I want to memorize it all before it changes: the shift of sun from north to south barely balances on our east- west road at equinox.
The flow of geese overhead, honking while waving farewell, the hawks’ screams in the firs, dragonflies trapped in the barn light fixtures several generations of coyotes hollering at dusk.
The pond quiets with cooler nights, hair thickens on horses, cats and dogs, dying back of the garden vines reveals what lies unharvested beneath.
And so we part again, Summer – your gifts were endless until you now have parted ways.
I sit silenced, brooding, waiting for what comes next.
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For seasons the walled meadow south of the house built of its stone grows up in shepherd’s purse and thistles the weeds share April as a secret finches disguised as summer earth click the drying seeds mice run over rags of parchment in August the hare keeps looking up remembering a hidden joy fills the songs of the cicadas
two days’ rain wakes the green in the pastures crows agree and hawks shriek with naked voices on all sides the dark oak woods leap up and shine the long stony meadow is plowed at last and lies all day bare I consider life after life as treasures oh it is the autumn light
that brings everything back in one hand the light again of beginnings the amber appearing as amber ~ W. S. Merwin, “September Plowing” from Flower & Hand
photo by Joel De Waard
When you are already here you appear to be only a name that tells of you whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though you are still summer still the high familiar endless summer yet with a glint of bronze in the chill mornings and the late yellow petals of the mullein fluttering on the stalks that lean over their broken shadows across the cracked ground
but they all know that you have come the seed heads of the sage the whispering birds with nowhere to hide you to keep you for later
you who fly with them
you who are neither before nor after you who arrive with blue plums that have fallen through the night
Now that it has rained a bit, the light of September is a filtered, more gentle illumination than we have experienced for the past several months of dry summer glare.
It is more lambent: a soft radiance that simply glows at certain times of the day when the angle of the sun is just right, and the clouds are in position to soften and cushion the luminence.
It is also liminal: it is neither before or after, on the threshold between seasons when there is both promise and caution in the air.
Sometimes I think I can breathe in light like this, if not through my lungs, then through my eyes.
It is a temptation to bottle it up with a stopper somehow, stow it away hidden in a back cupboard. Then I can bring it out on the darkest days, pour a bit into a glass, and imbibe.
But for now, I fill myself full to the brim. And my only means of preservation is with a camera and a few words.
So I share it now with all of you to tuck away for a future day. Perhaps you too will be thirsty for a lambent light.
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And a few favorite AI images created for my Barnstorming posts – I like to see whether computers are understanding, through an artistic interpretation, what I’m trying to say.
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We have become so accustomed to the idea of divine love and of God’s coming at Christmas that we no longer feel the shiver of fear that God’s coming should arouse in us. We are indifferent to the message, taking only the pleasant and agreeable out of it and forgetting the serious aspect, that the God of the world draws near to the people of our little earth and lays claim to us. The coming of God is truly not only glad tidings, but first of all frightening news for everyone who has a conscience. ~Dietrich Bonhoeffer from Watch for the Light
Was certainly not winter, scholars say, When holy habitation broke the chill Of hearth-felt separation, icy still, The love of life in man that Christmas day. Was autumn, rather, if seasons speak true; When green retreats from sight’s still ling’ring gaze, And creeping cold numbs sense in sundry ways, While settling silence speaks of solitude. Hope happens when conditions are as these; Comes finally lock-armed with death and sin, When deep’ning dark demands its full display. Then fallen nature driven to her knees Flames russet, auburn, orange fierce from within, And brush burns brighter for the growing grey. ~David Baird “Autumn”
Christianity does not agree with the optimistic thinkers who say, “We can fix things if we try hard enough.” Nor does it agree with the pessimists who see only a dystopian future. The message of Christianity is, instead, “Things really are this bad, and we can’t heal or save ourselves. Things really are this dark—nevertheless, there is hope.” ~Tim Keller from Hidden Christmas
And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. ~Luke 2: 8-11
The shepherds were sore afraid. So why aren’t we?
The reds and oranges of autumn have faded fast; we descend into winter in a few days. Murderous frosts have wilted down all that was flush with life.
This Baby is sent as a refiner’s fire; we feel His heat dispelling our chilly darkness, changing sin to ash.
Indeed – Hope happens when conditions are as these…
AI image created for this post
This year’s Advent theme is from Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s sermon on the First Sunday in Advent, December 2, 1928:
The celebration of Advent is possible only to those who are troubled in soul, who know themselves to be poor and imperfect, and who look forward to something greater to come. For these, it is enough to wait in humble fear until the Holy One himself comes down to us, God in the child in the manager.
God comes.
He is, and always will be now, with us in our sin, in our suffering, and at our death. We are no longer alone. God is with us and we are no longer homeless. ~Dietrich Bonhoeffer – from Christmas Sermons
We stood on the hills, Lady, Our day’s work done, Watching the frosted meadows That winter had won. The evening was calm, Lady, The air so calm, Silence more lovely than music Folded the hill. There was a star, Lady, Shone in the night, Larger than Venus it was and bright, so bright. Oh, a voice from the sky, Lady, It seemed to us then Of God being born in the world of men. And so we have come, Lady Our day’s work done, Our love, our hopes, ourselves we give to your son.
Deep in the cold of winter, Darkness and silence were eve’rywhere; Softly and clearly, there came through the stillness a wonderful sound, A wonderful sound to hear.
All bells in paradise I heard them ring, Sounding in majesty the news that they bring; All bells in paradise I heard them ring, Welcoming our Saviour, born on earth, a heavenly King. All bells in paradise, I heard them ring, ‘Glory to God on high’ the angel voices sing.
Lost in awe and wonder, Doubting I asked what this sign may be; Christ, our Messiah, revealed in a stable, A marvelous sight, a marvelous sight to see.
Chorus
He comes down in peace, A child in humility, The keys to his kingdom belong to the poor; Before him shall kneel the kings with their treasures, Gold, incense, and myrrh.
Chorus ~John Rutter “All Bells in Paradise”
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God empties himself into the earth like a cloud. God takes the substance, contours of a man, and keeps them, dying, rising, walking, and still walking wherever there is motion. Annie Dillard from “Feast Days” in Tickets for a Prayer Wheel
Soon we will enter the season of Advent, an opportunity to reflect on a God who “takes the substance, contours of a man”, as He “empties himself into the earth like a cloud.”
Like drought-stricken parched ground, we prepare to respond to the drenching of the Spirit through the Son, and be ready to spring up with renewed growth.
He walked among us before His dying and subsequent rising up. He walked among us again, appearing where least expected, sharing a meal, causing our hearts to burn within us, inviting us to touch and know Him.
His invitation remains open-ended, His heart preparing us for our eternal home.
I think of that every time the clouds gather, open up, and empty. He freely falls to earth, soaking us completely, through and through and through.
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I am out with lanterns looking for myself… ~Emily Dickinson from “Letters”
And is it not enough that every year A richly laden autumn should unfold And shimmer into being leaf by leaf, Its scattered ochres mirrored everywhere In hints and glints of hidden red and gold Threaded like memory through loss and grief,
When dusk descends, when branches are unveiled, When roots reach deeper than our minds can feel And ready us for winter with strange calm, That I should see the inner tree revealed And know its beauty as the bright leaves fall And feel its truth within me as I am?
And is it not enough that I should walk Through low November mist along the bank, When scents of woodsmoke summon, in some long And melancholy undertone, the talk Of those old poets from whose works I drank The heady wine of an autumnal song?
It is not yet enough. So I must try, In my poor turn, to help you see it too, As though these leaves could be as rich as those, That red and gold might glimmer in your eye, That autumn might unfold again in you, Feeling with me what falling leaves disclose. ~Malcolm Guite “And Is It Not Enough?”
For over 15 years now, I have bared my soul here at Barnstorming, looking for others’ words to help me sort through the events of my life. I particularly look for words that resonate: I can say “I’ve felt like that as well,” with the hope that others reading along with me will recognize that familiar “yes, that is the way it is for me.”
Every day, I am out looking for myself with the help of Light provided by our Creator God. I carry lanterns hither and yon, exploring paths and hidden spaces and wondering what is around the next corner.
So I want to help you see where this journey is going.
Maybe it is finding your own “inner tree” as the leaves fall, revealing the strength of bare bones. Maybe it is noticing beauty in the ordinary. Maybe it is the warmth of knowing someone else feels as you do. Maybe it is discovering a connection, mysterious and wondrous.
Often I hear from you that the Light you carry helped lead you here. Welcome, my friend — let’s walk together…
photo by Josh ScholtenAI image created for this post
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Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgivable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes. ~Raymond Carver “Rain”from All of Us
I know what you planned, what you meant to do, teaching me to love the world, making it impossible to turn away completely, to shut it out completely over again– it is everywhere; when I close my eyes, birdsong, scent of lilac in early spring, scent of summer roses: you mean to take it away, each flower, each connection with earth– why would you wound me, why would you want me desolate in the end, unless you wanted me so starved for hope I would refuse to see that finally nothing was left to me, and would believe instead that you were left to me. ~Louise Glück “Vespers”
How swiftly the strained honey of afternoon light flows into darkness
and the closed bud shrugs off its special mystery in order to break into blossom
By mid-November, we begin to lose daylight by 4PM. There is no wistful lingering with the descent of evening; the curtain is pulled closed and it is dark — just like that.
I’m having difficulty adjusting to the loss of daylight this year. This is perplexing as the change of seasons is no mystery to me. I sense a new deprivation beyond the fact that shorter days are simply a part of the annual autumnal routine.
As if – something precious is being stolen away
as if – I have any claim to the light to begin with
as if – maybe I exist only to notice what ceases to exist.
So I am reminded: I know there is more beyond feeling loss and lost. I would do this all again, while feeling my way in the dark. I will cling to the promise of what comes next.
I’m ready to break into blossom rather than hiding from the rain, opening up to what light is left, instead of grumbling in the dark.
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Another year gone, leaving everywhere its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,
the uneaten fruits crumbling damply in the shadows…
I try to remember when time’s measure painfully chafes, for instance when autumn
flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing to stay – how everything lives, shifting
from one bright vision to another, forever in these momentary pastures. ~Mary Oliver from Fall Song
To let your body love this world that gave itself to your care in all of its ripeness, with ease, and will take itself from you in equal ripeness and ease, is also harvest. And however sharply you are tested – this sorrow, that great love – it too will leave on that clean knife. ~Jane Hirshfield from “Ripeness” from “The October Palace”
What is left in the trees in November is crumbling away: bright while fading, dimpling and softening, composted in the rain.
Perhaps this describes me too.
More than just spicy residue dangling by a stem, let me still feed whoever is hungry, to thrive on what little I have left to offer.
Might I ripen a bit at harvest before the inevitable drop, to sleep enveloped by the ground.
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But this morning we wake to pale muslin stretched across the grass. The pumpkins, still in the fields, are planets shrouded by clouds. The Weber wears a dunce cap and sits in the corner by the garage where asters wrap scarves around their necks to warm their blooms. The leaves, still soldered to their branches by a frozen drop of dew, splash apple and pear paint along the roadsides. It seems we have glanced out a window into the near future, mid-December, say, the black and white photo of winter carefully laid over the present autumn, like a morning we pause at the mirror inspecting the single strand of hair that overnight has turned to snow. ~Robert Haight “Early October Snow”
No snow here in the northwest yet this fall, but when we visited family in Denver last year during the last week of October, heavy snow had fallen overnight, then gone within a day.
It did not stay. But it did return.
I can catch a glimpse of the future if I pay attention. Sometimes it is too painful to acknowledge, so I quickly look away. That one thick white hair discovered at age 28 is now a full head of thin white at 70.
I need to be courageous about looking straight ahead through the veil of snow at how change takes place, whether it is the melting piles on the pumpkins, or the mop of white in the mirror topping my wrinkles.
And so it goes and so it goes…
It is as it is meant to be. It is as it must be. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
those white hairs…AI image created for this post
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The woods is shining this morning. Red, gold and green, the leaves lie on the ground, or fall, or hang full of light in the air still. Perfect in its rise and in its fall, it takes the place it has been coming to forever. It has not hastened here, or lagged. See how surely it has sought itself, its roots passing lordly through the earth. See how without confusion it is all that it is, and how flawless its grace is. Running or walking, the way is the same. Be still. Be still. “He moves your bones, and the way is clear.” ~Wendell Berry “Grace”
If I’m unsure, as I often am, about where I’ve been, where I am, where I’m going, I look to the cycles of the seasons to be reminded all things must come round
what is barren will bud what buds will grow lush and fruit what flourishes will fade and fall, and come to rest and stillness
All things come round, making the way to Him clear. Grace forges a path my bones and I follow.
Shining as the smallest bud, shining in fruitfulness, shining when fallen, shining in His glory.
I’ll be still. Will be still.
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