
Return to sing their lovely song.
II. Largo e pianissimo sempre–
And in the meadow, rich with flowers,
To the sweet murmur of leaves and plants,
The goatherd sleeps, with his faithful dog at his side.
III. Danza pastorale. Allegro–
To the festive sound of pastoral bagpipes,
Dance nymphs and shepherds,
At Spring’s brilliant appearance.
~Vivaldi (Spring poem)

Summer
Summer
Summer
Summer

L’Estate (Summer)
Opus 8, No. 2, in G minor

I. Allegro non molto–
Under the heat of the burning summer sun,
Languish man and flock; the pine is parched.
The cuckoo finds its voice, and suddenly,
The turtledove and goldfinch sing.
A gentle breeze blows,
But suddenly, the north wind appears.
The shepherd weeps because, overhead,
Lies the fierce storm, and his destiny.
II. Adagio; Presto–
His tired limbs are deprived of rest
By his fear of lightning and fierce thunder,
And by furious swarms of flies and hornets.
III. Presto–
Alas, how just are his fears,
Thunder and lightening fill the Heavens, and the hail
Slices the tops of the corn and other grain.
~Vivaldi (Summer poem)

Autumn
Autumn
Autumn
Autumn
Autumn
Autumn

L’Autunno (Autumn)
Opus 8, No. 3, in F Major

I. Allegro–
The peasants celebrate with dance and song,
The joy of a rich harvest.
And, full of Bacchus’s liquor,
They finish their celebration with sleep.
II. Adagio molto–
Each peasant ceases his dance and song.
The mild air gives pleasure,
And the season invites many
To enjoy a sweet slumber.
III. Allegro–
The hunters, at the break of dawn, go to the hunt.
With horns, guns, and dogs they are off,
The beast flees, and they follow its trail.
Already fearful and exhausted by the great noise,
Of guns and dogs, and wounded,
The exhausted beast tries to flee, but dies.
~Vivaldi (Autumn poem)

I walk this farm lane to stand at the same spot
countless times through the year,
as witness to the changing palette around me.

The Artist lovingly chooses His color and technique
with a gentle touch for each season.

So too, He paints my life with richness and variety:
from the austere lines in winter,
to a green emergence in spring,
a summer of sweet fruitfulness
and a mosaic crescendo in autumn.

The Artist’s signature can be spotted on each masterpiece,
gracing the transforming canvas of each of our lives.

What Else is There?

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

The way the trees empty themselves of leaves,
let drop their ponderous fruit,
the way the turtle abandons the sun-warmed log,
the way even the late-blooming aster
succumbs to the power of frost—

this is not a new story.
Still, on this morning, the hollowness
of the season startles, filling
the rooms of your house, filling the world
with impossible light, improbable hope.

And so, what else can you do
but let yourself be broken
and emptied? What else is there
but waiting in the autumn sun?
~Carolyn Locke “What Else?” from The Place We Become

So this is how life goes:

we are sowed, set down roots, bud and grow and flower and bloom and fruit and flourish,

then dry and change and wither and empty and break away
to be carried off beyond this air and water and soil.

We thrive where we are planted,
do what we could with a little nurture,
then transcend the here and now.

So shall we plant the next generation in healthy soil.
May we weed and water and feed as needed.
May we never seek to overshadow the sun
but step aside so its light fully shines on whoever comes next.

The Full Tide of Grandparenthood

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

We walked downhill
to the beach, her hand in mine,
small step after small step.
She said Hi to the doggie on the leash,
Hi Mommy to a woman passing
on the street, Hi Daddy to a bearded man.
On the sand, she stared transfixed
at the water, the slight waves,
the tide not yet pulling out.
She looked up toward a flap of wings.
Bird, I said, pointing at the seagull,
and she mimicked, Bird,
then turned her gaze back
to the waves’ slow slapping.
Later I sat, looking at trees below me,
a hint of haze burning off the far bay,
the world busy working and sailing,
waking, while I sat waiting as Evie napped
that quiet Maine morning,
the full tide of grandmotherhood
lapping my shore.
~Laura Foley, “Full Tide” from It’s This

They each carried a balloon from a special event for kids and their families.

It had been a morning of our family being together, just because. Being a grandparent needs no other reason other than “just because.”

Big sister was saying how she planned to take her balloon to school on Monday to show her friends. She was enjoying the balloon’s bobbing and weaving in the air … until suddenly it popped, causing her to jump and then she had nothing left but tatters in her hand.

Her face crumpled and the tears began to flow.

Little brother gripped his balloon more tightly, looking at his sister’s tears and worrying the same thing might happen to his balloon. His face contorted, ready to cry right along with her. And then there was a moment of clarity and insight in his eyes.

He handed his balloon to her. He said, “here, you can have mine.”

Though he was clearly sad at the thought of having no balloon himself, his eyes were shining with proud tears.

He had discovered what it meant to sacrifice, to comfort and care for someone he loved.

She was speechless. She held his balloon gently, struggling to know how to respond. If it was even possible, she loved him so much more in that moment.

So their parents said to her brother, “we think that gift deserves stopping for a hot chocolate on the way home.”

Big sister looked at her parents, looked again at her little brother, and handed the balloon back to him, saying “why don’t we share?”

Hot chocolate makes all things wonderful and cozy and better, when shared.

Especially for weeping, laughing, full-to-the-brim-with-love grandparents.

Come and See: Wanting Human Praise More Than Praise From God

barnstormingblog1 Comment

Even after Jesus had performed so many signs in their presence, they still would not believe in him. This was to fulfill the word of Isaiah the prophet:

“Lord, who has believed our message and to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?”

For this reason they could not believe, because, as Isaiah says elsewhere:

“He has blinded their eyes
and hardened their hearts,
so they can neither see with their eyes,
nor understand with their hearts,
nor turn—and I would heal them.”

Isaiah said this because he saw Jesus’ glory and spoke about him.

Yet at the same time many even among the leaders believed in him. But because of the Pharisees they would not openly acknowledge their faith for fear they would be put out of the synagogue; for they loved human praise more than praise from God.

Then Jesus cried out, “Whoever believes in me does not believe in me only, but in the one who sent me. The one who looks at me is seeing the one who sent me. I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.

“If anyone hears my words but does not keep them, I do not judge that person. For I did not come to judge the world, but to save the world. There is a judge for the one who rejects me and does not accept my words; the very words I have spoken will condemn them at the last day. For I did not speak on my own, but the Father who sent me commanded me to say all that I have spoken. I know that his command leads to eternal life. So whatever I say is just what the Father has told me to say.”
John 12: 37-50

…glory means good report with God,
acceptance by God, response, acknowledgment,
and welcome into the heart of things.
The door on which we have been knocking all our lives
will open at last.

The promise of glory is the promise,
almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ,
that some of us, that any of us who really chooses,
shall actually survive that examination,
shall find approval, shall please God.

To please God…to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness…
to be loved by God, not merely pitied,
but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a son—
it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory
which our thoughts can hardly sustain.
But so it is.
~C.S. Lewis from The Weight of Glory

 

Riches I heed not, nor vain, empty praise;
Thou mine inheritance, now and always.
Thou and thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my treasure thou art.
~Eleanor Hull – 4th stanza of Be Thou My Vision

We all love praise, even vain empty praise which rings hollow in our ears. Even so, it feels as glorious as the transient golden light of October – gilded and alluring.

After all, the next step is withering and dying unto winter.

In our desire to be loved, too often we demand proof we have value, either by an impressive salary, or the number of “followers” we have on social media, our name placed on a building, or surrounding ourselves with people who tell us only what we want to hear.

Jesus is well aware that publicly acknowledging a belief in Him alone can come at great cost: it means turning away from the passing praise and admiration from others.

Instead, Christ came into the world to save us with His promise of glory — not for a temporary “feel-good” moment — but so we would forever truly understand the Father’s delight in us, His children.

Nothing can be more glorious than that.

I am reading slowly through the words in the Book of John over the next year alongside my church family. Once a week, I will invite you to “come and see” what those words might mean as we explore His promises together.

The Lingering Sky

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

At times these days I think of the way the sun would set on the farmland around our small house in the autumn.

A view of the horizon,
the entire circle of it, if you turned,
the sun setting behind you,
the sky in front becoming pink and soft,
then slightly blue again,
as though it could not stop going on in its beauty,
then the land closest to the setting sun would get dark,
almost black against the orange line of the horizon,
but if you turn around,
the land is still available to the eye with such softness,
the few trees, the quiet fields of cover crops already turned,
and the sky lingering, lingering, then finally dark.

As though the soul can be quiet for those moments.
All life amazes me.
~Elizabeth Strout, from My Name is Lucy Barton

I have learned,
from those much wiser than I am,
to recognize moments meant for quieting.

The news of the world constantly rushes past;
there is suffering beyond imagining
in the lives of a few I know well
and for millions I don’t know at all.

What little can I do to make a difference?
So much need lies beyond my short reach.

Instead of feeling abandoned on the shores of overwhelm,
I seek out the familiar, the routine, and the ordinary,
lingering immersed in the recurring patterns of the day and night
as the world keeps on spinning on its axis.

I too turn around to witness that which surrounds me,
and in so doing, my soul is quieted.
And amazed.

One year ago, my teacher and mentor Jane Goodall passed into eternity, leaving behind this message for us all…

Longing to Reach the Mountain

barnstormingblog2 Comments

Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent.
You can heave your spirit into a mountain
and the mountain will keep it, folded,
and not throw it back as some creeks will.
The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty;
I live there. But the mountains are home.
~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

He found himself wondering at times, especially in the autumn, about the wild lands, and strange visions of mountains that he had never seen came into his dreams.

He loved mountains, or he has loved the thought of them marching on the edge of stories brought from far away; but now he was borne down by the insupportable weight of Middle-earth. He longed to shut out the immensity in a quiet room by a fire.
~J.R.R. Tolkien from The Lord of the Rings

This time of year, we feel a call to drive up the highway an hour or so to witness grander things than our own worries or the chaos of yet another election season.

There is always that moment as we turn the bend into Heather Meadows when Mount Shuksan suddenly appears, overwhelming the landscape and everything and everyone else.

There is simply nothing else to look at so I stand there gawking, forgetting to breathe.

Then I realize that I become more self-conscious rather than less: here I am at the foot of this incredible creation, wondering at how blessed I am to be there; that moment becomes all about me. Yet the mountain has been here for eons and will continue to be here for eons. Just a mere blip in that continuum, I feel summoned.

We leave behind all the political divisiveness and drama and talking heads: up in the mountains there is such sheer stillness all around us – nary a breeze or a bird call or even a bug making ripples on the lakes to spoil the perfect reflection.

I bring these images back with me to remember that moment of awestruck witness. The photographic image isn’t the real mountain or the pristine perfect reflection. Yet it means I was privileged to watch this mountain watching me back, welcoming me home.

The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back.
~ C. S. Lewis from Till We Have Faces

Flowers of the Sad, Human Mind

barnstormingblog1 Comment

In the high woods that crest our hills,
Upon a steep, rough slope of forest ground,
Where few flowers grow, sweet blooms today I found
Of the Autumn Crocus, blowing pale and fair.
Dim falls the sunlight there;
And a mild fragrance the lone thicket fills.

Languidly curved, the long white stems
Their purple flowers’ gold treasure scarce display:
Lost were their leaves since in the distant spring,

Their February sisters showed so gay.
Roses of June, ye too have followed fleet!
Forsaken now, and shaded as by thought,
As by the human shade of thought and dreams,
They bloom ‘mid the dark wood, whose air has wrought
With what soft nights and mornings of still dew!
Into their slender petals that clear hue,
Like paleness in fresh cheeks; a thing
On earth, I vowed, ne’er grew
More delicately pure, more shyly sweet.

Child of the pensive autumn woods!
So lovely, though thou dwell obscure and lone,
And though thy flush and gaiety be gone;
Say, among flowers of the sad, human mind,
Where shall I ever find
So rare a grace? in what shy solitudes?
~Robert Laurence Binyon “Autumn Crocus”

The late September emergence
of autumn crocus is always sudden,
rising up near the equinox
in the shade of spent peony bushes.

These rare blooms:
tall, tender, bold, and frail,
their incubation triggered by retreating light from above,
unlike their springtime cousins emerging through melting snow.

The autumn crocus waits with thoughtful temerity,
summoned forth from the soil
to remind us the end of summer
is not the end of them or us.

A luminous gift of hope and beauty
borne from a humble bulb;
plain and only soil-adorned.

Slowly unfurling on a pale leggy stem,
the tender lavender petals peel back
to reveal golden crowns of saffron,
brazenly blooming when all else is dying back.

Vulnerable to blustery wind and heavy rains,
they easily wilt, crushed, deeply bruised purple –
under the Sun’s reflection made manifest;
returning defeated, inglorious, fallen, to dust.

Yet we know – they remind us:
they (and we) will rise again.

…we know what is coming behind the crocus. The spring comes slowly down this way; but the great thing is that the corner has been turned. . . It remains with us to follow or not, to die in this winter, or to go on into that spring and that summer.
C.S. Lewis from God in the Dock