Because we hunkered down

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

We in the midwest—as well as other parts of the country—have weathered a pretty brutal winter this year. Consequently, many of us are affected by the lack of sun during these hard months. Hence, when I happened upon this sonnet by the venerable Malcolm Guite, I just knew that I had to share it this Sunday.

                    Because We Hunkered Down

These bleak and freezing seasons may mean grace

When they are memory. In time to come

When we speak truth, then they will have their place,

Telling the story of our journey home,

Through dark December and stark January

With all its disappointments, through the murk

And dreariness of frozen February,

When even breathing seemed unwelcome work.

 

Because through all of these we held together,

Because we shunned the impulse to let go,

Because we hunkered down through our dark weather,

And trusted to the soil beneath the snow,

Slowly, slowly, turning a cold key,

Spring will unlock our hearts and set us free.

Winter Morning

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

I have been pondering the importance of living in the present moment, being attentive to where God is there. In this Sunday poem, James Crews explores the experience of a winter morning—which so many of us are facing this year—and being grateful for it.

David W Runyan II

Winter Morning

When I can no longer say thank you
for this new day and the waking into it,
for the cold scrape of the kitchen chair
and the ticking of the space heater blowing
orange as it warms the floor near m feet,
I know it is because I have been fooled again
by the selfish, unruly man that lives within me
and believe he only deserves safety
and comfort. But if I pause as I do now,
and watch the street lights outside winking
off one by one like old men closing their
cloudy eyes, if I listen to my tired neighbors
slamming car doors hard against the morning
an see the steaming coffee in their mugs
kissing their chapped lips as they sip and
exhale each of their worries white into
the icy air around their faces—then I can
remember this one life is a gift each of us
was handed and told to open: Untie the bow
and tear off the paper, look inside
and be grateful for whatever you find
even if it is only the scent of a tangerine
that lingers on the fingers long after
you’ve finished eating it.

James Crews

Just pay attention

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

A few good words from Mary Oliver about prayer.

Nico Angleys

Praying

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

Nico Angleys

Beginning with Beloved

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

I have been a fan of Jan Richardson’s poetry ever since I discovered—somehow—her Book of Blessings for the Seasons, Circle of Grace, and I have indeed circled back to it over and over. And indeed beloved is where it all begins for Jesus, and consequently for us, and ends. We are in him the beloved of the Father. It really takes one’s breath away.

Blessing the Baptism
Blessing the Baptism © Jan Richardson.

Beginning with Beloved
A Blessing

Begin here:

Beloved.

Is there any other word
needs saying,
any other blessing
could compare
with this name,
this knowing?

Beloved.

Comes like a mercy
to the ear that has never
heard it.
Comes like a river
to the body that has never
seen such grace.

Beloved.

Comes holy
to the heart
aching to be new.
Comes healing
to the soul
wanting to begin
again.

Beloved.

Keep saying it
and though it may
sound strange at first,
watch how it becomes
part of you,
how it becomes you,
as if you never
could have known yourself
anything else,
as if you could ever
have been other
than this:

Beloved.

–Jan Richardson

The present moment

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

We, as a religious community, celebrate Christmas for 40 days, so I will be sharing a few Sunday Christmas poems during this season. The first is by Sally Read from her collection, Dawn of this Hunger. A beautiful description of the unique bond between Mary and her Christ-child, but with a word for us as well.

Incarnation

From the remotest dawn, from a yellow eye,
sharper than the eagle’s, that sees each one of us
scuttling in the shadow of a protective wing,
he falls to Earth—blind. Those first nights
the short distance between her breast and face
is as far as he can see. She is his first sight
of the world as man—our one pure sign.
She only knows his Christ-eyes latching
onto hers as fiercely as his gums clamp down
for milk. The future scrabbles, gnaws like rats
through a barn’s corners and its eaves.
But she is transfixed by his skin and insistence
on her as the only visible, only beautiful thing—
the present moment; this is the first lesson of prayer.

Incarnation

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

We, as a religious community, celebrate Christmas for 40 days, so I will be sharing a few Sunday Christmas poems during this season. The first is by Sally Read from her collection, Dawn of this Hunger. A beautiful description of the unique bond between Mary and her Christ-child, but with a word for us as well.

Incarnation

From the remotest dawn, from a yellow eye,
sharper than the eagle’s, that sees each one of us
scuttling in the shadow of a protective wing,
he falls to Earth—blind. Those first nights
the short distance between her breast and face
is as far as he can see. She is his first sight
of the world as man—our one pure sign.
She only knows his Christ-eyes latching
onto hers as fiercely as his gums clamp down
for milk. The future scrabbles, gnaws like rats
through a barn’s corners and its eaves.
But she is transfixed by his skin and insistence
on her as the only visible, only beautiful thing—
the present moment; this is the first lesson of prayer.

Leading the throng

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

A poem I wrote many years ago on this feast of Stephen.

On the Feast of Stephen, Martyr

Join we our hearts with the saints gone before us,
The chorus of proven lives: faith-tested, blood-spilt, before His throne.
Join we the song of those who follow the Lamb,
Redeemed by His death.
Whose eyes, no longer sin veiled, behold the Word Made Flesh.
Their lives lost in Him are the incense of heaven.
The virgin martyrs, white robed and heads crowned,
No longer in need of ready lamp,
Their faces shine like the Son.
And leading the throng is Stephen, martyr first born,
Following soon his Beloved in death.

Let us not tarry to follow his course,
And looking up, we too shall see Him. 

 26 December 1990