I prefer to sit all day like a sack in a chair and to lie all night like a stone in my bed.
When food comes I open my mouth. When sleep comes I close my eyes.
My body sings only one song; the wind turns gray in my arms.
Flowers bloom. Flowers die. More is less. I long for more. ~Mark Strand “The One Song” from Collected Poems
“fly-by feeding” video taken by Harry Rodenberger
windy day photo by Nate Lovegren
Sometimes, I feel I have been asleep for years. My eyes close easily, my ears turn off rather than listen to what is too hard to bear. Even then, my mouth opens, waiting to be fed more.
More and more and more…
We always want more than we have. In fact, we’re served “more” on a huge platter every day – such extravagant blessings placed right before us, even if we don’t recognize them as such.
It’s in every one of us to open up both our eyes, to listen closely and then open our mouths to sing one song together – in peace, in harmony, in love – and only then we’ll see what more tomorrow will bring…
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Oh, to be the washed linens and sheets the towels and blouses and trousers, all the underpinnings of dailiness—all sailing and flapping on a sturdy line, releasing their music of fabric to the air— to be so wind-rinsed and cleansed, so sun-seeped down to the deepest thread. ~Andrea Potos “Small Ode to Laundry on the Line”from Her Joy Becomes
All day the blanket snapped and swelled on the line, roused by a hot spring wind…. From there it witnessed the first sparrow, early flies lifting their sticky feet, and a green haze on the south-sloping hills. Clouds rose over the mountain….At dusk I took the blanket in, and we slept, restless, under its fragrant weight. ~Jane Kenyon “Wash”
I may walk the streets of this century and make my living in an office but my blood is old farming blood and my true self is underground like a potato.
I have taken root in my grandfather’s fields: I am hanging my laundry beneath his trees. ~Faith Shearin from “Fields”
Here we stand breathless And pressed in hard times Hearts hung like laundry On backyard clothes lines Impossible just takes A little more time ~Carrie Newcomer “You Can Do This Hard Thing”
For me, clean laundry freshly dried on the clothesline is a daily sacrament. True, the towels and sheets are rougher when the wind has snapped them into shape rather than a rolling dryer drum with fabric softener sheets. The scent of the outdoors more than makes up for the sandpaper feel. I love burying my face in the pile as I bring it inside to fold and put away.
Smoothing, folding, stacking, creating order out of a quotidian mess – laundry will be undone and redone in merely a week, yet is such a comforting routine.
Even when we ourselves are in disarray, when we are soiled and smelly, when we feel discarded into the dirty clothes hamper, we can be restored. Soapy water and fresh air readies us to be folded and smoothed and stowed away until we are needed.
We find our way back to purpose and meaning. We are loved so much that grime no longer defines us because we always (always) can be made clean.
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The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit. John 3: 8
Question: What causes the wind? Why do I feel some way in wind?
Answer: Trees fan the wind as they sway. Bushes help. Your heart fills up. ~Annie Dillard from “Some Questions and Answers About Natural History from Tickets for a Prayer Wheel
Let the wind die down. Let the shed go black inside. Let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come. ~Jane Kenyon from “Let Evening Come”
We’re in the middle of an arctic outflow northeaster that is predicted to blow for several more days and bring snow. What felt like hints of spring have literally gone back underground – the peeper frogs’ song at night is gone, the shoots of snowdrops are frozen in place, delicate buds are in shock, daffodils that recently emerged are now held in suspense.
This is no gentle breeze nor is it a life threatening hurricane. Instead, it is a consistent bone-chilling reminder how vulnerable we are to forces far more powerful than our frail and temporary earthly bodies.
We are not in control, never have been. It helps to remember that.
So we sit tight indoors as much as possible, bundling up when we need to go out for farm chores, yet knowing eventually this bruising air will eventually go still. We ourselves are changed and humbled, with hearts full of the knowledge that God is within those unseen forces. Though we may be afraid of the buffeting sting of a strong chill wind, we pray for the inevitable calm and comfort to come.
And I have no doubt – God Himself will bring it.
This year’s Barnstorming Lenten theme is taken from 2 Corinthians 4: 18: So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
Light and wind are running over the headed grass as though the hill had melted and now flowed. ~Wendell Berry “June Wind” from New Collected Poems
The rain to the wind said, ‘You push and I’ll pelt.’ They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged–though not dead. I know how the flowers felt. ~Robert Frost “Lodged”
All that I serve will die, all my delights, the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field, the silent lilies standing in the woods, the woods, the hill, the whole earth, all will burn in man’s evil, or dwindle in its own age. Let the world bring on me the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know my little light taken from me into the seed of the beginning and the end, so I may bow to mystery, and take my stand on the earth like a tree in a field, passing without haste or regret toward what will be, my life a patient willing descent into the grass. ~Wendell Berry “The Wish to be Generous” from Collected Poems
The abundant grasses in the surrounding hay fields were hit hard with heavy rainfall and wind yesterday, collapsing under the weight of the pelting moisture. Countless four foot tall tender stems are now lodged and flattened in undulating bent-over waves of green, embracing the earth from which they arose. If the rain continues as predicted over the next several days, the grass may not recover, unable to dry out enough to stand upright again, nor are the fields dry enough to bring tractors and equipment to the rescue.
It is ironic to lose a crop from too much of a good thing– lush growth demands, but often cannot withstand, quenching rains. It has matured too fast, rising up too lush, too overcome with itself so that it can no longer stand. The grass keels over in community, broken and crumpled, likely now unsuitable for cutting or baling into hay, and unless chopped quickly into silage to ferment for winter cattle feed, it must melt back into the soil again.
However–if there are dry spells amid the showers over the next few days, with a breeze to lift the soaked heads and squeeze out the wet sponge created by layered forage–the lodged crop may survive and rise back up. It may be raised and lifted again, pushing up to meet the sun, its stems strengthening and straightening.
What once was so heavy laden and down-trodden might lighten; what was silent could once again move and sing and wave with the wind.
The hill pasture, an open place among the trees, tilts into the valley. The clovers and tall grasses are in bloom. Along the foot of the hill dark floodwater moves down the river. The sun sets. Ahead of nightfall the birds sing. I have climbed up to water the horses and now sit and rest, high on the hillside, letting the day gather and pass. Below me cattle graze out across the wide fields of the bottomlands, slow and preoccupied as stars. In this world men are making plans, wearing themselves out, spending their lives, in order to kill each other. ~Wendell Berry “In This World” from Farming: A Handbook
What stood will stand, though all be fallen, The good return that time has stolen. Though creatures groan in misery, Their flesh prefigures liberty To end travail and bring to birth Their new perfection in new earth. At word of that enlivening Let the trees of the woods all sing And every field rejoice, let praise Rise up out of the ground like grass. What stood, whole in every piecemeal Thing that stood, will stand though all Fall–field and woods and all in them Rejoin the primal Sabbath’s hymn. ~Wendell Berry, from “Sabbaths” (North Point Press, 1987).
From The Nicene Creed
Et expecto resurrectionem motuorum. Et vitam venturi saeculi. Amen. Alleluia.
And I look for the resurrection of the dead, And the life of the world to come. Amen. Alleluia
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a gentle breeze was lightly tussling shells and stones meant to strike on each other to sibilate, hiss, and whisper your own freshly loosed thoughts back into your soul. like voices afar off the jangling of each woven shroud brought sundry pitch and textured sounds awakening new areas of my mind. deep breaths of open musing rose and fell with the wind as it returned to tantalize the ornamental chimes that had waited so long in silence. Lifted on the breeze freed to manifest each ubiquitous interval and send forth vibrations into nature’s lonely sentiment. I close my eyes and feel the sounds made so effortlessly that tranquilize my worries and open my heart to hear the rapture of the universe. –so fortunate to be sitting here. ~Suzanne Eaton “windchimes”
She goes out to hang the windchime in her nightie and her work boots. It’s six-thirty in the morning and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch, windchime in her left hand, hammer in her right, the nail gripped tight between her teeth but nothing happens next because she’s trying to figure out how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen, coffee in her hand, asleep, when she heard it—the wind blowing through the sound the windchime wasn’t making because it wasn’t there... ~Tony Hoagland from “Windchime”
Once upon a time, nearly 5 decades ago, I attended a university with a bell carillon in a tower that frequently played wonderful concerts. I missed spontaneous music floating on the air after I graduated. Living rural, we are nowhere near a bell tower, nor can we hear our church bells ringing in our Chapel belfry a few miles away.
So when the merest breeze is able to make music, I find it a hopeful reminder the earth itself has its own breath and rhythm and holds its own concerts if given the tools.
We have four windchimes of varying size and tuning hanging from our front porch and back yard, each with its own song and personality. Depending on where we are in the house, we hear different harmony and pitch. The largest sounds like church bells, deep and resonant, another is a pentatonix of harmony, one plays the notes of “Amazing Grace” and the last is just random tintinnabulation.
In certain seasons, our area can get strong northeast or southerly winds that blow over 50 mph. In that case, we take the windchimes down temporarily – the battering clatter and clanging becomes more unsettling than the storm itself. Once the winds die down again, it is too quiet – the silence reminds me to replace the chimes on their hooks.
As I wake in the night to hear their gentle melodies through our open window, my worries are soothed and my heart lifts and floats along with the breeze.
The earth continues to breath and so, for now, will I.
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Soon we shall reach the distant shining shore, Free from all the storms, we’ll rest forevermore. Safe within the veil, we’ll furl the riven sail, And the storm will all be over, Hallelujah! ~Last stanza of “The Storm is Passing Over” (below)
We’ve had two days of intermittent chilly winds with rain and noisy hale storms. I wish I had not left the barn doors wide open after morning chores, as the storm also blew through the barn. Hay, empty buckets, horse halters and cat food were strewn about. The Haflinger horses stood wide-eyed and fretful in their stalls as the hail on the metal roof was deafening.
Once I got the doors closed and secured, all was soon made right. The horses relaxed and got back to their meals and things felt normal again.
The barn is still standing with the roof still on, the horses are where they belong and all seems to be as it was before the barnstorming wind.
Or so it might appear.
This wind heralds another storm beginning this week that hits with such force that I’m knocked off my feet, blown away, and left bruised and breathless. No latches, locks, or barricades are strong enough to protect me from what will come over the next few days.
Today he rides in on a donkey softly, humbly, and wept at what he knew must come.
Tomorrow he curses the fig tree that is all show with plenty of leaves, and no fruit. Then at the temple, he overturns the money-changers’ tables in His fury at their corruption of a holy place.
Tuesday he describes the destruction of Jerusalem that is to happen, yet no one understands.
Wednesday, a woman boldly anoints him with precious oil, as preparation.
On Thursday, he kneels before his friends, pours water over their dusty feet, presides over a simple meal, and later, abandoned, sweats blood in agonized prayer.
By Friday, all culminates in a most perfect storm, transforming everything in its path, leaving nothing untouched, the curtain torn, the veil removed.
The silence on Saturday is deafening.
Next Sunday, the Son rises, sheds his shroud and neatly folds what is no longer needed. He is nearly unrecognizable in his glory.
He calls my name, my heart burns within me at his words and I can never be the same again.
I am, once again, barnstormed to the depths of my soul. Doors flung open wide, my roof pulled off, everything of no consequence blown away and now replaced, renewed and reconciled.
The storm is passing over, again and yet again, year after year, life after life.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
Courage, my soul, and let us journey on, Tho’ the night is dark, it won’t be very long. Thanks be to God, the morning light appears, And the storm is passing over, Hallelujah!
Chorus: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! The storm is passing over, Hallelujah!
2. Billows rolling high, and thunder shakes the ground, Lightnings flash, and tempest all around, Jesus walks the sea and calms the angry waves, And the storm is passing over, Hallelujah! [Chorus]
3. The stars have disappeared, and distant lights are dim, My soul is filled with fears, the seas are breaking in. I hear the Master cry, “Be not afraid, ’tis I,” And the storm is passing over, Hallelujah! [Chorus]
4. Soon we shall reach the distant shining shore, Free from all the storms, we’ll rest forevermore. Safe within the veil, we’ll furl the riven sail, And the storm will all be over, Hallelujah! [Chorus]
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Please forgive me for forgetting. I wanted to go outside and look for you. I was told this was impossible.
I was instructed to stay indoors. But my words for you need sun. My heart needs air.
I love you Spring. I miss your warmth. Come unlock my door. ~Ethelbert Miller “Beloved”
I love you, Spring. But where are you? Nearly a week of chill winds and freezing temperatures put me back inside the house wanting to hide under the covers. Water buckets in the barn were frozen again, walkways were slick with ice, once friendly breezes threatened to knock me over with their force. This is not the Spring promised.
Come unlock my door, Spring. When our old apple tree toppled over in the northeast blow earlier this week, I identified a bit too much. The wind took advantage of a hollowed out rotten core the tree had been hiding for years. What might I be hiding inside that makes me just as vulnerable to forces knocking on me, even though I bear fruit as usual?
Please forgive me for forgetting: this world is at war with evil – families hiding in basements, subways filling with refugees, apartment buildings bombed. Now is when we are most fragile, exposed and wounded. Our lumpy exteriors are on full display waiting for spring to renew and cover us up.
I wanted to go look for you: Our farm cat decided the old apple tree lying on its side was a new perfect perch to keep surveillance for curious (and irritating) farm dogs without having to climb up high. There he sat on the fallen trunk, far enough above a corgi dog’s head to be essentially invisible although Homer could absolutely smell there was a cat with threatening claws nearby … somewhere. Just where that cat could be remained a mystery to a dog who is distinctly height-challenged.
Like my cat, I wait now in late winter — seeking the sun for my words and fresh air for my heart. And like my dog, I sense something potentially threatening is near, but because of my own limitations of perception, I have no idea just how close.
I was told this was impossible: may we weather the storms together may there be peace and warmth for all people may we find harmony as winter melts into spring.
cat hiding in plain sight, Homer too short to figure it out
This is my song, O God of all the nations, A song of peace for lands afar and mine. This is my home, the country where my heart is, Here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine. But other hearts in other lands are beating, With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine. My country’s skies are bluer than the ocean, And sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine. But other lands have sunlight too, and clover, And skies are everywhere as blue as mine. This is my song, O God of all the nations, A song of peace for their land and for mine. So let us raise this melody together, Beneath the stars that guide us through the night; If we choose love, each storm we’ll learn to weather, Until true peace and harmony we find, This is our song, a hymn we raise together; A dream of peace, uniting humankind. ~Lloyd Stone and Blake Morgan
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I watch the great clear twilight Veiling the ice-bowed trees; Their branches tinkle faintly With crystal melodies.
The larches bend their silver Over the hush of snow; One star is lighted in the west, Two in the zenith glow.
For a moment I have forgotten Wars and women who mourn, I think of the mother who bore me And thank her that I was born. ~Sara Teasdale “Winter Dusk” from The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale
The towering tree spreads his greening canopy — A veil between the soil and sky— Not in selfish vanity, But the gentle thrush to shade and shelter.
So it is with love.
For when we love, Simply love, Even as we are loved, Our weary world can be transformed.
The busy thrush builds her nest below — A fortnight’s work to weave and set— Not for herself alone, But her tender brood to shield and cherish.
And so it is with love.
For when we love, Simply love, Even as we are loved, Our weary world can be transformed Into the Kingdom of God! ~Charles Silvestri “When We Love”
We are in the midst of a week-long late winter arctic blast of cold wind bending and breaking trees, even taking down an old apple tree in our orchard last night. Our seed feeders are swinging back and forth so violently that hungry wild birds struggle to hang on for their breakfast – they have to fight the northeast winds for their food.
The news headlines also freeze my heart, bringing back memories of old “cold war” threats and posturing of 60 years ago. In this more modern time of global communication, Ukrainian citizens directly in the line of fire become very real on our screens – people with work lives and families and views from their windows shared with the world as they anxiously wait for Russia’s shoe to drop upon them.
I freeze at the knowledge that my commitment to feed the birds in my backyard can’t begin to compare with the weary and war-torn world’s inability to keep starving children alive around the globe – in Afghanistan, South Sudan, Yemen and other unstable places.
I cannot forget our helplessness to love, cherish and protect the young when they are casualties of the destructive web of politics and power.
May God’s love transform our world, turn our political platitudes to prayer, bring about a thaw to build bridges, rather than gulfs, between old enemies.
May love thrive in the nests and homes of parents who commit to love, cherish and sustain their offspring no matter where they live on the globe.
May I start right here, in my own frozen back yard, caring for the young and vulnerable within my reach, and hope my reach may stretch far beyond my grasp.
So slim and flexible I could have rung my fingers round that skinny trunk. Oh, you are built to survive a vernal storm. Listen to me, though—
endure the wind’s force without resistance. Lean with the fury.
When you’re nearly bowed over think broad trunk think sturdy bark. Someday you won’t bend nearly so—
and to that scared little girl the one I saw yesterday in the department store
hiding under the dress rack enduring a mother’s torrent—
I’m sorry. You won’t bend nearly so after you’re grown. ~Christine Bodine, “late apology to the scared little girl in the department store” from Souvenirs of Myself
I know a psychiatrist colleague, soon to be 80 years old and still seeing patients, who recommends people should aim to be more like a willow than a chestnut tree. His long clinical practice has given him a perspective of who survives and who becomes irretrievably broken when the forces of life hit hard.
I know I am not one to freely yield to the wind or ice storm. More chestnut than willow or birch, I can tend toward inflexibility rather than suppleness.
This means I easily break when anger and fury abound in the world around me, rather than leaning and bending. What’s left is broken pieces awaiting salvage, feeding the flames of the brush pile with all the rest of the rigid and unyielding.
Yea, if I don’t bow like a willow, I fall broken upon the rock.
photo by Harry Rodenberger
I will bow and be simple, I will bow and be free, I will bow and be humble, Yea, bow like the willow tree.
I will bow, this is the token, I will wear the easy yoke, I will bow and will be broken, Yea, I’ll fall upon the rock. Shaker melody
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