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Dark Night

One of my favorite things about this season is the transparency of the landscape. There is nothing more beautiful to me than a naked tree. When I look upon the starkness of their branches I often feel that the gangly limbs tell my story. I see myself in the bare, outstretched arms-- reaching up, up…seeking.

This austerity is all the more beautiful against the palette of a clear blue sky. Every detail exposed, shamelessly put on display. I can see straight through into her heart. A tree in this state of undress can hide nothing. No secrets can be buried in her bosom. She is diaphanous and unassuming, waiting for her season of finery to arrive. Yet, in the absence of her trinkets and baubles, she reveals little of who she is, donning the disguise of anonymity. She is wrapped in a cloak of mystery.

But perhaps she is most beautiful to me when silhouetted against the approaching night…colors melting into one giant shadow of branching arms, beckoning me, calling me into the dusky colors of the sunset. She makes my heart ache with the way she stands so sure and proud.

I often feel naked and vulnerable as this unadorned masterpiece. I long to stretch my arms up and root myself to the earth, drinking in my nourishment from tiny tentacles; nursing dormant splendor, tending it until the time arrives for it to burst forth in glory.

But unlike the tree, my seasons are not so predictable. And I must be content to wait. For I know that when the tree appears to lie dormant, beneath the surface the roots are far from quiescent. This is the time of strengthening, the time of preparation. This is the silent labor.

St. John of the Cross calls this the dark night of the soul.

This seeming depression is an empty time. I search frantically for some feeling, some sense of connection with my God; but I seek in vain, for such has abandoned me in this season. But nature tells me I must not despair; I must not give up hope. To remain true to the tree…I must wait.

Richard J. Foster, in his book Celebration of Discipline, says this about this root strengthening season:

The dark night is one of the ways God brings us into a hush, a stillness so that he may work an inner transformation upon the soul...When God lovingly draws us into a dark night of the soul, there is often a temptation to seek release from it and to blame everyone and everything for our inner dullness. The preacher is such a bore. The hymn singing is too weak. The worship service is so dull. We may begin to look around for another church or a new experience to give us ‘spiritual goose bumps.’ This is a serious mistake. Recognize the dark night for what it is. Be grateful that God is lovingly drawing you away from every distraction so that you can see him clearly. Rather than chafing and fighting, become still and wait.

When I feel my spiritual growth is stunted; when my heart won’t be stirred by the Words I hold so dear…I smile. For I know God is doing a work inside of me. A work so deep that I cannot see its labor.

We must let our roots be nourished. We wait for the season of glory to burst forth. It may not be the time, but it will come. The blooms will burst forth in feathery grandeur. The dark shadow of night will be overtaken by the fruits of this labor of love. And oh, how beautiful the transformation!

Remedy

The days grow shorter.

Earth quietly follows her scheduled course, slowly revolving around sun--mindless to my morning shuffling, this blind groping in the dark.

Dark as it is, the sun comes quickly. She blinds me as she races by, eager to return to horizon-bed…taking warm glow, leaving only memory of light.

And I am left wondering where the day has gone.

The trees have almost shed their last, the cold is seeping in. This morning, I saw the snow birds back at the feeder. Timorous flashes of gray and white gave my heart a leap. Already? I wondered.

In the meadow, squirrels gather, rabbits retreat, and all of nature yawns …preparing for long winter sleep.

My body also longs to respond to this tilting away from the sun.

I am slowing too.

Morning begs me to sit in the bay a while--watch as dawn drops her heavy cloak. The stars blink out one by one, as that hurried sun peeks up out of reds and blues and oranges. It feeds me and makes me hunger both.

Early evening, too, calls me into stillness.

Last night, as the boys took in their music lessons, Lucy Mae and I walked around the twinkling streets of South Charleston. We peeked in the window of the antique shop, enjoyed the aroma of Thai cuisine, nodded to the fine ladies at the tea house, and scaled the Indian burial mound. I marveled as, the higher we drew, the more my feet disappeared beneath. The dark spread out like a blanket, enveloped us as we climbed. I could smell the faint breath of wood smoke and the coming winter in the air up there. I leaned over the edge at the top and wondered at the vertigo.

We tilt and spin through time and space and still we stand steady--oblivious to the pull of the moon and tug of gravity beneath us.

But I am spinning at the wonder in it all--the perfect tilt of axis…the perfect place in space. The predictable pattern earth follows around the sun yields these magnificent changes in the air around me and I cannot…

I cannot find beauty in my predictable today.

And I know it is only those fraternal twins, centrifugal and centripetal force, that keep me in place as I go round and round.

The inertia caused by these forces pressing against each other is pressing down on me, making it difficult to breath. This circular motion I am moving in feels like a chain weighing me down and I. Cannot. Move. I cannot break free. I need an outside force to break this cycle.

Sir Isaac Newton…help, please?

As we descend I can feel the atmosphere thicken again--I fall down to earth. It is still autumn down here. My boys await their carriage. As they run to me, heart rises to throat. One has guitar clumsily banging legs…the other clutches drumsticks tightly. Faces glow, and I know the lessons were good. I smile, hug slim shoulders, kiss tops of heads (well, the side of Teddy’s--he’s so tall now!).

Lucy Mae sniffs around a bush. We pile in minivan and head home, the light of love shining through the darkness of this season.

Nothing has changed.

Except my mind. Except my heart.

Outside Force reaches in, colors my heart beautiful.

He is The Force. He is The Cure for inertia.

Only He can change a heart.

No other remedy will do.

Oh, won’t you give Him the praise? Won’t you give Him the glory?

Random Acts of Poetry

Fruit

Nine-
hundred-thirty
years
since

the breath
of life
breathed
into you…

Almost as many
in this cursed land.
Through thorns
and thistles
we have walked
together;

do you
remember
the cool of the garden?
For I
cannot forget.

You—
who gave
the beasts of the field
their names…

You—
who first called the birds
of the the air…

You waited for me.

bone of your bone,
flesh of your flesh--

When you lay beside me
do you still
burn for me
as I burn for you?
My desire is for you
only.

When you touch me
does your heart
beat red
for me still?

I—
Mother of all the living--
have watched
all turn to death
by your side.

Nine-
hundred-thirty
years
is too long
to be...

unforgiven.



L.L. says...Would you like to try writing a love poem, in character? Post your offering by 6:00 pm, Thursday November 5, for links and possible feature at HighCallingBlogs.com. Drop your post link here in the comment box so I don't miss it. Don't be shy! :)

photo Red apple

by applesbabe4ever

Word Storm

I come upon him, and he doesn’t stir.

It’s five minutes to bedtime…five minutes to the tucking in.

His bare shoulder shines in lamplight; his small body an island in the middle of the bed.

I hover.

He still doesn’t look up.

This child--

the one who used to interrupt nightly readings for impromptu puppet shows; the one who rolls maniacally on the floor while brother and I snuggle close under covers during nightly Bible readings--

This child is lost in a book.

I kneel beside him and rub his back…let fingertips gently tickle flesh. I watch as the story glides across his face... word storm.

“Are you ready to pray?”

I ask most reluctantly…loathe to interrupt this magic.

“Just one second,” He flips the page. “I just. Want. To finish. This chapter.”

I sit silently beside. Wait.

When finally he closes the book he must tell me about what he has read. This small voice rises and falls, caught up in the retelling.

This is a good story.

I sigh my happiness as out goes the lamp. Lay this body down, wiggle into him. He presses self up against me, takes his hand and places it on my cheek. He did not wash his hair tonight and it smells like skin…warm and alive.

The sacred words are shared, and he asks the inevitable.

“Will you stay with me a little while?”

I cannot move from this place of life’s sweetness, so I do...stay. Even after his breathing turns slow and even, I stay.

Awake in the dark, moonlight falling through window, holding this child in my arms…I am stilled. Gratitude overwhelms and I wonder yet another time at the bottomless well of God’s generosity.

I take one last sniff of him before I get up, check on brother in the next room, and head downstairs.

I am thinking about the story we are writing.

Each day a page, each season a chapter.

I’m just trying to reach the end of this one.

I remember my son’s face as eyes devoured words.

When last did I relish this story in that way? I realized this morning that my dawn prayer was laced with dread--Oh, Lord, help me get through…

No eager turning of pages, no animated retelling of these days.

And why? Why, when there is beauty everywhere?

Because I look, but I don’t see. Each passing minute is merely a bridge to the next one.

On the way down the stairs my prayer changes. On the way down the stairs, I step into this story. On the way down the stairs I join with my life.

To look and really see. To be here in this moment. To relish each page before it is turned.

This is my prayer for the story of life.

This is a good story. Maybe even warrants retelling.

But we won’t worry about that for now. We’re too into the words on this page.

One page at a time.

For more on joining, read our latest book club post over here.

Wild Thang

“It was different than I thought it would be.”

We have just spent the afternoon with his fifth grade class, taking in the movie Where the Wild Things Are.

Now Jeffrey is trying to articulate his thoughts about the film.

“I didn’t like it when he ran away from home. And, he didn’t leave the island at the best time, did he? Nothing really worked out right.”

He thinks for a moment and then adds:

“It was kind of sad, wasn’t it?”

I dab my eyes and nod, sniff back tears that have shed down my throat and into sinuses.

Yes, it was sad. Made sadder by memories of my own--memories I thought left far behind, scabbed over now. But this stark cinematography and sparse script captured perfectly the feelings of alienation and loneliness I felt as a child of divorce. The shattered world left behind for Max whispered ghost-pictures of upheaval and loss that I still grieve at times.

I think I effectively hid my tears from Jeffrey’s classmates… concealed my face by resting cheek in hand. Glancing around, I realized few of them grasped the deeper tones of the story. They eyed the screen expectantly waiting for something…anything exciting to happen.

But, as Jeffrey says, nothing really worked out right, did it?

We talk about the differences between the book and the movie. Jeffrey, sharp eye that he is, did not miss the message that Max’s parents were divorced (or separated).

“That’s not in the book,” he states flatly.

We talk about the gift of imagination the book gives, and how this story is just one possible way of reading between the lines. We talk about how Max expressed his emotions and how these things were mirrored in his imaginary “wild” world--how he figured out through the Wild Things that the way he was acting with his mother was not helping things…How a story sometimes helps us make sense of our worlds.

No, it wasn’t how I expected it to be either. This book that has captured the imaginations of generations--has awakened the wild imagination in so many--it was given a different face for me today. As one reviewer said, this isn’t really a movie for kids; it’s more about being a kid.

Maybe so.

But this big kid enjoyed talking about it with her little today.

If you want a movie to feel good about, a story complete with happy endings that ties up all loose ends, don’t go see this movie.

But if you want more…if you want a launch pad for talking about some deep stuff with your kids…this film might just be for you.

It's pretty wild.

Making Memories

A re-post from last October...Shall we explore the issue a bit more?

Some people don’t.

But we do.

We embrace the traditions of Halloween.

Because it is fun.

I have been reading about the history of Halloween.

History.com says:

“Halloween's origins date back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in).The Celts, who lived 2,000 years ago in the area that is now Ireland, the United Kingdom, and northern France, celebrated their new year on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31, they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth. In addition to causing trouble and damaging crops, Celts thought that the presence of the otherworldly spirits made it easier for the Druids, or Celtic priests, to make predictions about the future. For a people entirely dependent on the volatile natural world, these prophecies were an important source of comfort and direction during the long, dark winter.”

Yes, its beginnings are troublesome.

But, as my sweet friend Janine recently said, “Christians have a wonderful tradition of taking pagan holidays and giving them new meaning of faith.”

Of this, History.com goes on to say:

“By the 800s, the influence of Christianity had spread into Celtic lands. In the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV designated November 1 All Saints' Day, a time to honor saints and martyrs. It is widely believed today that the pope was attempting to replace the Celtic festival of the dead with a related, but church-sanctioned holiday. The celebration was also called All-hallows or All-hallowmas (from Middle English Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day) and the night before it, the night of Samhain, began to be called All-hallows Eve and, eventually, Halloween. Even later, in A.D. 1000, the church would make November 2 All Souls' Day, a day to honor the dead. It was celebrated similarly to Samhain, with big bonfires, parades, and dressing up in costumes as saints, angels, and devils. Together, the three celebrations, the eve of All Saints', All Saints', and All Souls', were called Hallowmas.”

Friends, Christians have held these traditions since the 800s!

That said, I celebrate Halloween with my children because it is just plain fun. This tradition gets children exited like no other. There is just something magical about playing dress up. Oh, and getting a lot of candy.

We have our own traditions that make it special.

Carving our punkins’.

Lights.

Roasting punkin’ seeds.

Sharing the fun with our church friends.

Yes. The mummy is yours truly. They had so much fun wrapping me in T-paper!

Aren't they beautiful?

I was really a pirate. Not a gypsy, as my husband insisted on calling me.

My dears, I grew up in a home that did not celebrate many holidays. Of any type. The one time my parents decided to let my siblings and I dress for Halloween was a disaster. What I take away from that these years later is: it is what you make it.

We try to make it about fun. And family.

And chocolate, of course.

Happy Halloween, Dear Ones. And to those who’d rather not, Happy All Saint’s Day.

Love to you all.