April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
~T.S.Eliot from “The Wasteland”
Cruel
as it reminds us
of what could have been,
how life can rise miraculous
from the dead.
So we must die to ourselves first,for what is meant to be,
could be
and will be.
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
~T.S. Eliot from “Ash Wednesday”
In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls…
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope.
~T.S. Eliot from “East Coker”
On Maundy Thursday, I arrive back to the beginning, six weeks later returning to Eliot:
“the unstilled world whirled/About the centre of the silent Word.”
This day:
a day of disquiet and silence,
of Christ taking towel and water to disciples’ dirty feet,
of bread broken and fruit crushed and consumed,
of anguished prayer and the kiss of betrayal,
of stilling the sword,
of watching those He loved run off in fear
and deny they ever knew Him.
In my beginning is my end.
And now the light falls and the darkness begins.
We wait, sorrow-filled, our unstilled souls stilled
by our betrayal, our denial, our hopelessness without Him.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
T.S. Eliot from “The Wasteland”
There is justifiable fear in and of this broken world — Â as when a mountain blasts part of itself into the sky on a quiet Sunday morning or when a wall of water washes away everything in its path after an otherwise survivable earthquake.
I have seen the aftermath wasteland of Mt. St. Helens decades later as the land slowly rejuvenates from the ashes. Â Now after four years (today) the villages surrounding the beautiful city of Sendai, Japan leveled in a tsunami of devastating power are rebuilding from the dust and mud.
Fear is never the end of the story. Â It is part of the story, but dust that is breathed upon becomes Love that heals. Â Only a handful of dust, but it has come to repair this broken world.
…And I will show you something that is different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
~T.S.Eliot from “The Wasteland”
This shadowland we live in
is not all there is
nor will ever be.We are tangible dust
arising from the ground
and settling back into it
when the soil reclaims us.
There need be no fear
moving beyond shadow to the light
that created it.
Morning, as always, sets fire to doubt.
By the sweat of your face You will eat bread,
Till you return to the ground,
Because from it you were taken;
For you are dust,
And to dust you shall return.
Genesis 3:19
O my people, what have I done to you?
Micah 6:3
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
~T.S. Eliot from “Ash Wednesday”
No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference.
~Charles Lamb
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
~T.S. Eliot “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
This New Year’s Day, like so many that have come before, arrives with the ordinary revelry, yet a lingering odor remains. All is not as it appears and is faintly disturbing. Like a dog joyfully rolling in something stinky simply because it was there, 2015 may look squeaky clean but reeks of what has come before. It can’t be ignored and, even brand new, is already badly in need of a bath.
I too tend to prefer things familiar, safe and routine, even if that means I roll about where I shouldn’t, still smelling like yesterday, if not last month.  It’s time I stop being indifferent to the passage of time and the change that it brings. There is no turning back or staying stubbornly with how things used to be. Time leads irrevocably forward, with me in tow, and I must follow, acutely aware more of my life has been lived out than lies ahead of me.
Do I dare disturb my own comfortable universe? Or continue to disturb others with that lingering odor?
Perhaps this new year I will try walking a slower walk, stay clear of the stinky stuff, take time to look at all things with new eyes, breathe each cleansing breath appreciatively, keenly aware it was not my last.
Then others near me might breathe more freely.
In the quiet of this place
in the dark of the night
I wait and watch.
In the stillness of my soul
and from its fathomless depths
the senses of my heart are awake to You.
For fresh soundings of life
for new showings of light
I search in the silence of my spirit,
O Blessing God.
— J. Philip Newell from Celtic Benediction: Morning and Night Prayer
At the still point of the turning world.
Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards;
at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement.Â
And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered.Â
Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline.
Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only dance.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.
~T. S. Eliot from The Four Quartets
О Greater Light, we praise Thee for the less;
The eastern light our spires touch at morning,
The light that slants upon our western doors at evening.
The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight,
Moon light and star light, owl and moth light,
Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade.
О Light Invisible, we worship Thee!
  Â
      In our rhythm of earthly life we tire of light. We are glad
  when the day ends, when the play ends; and ecstasy is too
  much pain.
We are children quickly tired: children who are up in the night
  and fall asleep as the rocket is fired; and the day is long for
  work or play.
We tire of distraction or concentration, we sleep and are glad
  to sleep,
Controlled by the rhythm of blood and the day and the night
  and the seasons.
And we must extinguish the candle, put out the light and
  relight it;
Forever must quench, forever relight the flame.
Therefore we thank Thee for our little light, that is dappled
  with shadow.
~T.S. Eliot from “O Light Invisible”
Every moment is a fresh beginning.
~T.S. Eliot
Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint you can on it.
~Danny Kaye
What is pertinent is the calmness of beauty, its sense of restraint. It is as though the land knows of its own beauty, its own greatness, and feels no need to shout it…
For a great many people, the evening is the most enjoyable part of the day. Perhaps, then, there is something to his advice that I should cease looking back so much, that I should adopt a more positive outlook and try to make the best of what remains of my day. After all, what can we ever gain in forever looking back and blaming ourselves if our lives have not turned out quite as we might have wished?
~Kazuo Ishiguro from The Remains of the Day
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
Barnstorming 