In the deep midwinter

Today’s midwinter solstice begins the gradual rebirth of light in the Northern Hemisphere after the shortest days of the year. It marks a turning point, a reversal of the lengthening of night and shortening of days.  Slow stirrings of light and life. Whatever is now just germinating will be full of life in due time. As humans we like to see immediate results. However, for now, all we can do is wait and trustWe move on, and look to the future, even if we do not know what shape it will take.

In times like these, I turn back into the heart of our faith traditions, searching for hope. And hope is there to be found, in great abundance. This is not mere optimism. This is not about how we see, what we see. No, it’s about something more rooted in faith: its about hope, “Go back to your fortresses, ye prisoners of hope.” This message in the Bible is also taught by the Prophet Mohammad: “If the Hour of Resurrection comes up, and one of you is holding a sapling, finish planting it“

It is an amazing saying. If the End of Days is upon you, still, finish planting. Go ahead with the act, even if it — and you — will not survive to fruition. How powerful this is for us. We are so often tied to the results of our work, the fruits of our labor. What Muhammad offers us is hope; faith is hope in the unseen. 

 It is faith in the loveliness of a simple act of kindness  — apart from whether it will be reciprocated, whether we will live long enough to see its fruits. Acts of beauty are redemptive in and of themselves. So let us, friends, keep planting. Yes, there are days that it seems like the world around us is coming to an end. It may — or it may not. But let us keep planting. Let us have hope that the accumulation of our collective planting may save this small planet, and our own souls.

Omid Safi, In Time of Despair, Keep Planting

The calm underneath

Another storm system passed over last evening. A very unsettled start to the winter season, reflecting a general belief here that climate patterns are changing resulting in greater extremes of weather. On the emotional level, the key is finding the still point within. 

Even in the middle of a hurricane, the bottom of the sea is calm. As the storm rages and the winds howl, the deep waters sway in gentle rhythm, a light movement of fish and plant life. Below there is no storm.

Wayne Muller, How Then, Shall We Live?: Four Simple Questions That Reveal the Beauty and Meaning of Our Lives

Natural change

Moving towards the shortest day of the year this week, dark mornings and evenings. Very wild and wet again overnight. Easy to see that life is constantly changing, going up and down, with both darkness and life as just natural parts of the overall whole.

Everything — every tree, every blade of grass, all the animals, insects, human beings, buildings, the animate and the inanimate — is always changing, moment to moment. We don’t have to be mystics or physicists to know this. Yet at the level of personal experience, we resist this basic fact. It means that life isn’t always going to go our way. It means there’s loss as well as gain. And we don’t like that.

Pema Chödrön, The Places that Scare you

When life bruises us

This morning the storm is fully evident, cutting electricity, disrupting ports and airports, blowing people and things astray, and causing damage. Storms of life…

One afternoon as I folded laundry, we heard a terrible thud against the patio door. I turned in time to see blue wings falling to the ground. A bird had flown into the glass. The children followed me outside. I half expected the bird to be dead, but she wasn’t. She was stunned and her right wing was a little lopsided, but it didn’t look broken – bruised maybe.

The bird sat perfectly still, her eyes tiny and afraid. She looked so fragile and alone that I sat down beside her. I reached out and brushed her wing. I sat beside her, unable to resist the feeling that we shared something, the two of us. The wounds and brokenness of life. Crumpled wings. A collision with something harsh and real. I felt like crying for her. For myself. For every broken thing in the world.

That moment taught me that while the postures of stillness within the cocoon are frequently an individual experience, we also need to share our stillness. The bird taught me anew that we’re all in this together, that we need to sit in one another’s stillness and take up postures of prayer. How wonderful it is when we can be honest and free enough to say to one another, ‘I need you to wait with me.’ or ‘Would you like me to wait with you?’

Finally she was finished being stillShe cocked her head to one side, lifted her wings, and flew. The sight of her flying made me catch my breath. From the corner of my eye I saw her shadow move along the ground and cross over me. Grace is everywhere I thought. Then I picked myself up and went back to folding the laundry.

Sue Monk Kidd, When the Heart Waits

Self-balanced

Very wet and windy this morning, the beginning of of a storm. The news today is full of agitation and uncertainty, including Brexit, Ukraine, migration and the lack of vision of  our “leaders”. Where can we find a firm ground?

O to be self-balanced for contingencies,
to confront night, storms, hunger,
ridicule, accidents, rebuffs,
as the trees and animals do

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Sunday Quote: Surrounded

Every day
I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth
of the ideas of God,

One of which was you.

Mary Oliver, So every day