You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink. ~G.K. Chesterton
Norman Rockwell’s 1951 painting Saying Grace
Chesterton has it right. No matter what I embark on, I should say grace first. Even my breathing, my waking, and my sleeping. Even the brilliance right outside my back door.
Continual and constant thanks and praise to the Creator for all things bright and beautiful, and helping us through the dark times.
Instead I am plagued with inconstancy and inconsistency, with a stubborn tendency to take it all for granted.
As I “dip pen in ink” this morning, join me in saying grace:
He is worthy. Amen and Amen.
Even more so. Ever more now.
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Night after night darkness enters the face of the lily which, lightly, closes its five walls around itself, and its purse of honey, and its fragrance, and is content to stand there in the garden, not quite sleeping, and, maybe, saying in lily language some small words we can’t hear even when there is no wind anywhere, its lips are so secret, its tongue is so hidden – or, maybe, it says nothing at all but just stands there with the patience of vegetables and saints until the whole earth has turned around and the silver moon becomes the golden sun – as the lily absolutely knew it would, which is itself, isn’t it, the perfect prayer? ~Mary Oliver “The Lily”
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin;yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Matthew 6:28b-29
I have been thinking about living like the lilies that blow in the fields.
They rise and fall in the edge of the wind, and have no shelter from the tongues of the cattle,
and have no closets or cupboards, and have no legs. Still I would like to be as wonderful
as the old idea. But if I were a lily I think I would wait all day for the green face
of the hummingbird to touch me. What I mean is, could I forget myself
even in those feathery fields? When Van Gogh preached to the poor of course he wanted to save someone–
most of all himself. He wasn’t a lily, and wandering through the bright fields only gave him more ideas
it would take his life to solve. I think I will always be lonely in this world, where the cattle graze like a black and white river–
where the vanishing lilies melt, without protest, on their tongues– where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss, just rises and floats away. ~Mary Oliver “Lilies”
From the simplest lyric to the most complex novel and densest drama, literature is asking us to pay attention… pay attention to the world and all that dwells therein and thereby learn at last to pay attention to yourself and all that dwells therein.
Literature, painting, music— the most basic lesson that all art teaches us is to stop, look, and listen to life on this planet, including our own lives, as a vastly richer, deeper, more mysterious business as we bumble along from day to day on automatic pilot. In a world that for the most part steers clear of the whole idea of holiness, art is one of the few places left where we can speak to each other of holy things.
Is it too much to say that Stop, Look, and Listen is also the most basic lesson that the Judeo-Christian tradition teaches us? Listen to history is the cry of the ancient prophets of Israel. Listen to social injustice, says Amos; to head-in-the-sand religiosity, says Jeremiah; to international treacheries and power-plays, says Isaiah; because it is precisely through them that God speaks his word of judgment and command.
In a letter to a friend Emily Dickinson wrote that “Consider the lilies of the field” was the only commandment she never broke. She could have done a lot worse. Consider the lilies. It is the sine qua non of art and religion both. ~Frederick Buechner from Whistling in the Dark
I have failed to “consider the lilies” way too many times.
In my daily life, I am considering my own worries and concerns as I walk past beauty and purpose and holiness. My mind turns inward, often blind and deaf to what is outside me.
It is necessary to be reminded every day that I need to pay attention beyond myself, to love my neighbor, to remember what history has to teach us, to search for the sacred in all things.
Stop, Look, Listen, Consider: all is grace, all is gift, all is holiness brought to life – so stunning, so amazing, so wondrous.
Thank you to David and Lynne Nelson, David Vos of VanderGiessen Nursery, Arlene Van Ry, Tennant Lake Park and Western Washington University for making their lovely lilies available to me to photograph.
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For to come upon warblers in early May was to forget time and death.—Theodore Roethke
Every poem of death should start with my mother’s love for birds. Finches and waxwings her favorites, though she wasn’t one to quibble; an eagle dragging a carp across the sky would do.
There are worse things than being dead. You might be swallowed by the daily minutia of the great mundane, to be spit up years later wondering where your life has gone.
But loving something can save you: the way finches stack a feeder, meddle in each other’s business until a woodpecker crashes in, littering surrounding shrubs with wings.
Last summer my wife found a hummingbird on Mount Pisgah. Its emerald wings trembled as its feet tried to grasp her fingers. A ranger said that their lives are so short anyway. What a curious reply, I thought, but later reconsidered. Perhaps any time being a hummingbird is enough. ~Bill Brown “With the Help of Birds”
That long-ago morning at Ruth’s farm when I hid in the wisteria and watched hummingbirds. I thought the ruby or gold that gleamed on their throats was the honeyed blood of flowers. They would stick their piercing beaks into a crown of petals until their heads disappeared. The blossoms blurred into wings, and the breathing I heard was the thin, moving stems of wisteria. That night, my face pressed against the window, I looked out into the dark where the moon drowned in the willows by the pond. My heart, bloodstone, turned. That long night, the farm, those jeweled birds, all these gone years. The horses standing quiet and huge in the moon-crossing blackness. ~Joseph Stroud “First Song”
Birds are everywhere this time of year – I keep my phone handy with the Merlin App open from Cornell Lab, so I know who I’m hearing. From the robins and sparrows, to warblers and thrushes, along with the chittering bald eagles nesting by the pond across the road, it is quite a symphony to witness in the early morning and at sunset.
The app even tries to identify a woodpecker’s rapping and a hummingbird’s buzz.
There was a time not long ago when I was too busy with daily details to pay much attention to the awesome variety of creatures around me.
Once it hit me what I was missing, I started watching, listening and being part of all this life rather than wondering too late where life had gone.
How sobering one day to find a hummingbird dead in the dirt, once a dear little bird of motor and constant motion, lying stilled and silenced as if simply dropped from the sky, a wee bit of fluff and stardust.
Then a friend pointed out a hummingbird nest high in a tree. And so it is the way of things…
We are here and gone. Beauty hatched, grown and flown, then grounded. …but not forgotten.
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Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, Who, armed with golden rod And winged with the celestial azure, bearest The message of some God. ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow from Flower-de-Luce
At the end of my suffering there was a door.
Hear me out: that which you call death I remember.
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting. Then nothing. The weak sun flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive as consciousness buried in the dark earth.
Then it was over: that which you fear, being a soul and unable to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth bending a little. And what I took to be birds darting in low shrubs.
You who do not remember passage from the other world I tell you I could speak again: whatever returns from oblivion returns to find a voice:
from the center of my life came a great fountain, deep blue shadows on azure sea water. ~Louise Glück“The Wild Iris”
It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak. ~Mary Oliver “Blue Iris”
May your blooms be floriferous and in good form, Distinctive, with good substance, flare, and airborne, With standards and falls that endure, never torn. May you display many buds and blooms sublime, In graceful proportion on strong stalks each day, Gently floating above the fans and the fray. May you too reach toward the moon and stars, Bloom after bloom, many seasons in the sun, Enjoying your life, health, and each loved one, Until your living days are artfully done. ~Georgia Gudykunst “Iris Blessing”
Whenever I allow my eye to peer inside an iris, it takes all my attention.
I need a flotation device and depth finder as I’m likely to get lost, sweeping and swooning through inner space of complex tunnels, canyons and corners, then coming up for air and diving in again to journey into exotic locales draped in silken hues.
This fairy land of petals on a stem, is birthed by the creative genius of God.
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Every morning, cup of coffee in hand, I look out at the mountain. Ordinarily, it’s blue, but today it’s the color of an eggplant. And the sky turns from gray to pale apricot as the sun rolls up…
I study the cat’s face and find a trace of white around each eye, as if he made himself up today for a part in the opera. ~Jane Kenyon, from “In Several Colors” from Collected Poems.
If you notice anything it leads you to notice more and more.
And anyway I was so full of energy. I was always running around, looking at this and that.
If I stopped the pain was unbearable.
If I stopped and thought, maybe the world can’t be saved, the pain was unbearable. ~Mary Oliver from “The Moths” from Dream Work
I try to look at things in a new way as I wander about my day, my eyes scanning for how the hidden dusty corners of my life become illuminated by a penetrating morning sunbeam when the angle is just right.
The rest of the time, cobwebs, dust bunnies and smudges remain invisible to me until the searching light finds them.
What was “blue” becomes “eggplant” in the new light.
Trying to clean up a grungy messed-up upside-down world of pain is hard work.
It means admitting my own laziness, while falling down on the job again and again, I must always be willing to get back up.
If I stop acknowledging my own and others’ messiness, if I refuse to stay on top of the grime, if I give up the work of salvage and renewal, I then abandon God’s promise to transform this world.
He’s still here, ready and waiting, handing me a broom, a duster, and cleaning rags, so I shall keep at it – mopping up the messes I can reach, seeking what tries to stay hidden.
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Light changes slowly with subtle words such as cautious and determined, marking a demarcation line across the horizon, delineating between day and night taking over the sky. Drakes in the wetlands are excited by the transformation.
In daylight, the moon is a white wafer. Perception only amazes the participant who never notices the daily occurrences with minor variations.
What difference are the blending shades, clouds wheeling like hawks, the way light haunches on the edge while day begins or ends. There is always this anticipation of the differences, and the end results are that our expectations are met—
not in color or uncertain times for the transfers but in the way no two days begin or end the same. For thousands of years, the universe has palpitated, expanded, and contracted like a heart with such restlessness we barely notice what is plain to the eye: the universe is constant and changeable. We barely break the surface of observation, and when we do, we take for granted the drakes will migrate when marshes are ice-tinged, and the drakes will return when spring returns, never considering it might be otherwise. ~Martin Willitts Jr., “Transformation” from Leave Nothing Behind
I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, flawless peach. It might have been otherwise. I took the dog uphill to the birch wood. All morning I did the work I love. At noon I lay down with my mate. It might have been otherwise. We ate dinner together at a table with silver candlesticks. It might have been otherwise. I slept in a bed in a room with paintings on the walls, and planned another day just like this day. But one day, I know, it will be otherwise. ~Jane Kenyon “Otherwise”
No two days begin or end the same way. It is my privilege to watch and take note.
I spent much of seven decades barely noticing, absorbed in all but what transpired right beneath my feet and over my head.
Now I take the time and effort to appreciate each day’s uniqueness and share what I see and hear and feel.
Yes, palpitations in the world and within me catch my breath. There is expansion and contraction and some moments of skipped beats.
The point is that the beat goes on.
I’ll never take transformation for granted again. I welcome it, even as it focuses and fascinates and frightens me. I am well aware, now ever aware, it always could be otherwise.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
English translation:
Hear, smith of the heavens, what the poet asks. May softly come unto me thy mercy. So I call on thee, for thou hast created me. I am thy slave, thou art my Lord.
God, I call on thee to heal me. Remember me, mild one, most we need thee. Drive out, O king of suns, generous and great, human every sorrow from the city of the heart.
Watch over me, mild one, most we need thee, truly every moment in the world of men. Send us, son of the virgin, good causes, all aid is from thee, in my heart.
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There was an entire aspect to my life that I had been blind to — the small, good things that came in abundance. ~Mary Karr from The Art of Memoir
We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder, quotes from “Our Town”
The smell of baking bread, smooth floured hands, butter waiting to be spread with blackberry jam, and I realize, this is no small thing. These days spent confined, I am drawn to life’s ordinary details, the largeness of all we can do alongside what we cannot. The list of allowances far outweighs my complaints. I am fortunate to have flour and yeast, a source of heat, not to mention soft butter, the tartness of blackberries harvested on a cold back road. A kitchen, a home, two working hands to stir and knead, a clear enough head to gather it all. Even the big toothy knife feels miraculous as it grabs hold and cracks the crust. ~Ellen Rowland “No Small Thing”
The words from “Our Town” written over 80 years ago still ring true: our country a Great Depression of the economy then – now we stagger under a Great Depression of the spirit.
Despite being more connected electronically, we are actually more divisive than ever, many feeling estranged from family, friends, faith.
Some less economically secure, yet many emotionally bankrupt.
May we be more conscious of our abundance – our small daily treasures.
God knows we need Him. He cares for us, even when we turn our faces away from Him.
I search the soil of this life, this farm, this faith to find what still yearns to grow, to bloom, to fruit, to be harvested to share with others.
My deep gratitude goes to you who visit here once in awhile, or daily. Thank you to those who let me know the small and the good I share with you makes a difference.
I’m right here, alongside you in joint Thanksgiving to our Creator and Preserver.
Many blessings today and always, Emily
Let it go my love my truest Let it sail on silver wings Life’s a twinkling and that’s for certain But it’s such a fine thing
CHORUS:There’s a gathering of spirits There’s a festival of friends And we’ll take up where we left off When we all meet again
I can’t explain it I couldn’t if I tried How the only things we carry Are the things we hold inside
Like a day in the open Like the love we won’t forget Like the laughter that we started And it hasn’t died down yet
Oh let it go my love my truest Let it sail on silver wings Life’s a twinkling and that’s for certain But it’s such a fine thing
Oh yeah now didn’t we And don’t we make it shine Aren’t we standing in the center of Something rare and fine
Some glow like embers Like a light through colored glass Some give it all in one great flame
Throwing kisses as they pass
So let it go my love my truest Let it sail on silver wings Life’s a twinkling and that’s for certain But it’s such a fine thing
East of eden But there’s heaven in our midst And we’re never really all that far From those we love and miss Wade out in the water There’s a glory all around And the wisest say there’s a thousand ways To kneel and kiss the ground
Oh let it go my love my truest Let it sail on silver wings Life’s a twinkling and that’s for certain But it’s such a fine thing
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The passing of the summer fills again my heart with strange sweet sorrow, and I find the very moments precious in my palm. Each dawn I did not see, each night the stars in spangled pattern shone, unknown to me, are counted out against me by my God, who charges me to see all lovely things… ~Jane Tyson Clement from “Autumn”in No One Can Stem the Tide
I have missed too much over my life time: one-of-a-kind masterpieces hung briefly in the sky at the beginning and the ending of each day.
For too long, I didn’t notice, being asleep to beauty, oblivious to a rare and loving Artist.
We’re already a month into autumn. I’ve had a hard time letting go of summer. Until the last week of heavy rain and wind, our days have been filled with blue skies, warm temps and no killing frosts.
In short, it felt like perfection: sweater weather filled with vibrant leaf color, clear moonlit nights, northern lights and some outstanding sunrises.
I feel I must try to absorb it all, to witness and record and savor it. God convicted us to see, listen, taste and believe.
Can there be a more merciful sentence for His children, given the trouble we people have been to Him? Yet He loves us still, despite the strange sweet sorrow we cause.
See, listen, taste and believe. I do and I will.
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Morning glories, pale as a mist drying, fade from the heat of the day, but already hunchback bees in pirate pants and with peg-leg hooks have found and are boarding them.
This could do for the sack of the imaginary fleet. The raiders loot the galleons even as they one by one vanish and leave still real only what has been snatched out of the spell.
I’ve never seen bees more purposeful except when the hive is threatened. They know the good of it must be grabbed and hauled before the whole feast wisps off.
They swarm in light and, fast, dive in, then drone out, slow, their pantaloons heavy with gold and sunlight. The line of them, like thin smoke, wafts over the hedge.
And back again to find the fleet gone. Well, they got this day’s good of it. Off they cruise to what stays open longer. Nothing green gives honey. And by now
Happiness is like a morning glory: yesterday’s won’t bloom again; tomorrow’s hasn’t opened yet. Only today’s flower can be enjoyed today. Be happy this very moment, and you’ll learn how to be happy always. ~ Goswami Kriyananda
I am alive — I guess — The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory — ~Emily Dickinson
Now I’m at seventy, no longer defined by ambition or career, I open up misty every morning with a new bloom, aware what I’ve left undone before wilting away.
A daily unfurling is a chance to: Start afresh. Welcome visitors. Hold hearts gently. Hum as I walk. Sometimes just sit in awed silence. Watch out the window. Feed those who look hungry.
Each new opening, each new day, so to leave a little less left undone.
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Last evening, As I drove into this small valley, I saw a low-hanging cloud Wandering through the trees. It circled like a school of fish Around the dun-colored hay bales. Reaching out its foggy hands To stroke the legs of a perfect doe Quietly grazing in a neighbor’s mule pasture.
I stopped the car And stepping out into the blue twilight, A wet mist brushed my face, And then it was gone. It was not unfriendly, But it was not inclined to tell its secrets.
I am in love with the untamed things, The cloud, the doe, Water, air and light. I am filled with such tenderness For ordinary things: The practical mule, the pasture, A perfect spiral of gathered hay. And although I should not be, Consistent as it is, I am always surprised By the way my heart will open So completely and unexpectedly, With a rush and an ache, Like a sip of cold water On a tender tooth. ~Carrie Newcomer “In the Hayfield” from A Permeable Life: Poems & Essays
deer running in the foreground
Cool water on a tender tooth describes it exactly:
a moment of absolute wonder brings exquisite tears to my eyes. I’m so opened and exposed as to be painful, feeling a clarity of being both sharp and focused.
it’s gone as quickly as it came, but knowing it was there – unforgettable – and knowing it is forever only a memory, both hurts, and comforts…
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