The Object of a New Year

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul.
– G.K. Chesterton

We hoped for some timely snow for a white Christmas but had to be content with a brief flurry that didn’t stick.  Then there was more hope yesterday on New Year’s Eve with more flurries and a few little skiffs left behind here and there, but nothing much.  Instead of snow that stuck, we were stuck with the same old muddy bare ground and dead grass and weary frost-bitten plants.

It is natural to desire an easy transformation of the old and dirty to something new and beautiful:  an all clean pristine white cottony sheet covering thrown over everything, making it look completely different than before.  Similarly, at the tick of the clock past midnight on New Years’ Eve, we hope for just such an inner transformation as well, a fresh start, a leaving behind of the not-so-good from the past and moving ahead to the surely-it’ll-be-better in the future.

But it doesn’t stick, even if there is a flurry of good intentions and a skiff of newness plopped down here and there.  Even if we find ourselves in the midst of blizzard conditions, unable to see six inches ahead and immobilized by the furious storms of life,  that accumulation eventually will melt, leaving behind even more mud and raw mess.

It isn’t how flawless, how clean, or how new this year will be, but rather how to ensure our soul transformation sticks tight, unmelting from within, even when the heat is turned up and the sweat drips.  This is not about a covering thrown over the old and dirty but a full blown overhaul in order to never to be the same again.

I lift my eyes to the hills where the snow stays year round: sometimes more,  with a few hundred new inches over several weeks, or sometimes less,  on the hottest days of summer.  Our new souls this new year must be built of that same resiliency, withstanding what each day may bring, cold or hot.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…within my soul.

BriarCroft at Year’s End

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.
— J.R.R. Tolkien

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

applefieldapplemossbranchesdec

“O cruel cloudless space,
And pale bare ground where the poor infant lies!
Why do we feel restored
As in a sacramental place?
Here Mystery is artifice
And here a vision of such peace is stored,
Healing flows from it through our eyes.”
~May Sarton from Nativity

treedecsunset

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

decsuntree“I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

‘We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,’
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.”
–   Oliver Herford, I Heard a Bird Sing

appleeat

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

appletreesdec

weedseeddec

“Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a Love-thought, thro’me, Death
And take a Life that wearies me.”
–   Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772-1834, Fragment 3

blackberrywinter

Dechaybarn

pyradec

“That’s no December sky!
Surely ’tis June
Holds now her state on high
Queen of the noon.

Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still

Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower.”
–   Robert Fuller Murray (1863-1894), A December Day

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

“This is what I have heard
at last the wind in December
lashing the old trees with rain
unseen rain racing along the tiles
under the moon
wind rising and falling
wind with many clouds
trees in the night wind.”
–  W. S. Merwin

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

“The grim frost is at hand, when apples will fall thick, almost thunderous, on the hardened earth.”
–  D. H. Lawrence

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

catpyrafrostygnome

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

“Give me the end of the year an’ its fun
When most of the plannin’ an’ toilin’ is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin’ with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An’ I’ll put soul in my thanksgivin’ prayers.”
–   Edgar A. Guest

mushroomsclothespinfrostdectreehouse

“Through bare trees
I can see all the rickety lean-tos
and sheds, and the outhouse
with the half-moon on the door,
once modestly covered in
summer’s greenery.

Through bare trees
I can watch the hawk
perched on a distant branch,
black silhouetted wings
shaking feathers and snow,
and so can its prey.

Through bare trees
I can be winter’s innocence,
unashamed needfulness,
the thin and reaching limbs
of a beggar, longing to touch
but the hem of the sun.”
–  Lisa Lindsey, Bare Trees

creeperdecdecfrost1queenannedecfrostfir

“There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you …..  In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.”
–  Ruth Stout

decsun

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

harrow

snowberrywintergnomes

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

BriarCroft in Autumn photos

BriarCroft in Winter photos

BriarCroft in Spring photos

BriarCroft in Summer photos

Heaven-flung Son

photo of Mt. Baker by Josh Scholten
photo of Mt. Baker by Josh Scholten
Now burn, new born to the world,
Doubled-naturéd name,
The heaven-flung, heart-fleshed, maiden-furled
Miracle-in-Mary-of-flame,
Mid-numbered He in three of the thunder-throne!
Not a dooms-day dazzle in his coming nor dark
as he came;
Kind, but royally reclaiming his own;
A released shower, let flash to the shire, not
a lightning of fire hard-hurled.
~Gerard Manley Hopkins, from “The Wreck of the Deutschland.”

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten

Reaching for the Rainbow

Mt. Baker at sunrise

The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening.  It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.
~Henry David Thoreau

Painting the indescribable with words necessitates subtlety, sound and rhythm on a page.  The best word color portraits I know are by Gerard Manley Hopkins who created  through startling combinations:  “crimson-cresseted”, “couple-colour”, “rose-moles”, “fresh-firecoal”, “adazzle, dim”, “dapple-dawn-drawn”, “blue-bleak embers”, “gash gold-vermillion”.

I understand, as Thoreau does,  how difficult it is to harvest a day using ordinary words.   Like grasping ephemeral star trails or the transient rainbow that moves away as I approach, what I hold on the page is intangible yet very real.

I will keep reaching for the rainbow, searching for the best words to preserve my days and nights forever, for my someday greatgrandchildren, or whoever might have the patience to read.

After all, in the beginning was the Word, and there is no better place to start.

Mt. Baker at sunset
photo by Josh Scholten

Hay Making

Hayfield at BriarCroft –photo by Nate Gibson
our hay field near the farm –photo by Nate Gibson
unloading bales into the hay barn– photo by Nate Gibson
stacking the wagon –photo by Nate Gibson


“Haymaking” [sonnet]
John Clare
(1793-1864).

Tis haytime & the red complexioned sun
Was scarcely up ere blackbirds had begun
Along the meadow hedges here & there
To sing loud songs to the sweet smelling air
Where breath of flowers & grass & happy cow
Fling oer ones senses streams of fragrance now
While in some pleasant nook the swain & maid
Lean oer their rakes & loiter in the shade
Or bend a minute oer the bridge & throw
Crumbs in their leisure to the fish below
—Hark at that happy shout—& song between
Tis pleasures birthday in her meadow scene
What joy seems half so rich from pleasure won
As the loud laugh of maidens in the sun.

photo by Nate Gibson

Lenten Reflection–No Wonder

Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motions of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering.
Augustine

photo by Josh Scholten

photo by Josh Scholten

photo by Josh Scholten

photo by Josh Scholten

The natural wonders are called that for a reason–we are awed and diminished by them. They rightfully deserve our reverence and respect.

So why does the image of God Himself not call us to wonder? Each cell, each organ, each movement, each thought, each breath a miracle of creation far beyond the wonders of the mountains, the heavens and the seas. Yet every day we throw these away as inconvenient, ill-timed, and unvalued.

We were created to look like Him. And He came among us to be with us, walk with us, weep with us, love us, and save our rebellious ungrateful hides.

No wonder we’re such a mess, in need of salvage. No wonder at all.

Lenten Reflection-Grace Comes Like Dawn


The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus.
1 Timothy1:14

Grace comes into the soul, as the morning sun into the world; first a dawning; then a light; and at last the sun in his full and excellent brightness.
Thomas Adams

It starts as subtle glow around the edges so that dark appears darker with contrast that wasn’t there before. Illumination slowly reveals the hidden niches. As it progresses, more details stand out in relief, creating both portrait and landscape. Then the color flows, emerging and submerging, encompassing and enveloping.

What was murky and undefined is now revealed with backlighting, and brightly adorned.

What was depths of tomb and grave is now opened and freed.

From gloaming to dawning, our souls rise as well.

Bookends

No matter
No matter what happens between the sunrise and the sunset
No matter what happens between the sunset and the sunrise
It doesn’t matter.

What matters:

the rise and the set
the set and the rise

keep coming
through troubles
and sickness
through loss
and sadness

earth
turns
to grant
a new start
a new day

settles
serenely
to offer
a peaceful sleep
a quiet night

matters so much
more than me
so much more
so much
so

Lenten Meditation: Whiter Than Snow

Psalm 51:7

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.

It was a bright December day, she remembered, a great day for a snow shoeing trek near Artist’s Point, eat lunch, then head home.  All three college students wound their way slowly around the base of Table Mountain, enjoying a final day together before parting for the long Christmas break.

The avalanche came without warning; a sudden low rumble, then building to a roar, and the ground was moving beneath them, rolling them over and over helplessly in a wave of white that carried them down the slope.  It swooshed over top of them, everything awash in white.  There was no way to know up from down, and when finally coming to rest, the white became black, still, and suffocating.

Remembering her avalanche survival course, she waved her arms in front of her as hard as she could, creating a small open pocket beneath her face as she found herself bent forward, hunched into a folded crouched position.  There was a sense of light coming through the snow above her, but nothing but black below.  She tried to force her way up through the snow, to push her way out but it weighted her down like concrete blocks.  There was no moving from the small space that contained her.

She realized she was trapped and began to panic.  She tried to shout but her voice too was entombed in snow.

So she began to pray.   She prayed for her safety, for calmness, for a rescue, she prayed for her two friends, she prayed for her parents.  She remembered relaxing as she spoke to God, sensing Him in the darkness with her, knowing He was the only one to know where she was at that moment. He had found her.

Growing colder, she was unable to feel her feet or hands any longer.  She was fading; she tried to stay awake by praying harder, but it was no use.

_________

Sometime later she felt herself being pulled into the light, heard excited voices shouting, and then she was being carried on a stretcher.  In the ambulance, on the way to the hospital, she began to talk to her rescuers as they warmed her with blankets, and once her skin softened, they put warm intravenous fluids in her veins.  By the time she arrived in the emergency room, her face had some color, though her feet were blue, her toes white and completely numb.

It wasn’t until later that she was clear enough to ask about her friends.   One was the reason she had been rescued.  He had fought his way through his snow covering and thereby freeing himself, had gone for help.  With the help of dogs, she had been found.  Her third friend was still missing.

As she mentioned to a nurse what a close call she had, being buried under two feet of heavy snow for several minutes, and surviving relatively unscathed,  the nurse stopped what she was doing and looked at her oddly.

“Don’t you know?  You were buried for almost 24 hours before they found you! It’s amazing you are alive at all and look at you, barely a mark on you, only a little frostbite!”

A miracle whiter than snow.

based on a true story of avalanche survival near Mount Baker by two WWU students.  The third student perished.

Stacking the Hay

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Every hay crew is the same
Though the names change;
Young men flexing their muscles,
A seasoned farmer defying his age
Tossing four bales high,
Determined girls bucking up on the wagon,
Young children rolling bales closer,
Add a school teacher, pastor,
Professor, lawyer and doctor
Getting sweaty and dusty
United in being farmers
If only for an evening.

Stacking
Basket weave
Interlocking
Cut side up
Steadying the load
Riding over hills
Through valleys
In slow motion
Eagles over head
Searching the bare fields
Evening alpen glow
Of snowbound
Eastern peaks

Friends and neighbors
Walking the dotted pastures,
Piling on the wagons,
Driving the truck,
Riding the top of hay stack
In the evening breeze,
Filling empty barn space to the rafters,
Making gallons of lemonade in the kitchen.
A hearty meal consumed
In celebration
Of summer baled, stored, preserved
For another year.

Hay crew
Remembered on
Frosty autumn mornings before dawn
When bales are broken for feed
And fragrant summer spills forth.
In the dead of winter